Page 2 of The Beast's Bride
“Aye.” Rhona stepped back, instinctively moving toward Taran. His presence made her feel braver. “And he has a vicious bite, as ye well know.”
“Lady Rhona.” Taran stopped next to her, his grey-blue gaze searching for any sign of injury. “Are ye hurt?”
Rhona shook her head. “I was just explaining to Dughall that I would rather wed a stinking goat than him. He didn’t take the news well.”
“Bitch!” Dughall advanced, his hands fisting.
In an instant Taran had drawn the heavy sword that hung at his hip and stepped before Rhona, shielding her with his body.
“Be wise, Dughall,” he warned softly, “Leave now, before I spill yer blood.”
A tense silence fell. Dughall’s face screwed up, and he spat on the ground at Taran’s feet. “The Devil take ye both.”
The man stalked from the garden, between rows of rosemary and lavender. Only when he disappeared from sight did Rhona loose the breath she’d been holding.
To her annoyance, she found that her pulse was racing. As much as it galled her to admit it, Dughall had scared her.
Feeling the weight of Taran’s gaze, she inclined her head. “What?”
“Have a care, Lady Rhona,” he replied, resheathing his sword. “Some men don’t take kindly to being spurned.”
Rhona frowned. “I don’t need ye to preach to me, Taran.” She huffed out a breath. “Although I’m glad ye arrived when ye did.”
“I heard raised voices. I sensed trouble brewing.”
Rhona sighed and pushed a heavy lock of auburn hair from her face. Now that the tension had released, her legs felt oddly weak. The sensation annoyed her. She was the daughter of a warrior. She’d been taught to fight, and yet when Dughall had seized her arm, she’d been unable to free herself. That angered her. She didn’t think of herself as feeble like other women, and yet she’d been helpless.
“I’m out of practice,” she muttered. “Why did we stop our fighting lessons?”
“Ye stopped them.” Did she imagine it, or was there a trace of mirth in his voice? “Ye said ye were too occupied by other matters.”
“Well, I’m not anymore,” she replied, meeting his gaze squarely. “We shall resume them tomorrow at noon.”
“Aye—as ye wish.”
“Good.” Rhona gathered her skirts and moved past him before flashing Taran a smile. “Next time I spurn a man, I want to be ready to geld him if he touches me.”
Taran MacKinnon watched the second daughter of Malcolm MacLeod walk away from him, heading out of the garden and back toward the castle.
Now that her gaze was averted, his own devoured her.
She wore a kirtle of green plaid with a straw-colored leine underneath. The garment was fitted, highlighting her statuesque form and lush curves, and the dip of her waist. She walked with a determined stride, her long, curling dark-red hair tumbling down her back.
Taran’s breathing hitched as he watched her—the fire-haired woman he’d wanted for a while now.
Only, she didn’t return the sentiment. To Rhona he was merely her father’s warrior.Scar-face—The Beast of Dunvegan.
The name Dughall had thrown at him didn’t bother Taran, he’d heard it enough times over the years for the insult to lose its sting. But he didn’t want Rhona to look at him that way.
A bee buzzed by, on its lazy path to the bed of roses behind him. Taran inhaled the sweet scent of the flowers and closed his eyes for a moment.
Being near Rhona MacLeod was agony. She’d ensnared him, dug her thorns deep into his flesh. Standing close to her for a few moments had been both pleasure and pain.
He heaved in a deep breath, opened his eyes, and followed Rhona out of the garden. Sparring with her tomorrow would be sweet torture.
He could hardly wait.
Chapter Two
