Page 32 of The Beast's Bride
Of course, that was ridiculous. He was an adult man; he would have needs like any other.
“I don’t know what his game is,” Rhona muttered, wincing as another bout of cheering rocked the stands—Taran had thrown well. “I can’t believe he’d betray me like this.”
Adaira turned to her, eyes as big as moons, as something occurred to her. “Do ye think he’s in love with ye?”
“What?” Rhona almost snarled the question. Sometimes her sister could be as silly as a goose.
Unfazed, Adaira continued. “Don’t look so shocked. It makes sense. Maybe that’s why he’s never taken a wife.”
“Nonsense,” Rhona snapped, turning her attention back to the competition. “It makes no sense at all.”
By the time the first day of the games was over, Rhona had a terrible headache. Her mother had suffered from such pains, but until today Rhona had not. Her temples pulsed with red-hot agony, and the gilded late afternoon light hurt her eyes as she climbed onto the wagon that would take her back to Dunvegan Keep.
The pain made it difficult to concentrate, to focus. It felt as if an iron band had fastened around her skull and was slowly tightening. The intensity of the pain made Rhona feel giddy and nauseated.
For the first time since returning to Dunvegan, she longed for her cool, dark tower room, where she could shut out the daylight and the world.
The spectators moved on, their voices drifting through the warm air as they returned to their homes, their chores, and preparation for supper. Meanwhile, the contestants filed back to the keep, ready for an evening of drinking, feasting, and entertainment. Rhona had heard that a bard had come with the men from Lothian and would entertain the revelers.
Rhona was relieved she wasn’t invited.
Instead, she fled up the steps to her tower room, her head throbbing with every step. Adaira joined her for a spell, and Liosa brought up a tray of supper, before Rhona sent them both away.
“I’ll see ye first thing tomorrow morning,” she assured her sister, who looked at her with a worried frown and hurt in her eyes. “For now I just need to sleep.”
After Adaira and Liosa had gone, Rhona splashed cool water on her face, closed the shutters tight, and stretched out upon her bed. Agony constricted her skull with each breath, and she closed her eyes.
The noise from the rest of the keep, although muffled by thick stone, still reached her: the raucous laughter of men and the shrill, excited voices of women.
Everyone had enjoyed the first day of the games. All except Rhona.
With a groan, she turned over and pressed her aching forehead into the cool pillow. She only wished the pain would carry her away, pull her into oblivion, so that she would not have to suffer another day of this humiliation.
Chapter Fifteen
Decide My Fate
“READY FOR THIS,Scar-face?”
Connel Buchanan challenged Taran across the training ring. Two days outside under the hot sun hadn’t agreed with Connel’s pale skin. His grinning face was pink and shiny, his straw-colored hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
“Aye, I’m ready,” Taran replied, not returning the grin. It was getting late in the day and he, like all the others who’d won the strength tests and progressed to the wrestling, was starting to tire. Connel was too, Taran noted. The redness in his cheeks wasn’t just due to the sun, and sweat beaded his heavy brow.
The watching crowd had swelled as the day progressed, spectators now jostling around the edge of the wrestling ring. Taran hadn’t looked up at the stands for most of the day. Yet he knew Rhona would be there, pale faced and hollow-eyed next to her father.
“Wrestlers—take yer positions,” Aonghus Budge called out from where he stood, legs akimbo at the edge of the ring. Although recently widowed, the clan-chief of the Budges of Islay was too unfit and portly to compete in the games. He’d brought a couple of warriors with him, but neither had gotten further than the strength contests the day before. As such, MacLeod had chosen Budge to oversee the wrestling matches.
Connel and Taran readied themselves. They gripped each other around the waist and the back. Taran rested his chin on Connel’s shoulder and readied himself for the bout, gripping his opponent firmly. Connel did the same.
“Hold!” Aonghus’s voice boomed across the ring.
The two men slammed into each other with brute force. The aim was simple: Taran had to either get Connel to break his hold or touch the ground with any part of his body save his feet. The best of five bouts won.
Connel was a stocky, heavily-built young man; a physique that had advantaged him during the strength games. However, he wasn’t as strong as Taran. His bare feet scrabbled on the grass, his toes digging in, as Taran drove him back.
The contest didn’t last long. Connel went down on one knee during the first bout, lost his hold in the second, and collapsed on one side in the third. Chieftain Budge grabbed Taran by the hand and pulled their arms aloft. “The winner!”
Cheers thundered across the field.
