Page 36 of The Beast's Bride
Beside MacLeod, Rhona obeyed. Her eyes glittered, and her jaw clenched. Even from yards away, Taran could see the tension quivering in her body. She looked like a deer set to flee.
“Behold the victor.” Malcolm MacLeod’s lip curled as he spoke. “A fine warrior, indeed. The Beast of Dunvegan has won his beauty.”
This comment brought whispers, giggles, and smirks from the watching crowd.
Taran grew still. Never had MacLeod used that name with him. It was a taunt he expected from the likes of Dughall or Connel—not his chief. Malcolm’s use of it now only made his resentment of Taran plainer.
Rhona’s throat bobbed as she swallowed. But she didn’t speak—nor was she expected to.
MacLeod’s slate-grey eyes, so like his daughter’s, speared Taran. “A warrior who has demonstrated such prowess, such skill, should receive his reward sooner rather than later.” His voice dropped to a drawl. “Since we have so many visitors here, we shall not disappoint them … the pair of ye shall be wed at sundown this evening, and Dunvegan will celebrate yer union with a great feast.”
These words brought gasps from the surrounding crowd. Behind Taran he heard Dughall spit a curse.
Rhona’s eyes flew open wide, and she took a step toward MacLeod. She murmured something to her father, her expression panicked.
“Nonsense, lass,” MacLeod cut his daughter off, his voice ringing across the stands. “Ye have plenty of fine clothes—choose one of them. Leave the rest of the preparations to the servants.” His gaze shifted back to Taran. “Go bathe and make yerself presentable MacKinnon … for yer bride awaits.”
Rhona picked her way down the spiral stone stairwell. In her left hand she held her skirts aloft, while with her right, she steadied her passage. She’d barely eaten all day and was starting to feel light headed.
“Rhona …” Adaira’s concerned voice sounded behind her. “Are ye well?”
“No,” Rhona snapped. She’d never been further from well in her life. It felt as if all of this was happening to someone else, as if she watched from afar.
Adaira didn’t reply. Rhona’s tone had obviously warned her off.
Silently, the two sisters descended the tower and made their way along a vaulted hallway to the Great Hall. The twang of a harp and the rumble of excited voices reached them as they approached.
Rhona’s stomach lurched, and her step faltered. She halted, frozen like a mouse under the glare of a swooping owl.
Adaira stopped next to her. “Rhona?”
Smoothing her sweating palms on the silken material of her kirtle, Rhona sucked in a deep breath, and then another. She’d never fainted—she wasn’t that kind of woman. Yet at that moment, her limbs trembled under her, and her body felt as if it might crumble. She realized then that she was afraid, deathly afraid.
She dared not look at Adaira, for the pity she knew she’d see in her sister’s eyes would be her undoing. Instead, she stared forward at where those open doors yawned like some dark maw before her.
“I’m not sure I can do this,” she whispered.
A cool, slender hand touched hers. Adaira’s fingers closed around hers, reassuringly strong and steady. “I wish I could spirit ye away from here,” she murmured. “I understand now why ye fled.”
Rhona squeezed her sister’s hand back. “Ye are not still angry with me … for leaving ye here?” It was good to focus on something else, something other than what lay before her.
“No … not anymore.” A beat of silence passed, before Adaira continued, her voice hardening. “Da shouldn’t have forced ye into this.”
Rhona shut her eyes and struggled to master her emotions. She needed to remain in control, put on a mask for all those curious stares that would stab her the moment she stepped into the Great Hall. She wouldn’t put on a show for them. They’d had enough entertainment for one day.
“No,” she said softly. “It’s not right, but I can’t change it now. I tried to run and failed … there’s nowhere to go now but forward. I must face this.” And with that, Rhona inhaled deeply and released her sister’s hand.
Opening her eyes, she walked the final few yards to the Great Hall.
Taran was the first to notice his bride-to-be enter the hall. Dressed in flowing pale blue, her thick red mane—threaded with white daisies—piled up on her head, Rhona looked like a queen as she glided toward him.
Head held high, she glanced neither right nor left. However, she wasn’t looking at him either; her gaze seemed fixed upon the wall behind him where axes, swords, and shields hung upon rough stone.
The crowd had parted to admit her, all gazes riveted upon Malcolm MacLeod’s second daughter—the one who had refused to wed.
The one who was about to marry the ugliest man in the keep.
Taran saw their smirks and heard their sniggers, the whispered words between the ladies’ hands as their gazes darted from Rhona to Taran. He knew what they were saying, what amused them so.
