Page 39 of The Beast's Bride
Taran let out a soft growl in return. “I don’t need yer help. I’ll carry her upstairs myself.”
This comment brought forth hoots.
“Go on then,” someone shouted out from the crowd.
“Rhona,” Taran said gently. “Stand up.”
Face flushing, Rhona rose to her feet. Her face glowed like a lump of peat. The humiliation wasn’t to be borne. She didn’t look toward her father or her sister. Instead, she turned to Taran. “Don’t touch me,” she growled.
Laughter rocked the hall. Taran’s face tensed. Then he took a step toward her so that they were nearly touching. “Sorry, lass,” he murmured, “but this has to happen.”
A heartbeat later he scooped her up into his arms and stepped away from the table. For a moment Rhona was too stunned to react. But when the shock passed, she began to struggle. “Let me down.”
Taran’s arms fastened around her, pinning her against him. He skirted the table and stepped down from the dais. The crowd parted to let him through.
“That’s the way to handle her, lad,” Chieftain Budge called out. The laughter that followed this comment made a red haze of fury settle over Rhona. It pulsed inside her.
“Bastard,” she addressed Taran through gritted teeth. “Put me down.”
“I wouldn’t,” one of the men laughed. “A woman that skittish will run off.”
“Make sure ye bed her, MacKinnon,” Malcolm MacLeod called out from the dais behind them. “I’ll have the sheets checked in the morning—and if they’re clean, I’ll have both of ye whipped.”
Cheers reverberated around the room, and Rhona stopped struggling. Horrified by her father’s callous words, she huddled against Taran’s broad chest.
She couldn’t believe her father had just said that.
Taran ignored them all, MacLeod included, and strode through the midst of the crowd. A group of men followed, heckling them, up to the tower room, where the servants had prepared the chamber for the newly-weds.
The priest was waiting for them. He stood next to the big bed that had been sprinkled with sprays of heather and rose petals.
Rhona knew why he was here—to bless the bed and witness the arrival of the couple. The crowd of drunken warriors, Connel Buchanan among them, jostled into the chamber behind Taran and Rhona.
The priest appeared unfazed by the escort. Instead, he turned to the bed and, dipping a hand into the pot he carried, sprinkled holy water over the coverlet. “Let us bless this bed, Lord so that this couple may remain firm in yer peace and persevere in yer will. May they have a strong union and be blessed with children, and finally arrive at the kingdom of heaven through Christ Our Lord … amen.”
As soon as the priest stepped back from the bed, Connel pushed his way forward. There was a glint in his eye that Rhona didn’t like; the young man was well into his cups and wore a mean, bitter expression. “Into bed with ye then. I’ll help the bride off with her clothes.”
Taran lowered Rhona to the ground and turned, moving so that he barred Connel’s way. “Get out.”
The words fell heavily in the chamber.
“Ye heard the man,” the priest said, as he headed toward the door. “Let the newly-weds have some privacy.”
“I don’t think so.” Connel folded his arms across his chest and stared Taran down. “I think we’ll stay and watch.”
Taran aped the gesture, his feet shifting into fighting stance. Rhona couldn’t see his face but could feel his rising anger.
“I won’t ask ye again,” Taran growled. “Leave us.”
“Make me,” Connel sneered back.
Taran lunged with the same speed he had on the evening he’d caught Rhona. It shocked her now, as it had then, that a big man could move that fast.
A heavy fist slammed into Connel’s nose, and the warrior sprawled back into the crowd of men standing behind him. He would have collapsed onto the ground if the other warriors hadn’t caught him.
Blood streamed from Connel’s nose. He cursed, sagging against the men who held him.
Taran flexed the hand he’d just punched Connel with. His gaze swept the group before him. “Get out … and take him with ye.”
