Page 46 of The Beast's Bride
Taran had pulled up the sheet to cover his naked loins when she handed him the cup. Rhona’s chest constricted; she didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved by his modesty.
She perched on the edge of the bed and drank the water. An awkward silence fell between them. Eventually, Taran broke it. “Are ye well, Rhona?”
She glanced up, meeting his gaze. “Aye.”
“Last night … I … we …” His voice trailed off. The look on his face was so pained she almost pitied him.
“Don’t worry,” she replied. “Ye didn’t force me, Taran. I lay with ye willingly.” The relief in his gaze made her smile. “What? Did ye think I’d rage at ye?”
His mouth curved. “I didn’t think that far ahead. I got carried away last night.”
Rhona took another sip of water and observed him over the rim of her cup. It was odd how shy she was of him this morning. It made her realize that although they were wed, and had lain together as man and wife, they weren’t comfortable around each other. Until yesterday their ranks had imposed a certain type of relationship upon them, a distance.
Taran drained his cup before running a hand down his face. “What time is it?”
Rhona glanced toward the window, at where the sun pooled upon the flagstone floor. Outside, she could hear goats bleating and the laughter of children. “Almost noon, I’d say.”
He stiffened, gaze widening. “I’ve never slept so late.”
She favored him with an arch look. “Since it’s the morning after our wedding, I think my father will forgive ye.”
Unfortunately, the mention of Malcolm MacLeod had an instant effect on them both, like a cloud blocking the sun. Taran scowled, and Rhona’s mood soured.
Her father might end up overlooking her past defiance now that she was a wife, but she would never forgive him for humiliating her. Nor would she ever forget his parting words as Taran had carried her from the Great Hall.
I’ll have the sheets checked in the morning—and if they’re clean, I’ll have both of ye whipped.
Rhona frowned, her gaze shifting to the crumpled coverlet. There was a small dark stain upon it. Her fingers tightened around the cup. “Ye are not the ‘Beast of Dunvegan’, Taran,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “My father is.”
She felt the bed shift. A moment later Taran was sitting next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He was so close she could see the blond stubble on his jaw. His nearness unnerved her. Rhona gripped her cup tightly, staring down at it. She felt so strange this morning, full of conflicting emotions.
It was as if she’d been asleep her whole life and had just awoken. Everything seemed different.
Taran hooked a finger under her chin, raising it gently so that their gazes met. The tenderness in his grey-blue eyes made her breath catch.
“I never would have wished for any of this, Rhona,” he said softly, “and yet I can’t bring myself to regret it. If I die tomorrow, I’ll go to my cairn a happy man.”
She managed a half-smile. “Ye speak hastily … I don’t think I’ll make a good wife. Ye may regret this yet.”
His mouth quirked. He let go of her chin and brought his hand up, stroking her cheek. “Can we start again?” he asked.
“What do ye mean?” His touch made her breathing quicken. She was aware of how close he was sitting, the heat of his naked body.
“Would ye let me woo ye?”
Rhona inclined her head, pushing aside the need that was curling like wood smoke in her belly. She would have smiled if his face hadn’t been so serious. “But we’re already wed?”
“Aye, but not in the best circumstances. I want a chance to prove myself to ye.”
Their gazes held. The earnestness in his eyes made Rhona’s throat constrict. It was a strange sensation, one she had never felt before. Did she deserve a man like this? She hadn’t treated Taran well at all, and yet it was him who wanted to be worthy of her.
She reached up and cupped her hand over his, pressing it against her cheek. “Ye can woo me if ye like,” she murmured, “although ye have nothing to prove.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Friendly Advice
RHONA FOUND ADAIRA in the gardens behind the castle. Her sister was collecting flowers, placing them carefully in the wicker basket she carried slung over one arm. It was a humid afternoon, with not even a sea-breeze to cool the air. As such, Adaira wore a light linen kirtle. Her thick brown hair was piled up on her head, although tendrils had escaped, curling at the nape.
