Page 55 of The Beast's Bride
A short while later Rhona was seated upon her chestnut mare, nibbling at a piece of bannock while Taran tightened Tussock’s girth beside her. The gelding snorted and pawed at the ground, eager to be off.
A sea of horses, men, and dogs surrounded them. The rumble of male voices and the excited yipping of the hounds filled the misty morning air. Rhona smiled, her senses sharpening. It had been too long since she’d ridden out on a hunt.
They left Dunvegan in a clatter of hooves and barking dogs. Fog, as thick as clotted cream, drifted in off the loch, turning the morning cool. It would burn off soon enough, but for the moment Rhona was relieved she’d donned her woolen cloak before setting out.
Leaving the keep behind, they rode east over bare hills. The shadow of great mountains rose ahead, marching closer as they left the shroud of coastal fog behind. Rhona rode at Taran’s side and found herself stealing glances at him. She’d gotten used to having him close to her over the last weeks, and yet at the same time she was growing ever tenser in his company.
What does he want from me?
Taran glanced her way, spearing her with his ice-blue gaze. “What is it, love?”
Pleasure feathered down Rhona’s neck at the low timbre of his voice.Love.Did he really mean it?
“Nothing,” she murmured, tearing her gaze from his and fixing it in the direction of travel. “I’m just enjoying riding out with ye … that’s all.”
She felt his gaze remain on her, the intensity of it causing heat to flush across her chest. Did he have any idea of the effect his proximity had on her?
“And I, with ye,” he replied, with a teasing smile. “I’m glad we’ve been able to make a new start, Rhona.”
Her gaze snapped back to him. They’d done that, but she wanted more. She had no idea how to voice her feelings.
The hunting party continued east and entered a valley between two mountains. A dark pine forest carpeted the ground of the steep vale. Rhona inhaled the scent of pine resin and enjoyed the cool kiss of the woodland air on her skin. This valley was one of her father’s favorite hunting grounds for deer and boar.
It didn’t take them long to flush out a boar—a small female that the dogs cornered without much trouble. The warriors then closed in bearing boar spears, weakening the animal, before Dughall MacLean finished it off with a stab to the heart.
Congratulating themselves on their easy kill, the men hoisted the carcass onto the back of a horse and continued on their way.
They had ridden deep into the valley, the trees rising high overhead, when a dark shape hurtled out of the forest before them.
It was a large male boar with a wiry black coat and long gleaming tusks. The beast ran at the dogs squealing with rage, while warriors stabbed at it, slowing its path.
Connel Buchanan and Gordon MacPherson were among them. Grinning, Connel circled the boar and drove his spear into its side. Rhona drew up Lasair, her gaze riveted on the scene up ahead. Boar were dangerous, clever, and stout-hearted. Even surrounded, as this one was, it wouldn’t surrender without a fight.
The men and dogs tightened the net. One of the hounds went down, howling, as a sharp tusk found its mark. Yet, the boar was starting to tire. Grunting, it staggered around the clearing, blood running down its flanks.
With a whoop, Connel leaped down from his horse to make the final kill.
“Careful Buchanan,” Malcolm MacLeod roared. “This boar’s a wily one.”
“Hold-fast, chief!” Connel shouted back. Shouts of encouragement went up around him. ‘Hold-fast’ was MacLeod’s rallying cry, one he’d used ever since he’d killed a rampaging bull years earlier. He’d been a much younger man then, when, armed only with a dirk, he’d slain the beast and broken off one of its horns as a trophy. It was now the clan-chief’s favorite drinking horn.
Connel hoisted his spear high. The boar spear had a crosspiece on the shaft, which would halt the beast. Otherwise the boar was capable, even when speared, of charging the hunter and killing him.
Lasair snorted, tossing her head nervously and backing up. The scent of blood, violence, and the boar’s odor, unnerved the mare. Rhona didn’t blame her; a boar hunt was violent and not for the faint of heart.
Although she’d never liked Connel Buchanan much, she had to admit he showed courage facing off against the enraged quarry. She glanced right at Taran; he’d drawn Tussock up next to her, his gaze fixed upon the snorting, grunting boar. She was glad he’d stayed at her side.
“Finish it, Buchanan,” Dughall MacLean shouted. “Stick it in the throat.”
Connel ignored the warrior. Instead, he danced around the boar, toying with it.
Rhona’s brow furrowed.
“What’s the fool doing?” Taran muttered from next to her.
She was wondering the same thing.
Connel stuck the boar in the hindquarters. With a squeal it turned and lumbered toward him. Still grinning, the warrior leaped aside and stabbed it in the flank.
