Page 63 of The Beast's Bride
“Ye will do as ye are told, woman. Is that clear?”
“But we just arrived here … I don’t understand why I have to go back to Duntulm so soon?”
“I don’t trust ye in this keep … not with yer sisters close at hand.”
A pause followed, and the fine hair on the back of Rhona’s neck prickled. They were listening to Caitrin and Baltair.
“What’s wrong with that?” Caitrin’s voice was sharp when she answered her husband. “Rhona and Adaira have done me no wrong.”
“A blade-tongued shrew and that brainless chatterer. They’re a bad influence on ye.”
Caitrin’s soft laugh echoed through the garden. There was no mirth in the sound, just scorn. “They’re mysisters, Baltair. I will never forsake them … not for ye, not for anyone.”
A crack followed—the sound of an open palm striking flesh. “Ye will do as ye are told, woman.”
Beside Rhona, Taran moved. He left her side and strode into the midst of the gardens. Rhona followed.
They came upon the couple, just as Baltair delivered another slap. Caitrin cried out, staggering back. They stood before a hawthorn hedge. The berries were just beginning to ripen, small red buds bright against the green foliage.
Caitrin glared up at her husband, eyes gleaming. Her left cheek glowed red as she raised a hand to it. Baltair loomed over her. He drew his right arm back to strike her once more. “I’ve had enough of being crossed by my own wife,” he snarled. “I’ll teach ye some manners.”
“Baltair!” Taran’s voice lashed across the garden, causing the two figures near the hedge to freeze. “Lower yer fist!”
The MacDonald clan-chief twisted, his gaze shifting to Taran and then Rhona. Behind him Caitrin’s frightened gaze widened. Baltair ignored Taran, his attention resting upon Rhona.
A cruel smile twisted his face. “Here’s the shrew now, accompanied by her gargoyle.”
Fury curled within Rhona’s belly at his insults. She was sick of them. She carried no weapons, but her hands balled into fists at her sides. However, the words merely seemed to wash over Taran. His stride didn’t check as he approached Baltair. He stopped before him, within striking distance.
“What’s this?” Baltair met Taran’s eye. “Ye shouldn’t interfere between a man and his wife, MacKinnon.”
“Stand back from Lady Caitrin,” Taran ordered. He and Baltair were of a similar height, yet the weight of his presence made it seem as if he loomed over the MacDonald chieftain. Baltair didn’t back down though; there was a feral, stubborn glint in his eye. Unease feathered down Rhona’s skin when she realized that he was the kind of man who enjoyed altercations with others. He wasn’t intimidated in the slightest.
Baltair spat a curse at Taran. An instant later he lashed out at his wife once more.
Taran lunged, grabbing Baltair’s wrist in motion. Caitrin cried out and cringed back against the hawthorn. Baltair’s fist had stopped barely inches from her face.
Baltair roared and swung round to face the man who’d prevented him from striking his wife. Meanwhile, Taran cast a glance left at where Caitrin huddled. “Go to Rhona,” he said.
Not needing to be told twice, Caitrin darted away from them, reaching Rhona’s side moments later. Rhona reached out and pulled her sister against her; Caitrin’s slender frame was quaking.
His right wrist still gripped by Taran, Baltair swung at him with his free fist. Taran brought his arm up, deflecting the blow easily. He then drove his knee into his opponent’s belly. Baltair gasped, stumbled, and fell to his knees, winded.
Taran released him and stepped back, giving the man some space. He cast a glance over his shoulder, his gaze meeting Rhona’s for the first time since they’d overheard the argument. His ice-blue eyes were cold. “Take Lady Caitrin away,” he said quietly. “She doesn’t need to see this.”
Rhona hesitated. She didn’t want to leave Taran with Baltair. Even winded he was dangerous. She knew he wouldn’t leave matters here.
When she didn’t move, Taran’s face hardened. The scars on his face made him look frightening. “Go!”
Rhona swallowed before nodding. She knew his temper wasn’t just directed at Baltair. The words she’d flung at him had cut deep; she’d wounded him.
“Come, Caitrin,” she murmured, steering her sister. “Let’s go back inside.”
Caitrin didn’t resist. Together, the two women turned and hurried from the garden without looking back.
Taran waited until the sound of Rhona and Caitrin’s feet crunching on pebbles faded. Only then did he speak to Baltair MacDonald.
“Only a coward beats his wife.”
