Page 64 of The Beast's Bride
Baltair struggled to his feet, still gasping for breath like a winded carthorse. “And only a fool interferes where he’s not wanted.” His dark-blue gaze met Taran’s. “Ye will pay for that,Beast.”
Baltair lunged again, even faster than earlier. Now that Taran had released him, his right arm swung at his opponent’s head. It slammed into Taran’s jaw. Taran staggered and bit down on his tongue. Blood filled his mouth, and his temper finally snapped. He reached out, grabbed Baltair by the collar of his léine, and head-butted him hard in the nose.
The MacDonald chieftain went down like a sack of oats. He sprawled back onto a bed of lavender, dislodging the bees that had been buzzing there.
Taran spat out a gob of blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. It took all his self-control not to throw himself on Baltair and beat him senseless. He’d never been quick to anger, but his temper once roused was a dark, wild thing that took a while to settle.
Baltair groaned. His gaze, glassy with pain, met Taran’s. Blood flowed out of his nose. His mouth worked as if he might speak, but Taran cut him off.
“Keep yer fists to yerself in future, MacDonald,” Taran growled. “If I hear ye have mistreated yer wife again … I’ll come looking for ye.”
Caitrin dissolved into floods of tears the moment they were inside the women’s solar. Adaira was in there, playing her harp by the window, when her sisters entered. One look at their faces and her fingers halted, cutting off the lilting music that greeted them.
Adaira frowned. “What’s wrong?”
Rhona didn’t reply. Instead, she led Caitrin over to a chair and let her settle there. Her elder sister covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking as she sought to contain her sobs.
After a few moments Rhona met Adaira’s eye. “Baltair,” she said quietly. “Taran and I were walking in the gardens when we heard arguing.”
Adaira walked across to Caitrin and knelt before her. She reached out and placed her hands on her sister’s knees, squeezing. “I knew he was cruel to ye … even though ye have never said anything. I knew.”
Caitrin dropped her hands to look at Adaira. Tears coursed down her face, making the livid marks on her left cheek all the more evident. Rhona drew in a sharp breath at the desolation she saw in her elder sister’s blue eyes. Caitrin had always been so strong. At this moment though, she looked broken.
“I hate him,” she whispered.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Scars
NIGHT HAD FALLEN in a warm, dark blanket over Dunvegan when Rhona made her way down the steps into the bailey. She had not put on a shawl around her shoulders as the evening was sultry, the air soft against her skin. It was growing late, and the keep slumbered. Caitrin had finally retired for the night; she would share Adaira’s chamber with her rather than to return to the one she shared with Baltair.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, Rhona’s gaze swept the shadowed corners of the yard. There was no sign of her husband here. She’d just come from their chamber; the only other place she could think to look was the stables.
She found him there, alone except for the rows of horses in the stalls. Taran had his back to her as she approached. He was in the tack-room, a partition at the end of the building. Taran was cleaning a saddle, buffing the leather with a soft cloth.
Rhona approached quietly, her tread silent in the slippers she wore. She was around four yards behind him when Taran spoke.
“Ye should be abed asleep, Rhona. It’s late.”
Rhona halted, surprised that he’d heard her. An awkward moment passed before she spoke. “I know it’s late … that’s why I’m here. Are ye not going to join me?”
He shook his head, still not turning his face to look at her. “I’ll make a bed for myself here in the stables once I’m done cleaning this.”
His voice was low, weary. There was no sign of anger in it, although that just made Rhona feel worse. The words she’d thrown at him had tormented her all evening. Initially, she’d been preoccupied with Caitrin, but once she’d returned to their chamber—and found it empty—she’d been unable to settle. The more time stretched on, the worse she felt.
Heaving in a deep breath, for nerves had suddenly assaulted her, Rhona closed the distance between them and entered the tack-room. The rich scent of oiled leather enveloped her. She stepped up next to her husband so that their shoulders were nearly touching. “I’m sorry, Taran.”
He cast her a glance. His gaze was shuttered, his expression impossible to read. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Just leave things be.”
A heartbeat passed. Rhona gnawed at her bottom lip. This was getting painful; she had no idea what to say to him, or how to put things right. But she couldn’t walk away knowing she’d hurt him. Each time she opened her mouth, she wondered if she was just making things worse.
“I can’t leave it,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Taran … I didn’t mean what I said back in the gardens.”
His gaze snapped back to her. “Yes, ye did.”
Rhona’s throat closed. “No … I.” She broke off here. The coldness of his gaze completely threw her. It wasn’t like Rhona to lack confidence, yet at that moment she did. “I was frustrated,” she admitted finally. “It was a child’s tantrum, and I’m truly sorry for it.”
He looked away from her and continued polishing the saddle. However, she noted his shoulders had tensed and his movements were jerky. Rhona moved back from him.
