Page 73 of The Beast's Bride
“What will ye do with him, Da?” Iain had pushed his way in and was now standing next to his father. The young man withdrew the dirk from his belt, his expression turning feral. “Do ye want me to slit his throat?”
Malcolm MacLeod cast his son a cool look. “Ye are a bloodthirsty pup, aren’t ye?”
The comment brought a few smiles from the surrounding men. Iain’s cheeks flushed, his mouth thinning. Ignoring his son, the clan-chief turned his focus back to the unconscious warrior at his feet. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Took a blow to the back of the head by the looks of it,” one of the warriors replied. “Knocked him out cold.”
A slow smile spread across MacLeod’s face. It wasn’t a pleasant expression, but one filled with cunning and malice. Rhona’s breathing grew shallow at the sight of it; her father was not yet done with punishing Morgan Fraser.
“Pick him up and put him in the wagon with our injured,” Malcolm ordered. “We’re taking Lachlann Fraser back to Dunvegan, where he will rot in my dungeon for the rest of his short life.”
Rhona exhaled sharply. She didn’t envy the man his fate; the dungeon in the bowels of the keep, carved out of dark rock, was a sunless, fetid place.
She’d never heard of anyone who’d survived it.
Rhona sat before the hearth, shivering.
They’d made camp for the night around fifty furlongs north of the Vale of Hamra Rinner. A mist curled in, wreathing like smoke across the craggy hills and in-between the tightly-packed tents. Autumn was approaching; the air had a bite to it. But it was not the temperature that made Rhona tremble.
Ever since the battle she’d been on edge. Now, as the day drew to a close and she was able to rest, her limbs wouldn’t stop shaking.
“Here.” Taran appeared at her side with a steaming cup in his hands. “Some hot spiced wine will settle yer nerves.”
Rhona cast him a rueful look. “Does it look like they need settling?”
“Aye … I’ve seen more color on the face of a corpse.”
Rhona took the cup, her chilled fingers wrapping around its warmth. The rich scent of hot bramble wine filled her nostrils, and she felt a little of the day’s tension ebb out of her. She took a gulp of wine, letting its heat burn down her throat, and released a shuddering breath. “That’s better,” she murmured.
“Did I make a mistake letting ye join us?” Taran asked quietly.
She glanced back at her husband to see him watching her. A deep groove had formed between his eyebrows, and his gaze was shadowed. She could feel his worry for her.
Rhona shook her head. “It was my choice.”
Silence fell between them for a few moments, before Taran spoke once more. “Many men would have quailed at today’s slaughter. But not ye. I watched ye fight. Ye did yer father proud … ye did yerself proud.”
Rhona held his gaze. “And what about ye, Taran,” she murmured. “Were ye proud of me?”
He reached up, his palm cupping her cheek as he gazed into her eyes. “I was terrified the whole way through that battle,” he admitted. “The thought of losing ye is like a blade to my guts. I’d never have forgiven myself. I’m not sure I want ye fighting alongside me again.”
Rhona drew in a trembling breath. She could feel the tension in the hand that cupped her cheek, see it in the lines of his face. He expected her to argue with him, to insist on riding out with her father from now on.
“I’m not sure I want to see another battle,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “One was enough. All that death sickened me … even Dughall’s.”
Taran loosed a breath. “Thank the Lord.” He moved closer to her, his fingers tracing the lines of her face. “Yer eyes look so haunted tonight. So empty.”
Rhona swallowed. “Chase the shadows away, Taran,” she said softly. “Please.”
His gaze widened for an instant, and then he nodded. Gently, he took her cup of wine and set it aside. Then, he rose to his feet, pulling her with him.
Taran picked her up as if she weighed nothing and turned, carrying her away from the smoldering hearth. Their tent sat just a few yards behind them. Taran ducked into it, and they entered a warm, welcoming space lit by a small brazier in the center. A deerskin lay upon the floor; it would be their bed for tonight.
Taran lowered Rhona so she stood before him, and his mouth claimed hers for a deep, hungry kiss. Rhona groaned, her lips parting as she surrendered to him. Her arms went up, interlocking around his neck.
Their clothing came off—blood encrusted mail shirts, braies, léines, and boots—until they both stood naked. Rhona entwined herself around Taran, gasping when his hands slid over her body, claiming every inch of her as his own. She pressed herself hard against him, desperate for his strength, his warmth. His love.
Chapter Thirty-two
