Page 75 of The Beast's Bride
When the man had gone, Gordon loosed a long breath, leaning back against the mountain of pillows that Greer had propped him up against. “Great … I’m going to be a cripple.”
Taran’s mouth twisted. “A limp hardly makes a man useless.”
“MacLeod won’t see it that way. Such a warrior isn’t much good on the battlefield.”
“That doesn’t matter to me,” Greer spoke up, her voice husky. “Stop complaining Gordon MacPherson. Ye are alive, aren’t ye?”
Gordon’s gaze met his betrothed’s, and the pair of them watched each other for a long moment. Taran suddenly felt as if he was intruding.
“I thought I was done for after the battle,” Gordon replied, his gaze never wavering from hers. “All I cared about was not seeing ye again, not being able to tell ye how much I love ye, bonny Greer.”
Greer’s cheeks flushed. Taran was surprised by his friend’s admission. Gordon wasn’t a man for emotional talk.
Taran cleared his throat. “I’ll leave ye both then.”
Gordon nodded, yet his attention never strayed from Greer. Likewise, she stared back at him. The atmosphere in the small chamber inside the guardhouse grew charged.
Taran departed with a smile on his face.
Caitrin MacDonald entered Dunvegan’s chapel. Inhaling the scent of incense and the fatty odor of tallow, she let the door thud shut behind her, finding herself within a cool, shadowy space.
Caitrin drew in a deep breath and reached up to the small crucifix she wore about her neck. Kirks and chapels gave her a sense of peace, a calm in a world where she felt controlled by the will of others. There were no booming voices of men here. There was no one to make demands upon her.
She’d left Eoghan with Adaira while she visited her husband. It was a rare moment of solitude.
Moving across the pitted stone floor, Caitrin’s gaze shifted to the altar at the far end of the space. Sunlight filtered in through high arched windows on the western wall, dust motes floating down like fireflies. Just beyond the pooling sunlight lay a corpse upon a stone bench.
Baltair.
Caitrin’s step slowed. She studied his profile, his dark hair brushed back in a widow’s peak. From this distance he looked as if he was sleeping.
It was hard to believe Baltair MacDonald was actually dead.
Reaching his side, Caitrin stopped. Someone had dressed him in clean clothing, for there were no signs of war upon him. The mortal wound to his belly had been bound and covered. He wore a long mail shirt, plaid braies of MacDonald colors, and a wide leather belt with the clan crest upon it. His hands rested on the pommel of his longsword, which lay upon his chest.
Caitrin’s gaze slid up the length of Baltair’s body and rested upon his face.
Death had softened it.
She’d once thought him so handsome; just the sight of him before their handfasting had made her knees grow weak. Yet it hadn’t taken her long to fear him, for her stomach to knot whenever he walked into a room.
How things change.
Her husband’s eyes were closed; he really did look as if he were sleeping. It made Caitrin nervous, and she took a step back from the bench. Even in death she was afraid of him.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, Caitrin wiped sweaty palms against her kirtle.
Coward.
Her younger sister had just come back from battle, where she’d wielded a sword as well as any man. But hereshewas, scared of a corpse.
Caitrin’s hands balled into fists. She was tired of being afraid, sick of jumping at shadows. This man had turned her into a mouse. Once she’d been proud and full of spirit. She’d laughed and flirted with her father’s warriors. Smiles had come easily, and when Baltair had asked for her hand, she’d felt smug that such an attractive, charismatic man would want her for a wife.
She barely recognized the woman she’d become.
Steadying her breathing, Caitrin stepped back to the edge of the bench and stared down at her husband.
“Ye no longer have any hold over me,” she whispered. Her voice was low, yet it seemed to echo in the empty chapel. “The Devil take ye, Baltair MacDonald.”
