Page 76 of The Beast's Bride
“To all those who fell defending the MacLeod name and honor.” Malcolm MacLeod raised his drinking horn high into the air. Rhona noted the ruddiness of his cheeks; her father was already well into his cups and the night was still young. “Ye will be remembered.”
A chorus of ‘ayes’ went up across the cavernous hall as men and women stood up and raised their cups.
“Yesterday the Frasers discovered that they cross us at their peril,” MacLeod continued. “They learned that the MacLeods, MacDonalds, and Budges stick together. The clan-chief’s eyes shadowed then. “Brave Baltair MacDonald lost his life in that valley, leaving my daughter a widow. We share her grief, her loss.”
Opposite Rhona, Caitrin sat still and silent. Dressed in a charcoal-colored kirtle and veil, as befitted a widow, her sister’s gaze was downcast. She didn’t acknowledge her father’s words. Seated between Caitrin and Aonghus Budge, Adaira cast Caitrin a worried look.
“The MacDonalds of Duntulm must keep strong!” Malcolm MacLeod boomed. He swayed slightly on his feet as he thrust his drinking horn high into the air once more. “I will send word to the mainland, to where Baltair’s brother fights for our king. Alasdair will return and take his place as chieftain.” These words brought forth a cheer from the MacDonald warriors gathered at a nearby table. But Rhona noticed that Caitrin blanched, her pretty mouth thinning.
Her father was oblivious to her displeasure. Instead, he turned his attention to Aonghus Budge.
“The Budges of Islay have proved their loyalty and quality. Thank ye, Aonghus … yer friendship is dear to me.”
The Budge chieftain acknowledged MacLeod’s words with a wide smile. Despite his advancing years and stout figure, Aonghus Budge had fought against the Frasers. He bore minor injuries from the battle: his right arm was in a sling, and he bore a shallow gash to his forehead.
“I seek a way to repay ye,” Malcolm droned on. “The Budges and the MacLeods must endure.”
Rhona stifled a groan. Drink always made her father loquacious. She wished he’d sit down and let everyone resume eating and drinking. She shared a pained look with Taran beside her. Under the table, he squeezed her hand. Soon enough this feast would be over, and they’d be able to retire to their tower chamber. Excitement fluttered up within Rhona at the thought.
“I have decided that our clans must be united in marriage,” Malcolm MacLeod slurred. “I have one daughter not yet wed. Aonghus, I give ye the hand of my youngest, Adaira.”
Chapter Thirty-three
A Fine Wife
ADAIRA GASPED, HER face turning ashen. “Da!”
Malcolm MacLeod waved her protest away, his attention still upon the man beside her. Aonghus Budge’s grin looked wide enough to split his face.
“A generous gift, Malcolm,” Budge replied, “and most appreciated. Adaira is a lovely creature and more biddable than her elder sister. She will make a fine wife.”
“Aye.” Malcolm MacLeod’s brow furrowed at the mention of Rhona’s refusal. It hadn’t happened that long ago, but to Rhona it seemed as if a year had passed. She didn’t feel like the same person, and yet she would still be loath to wed that toad.
“Ye can’t do this, Da.” The words were out before Rhona could stop them. Under the table, Taran’s fingers tightened around hers. It was a warning, but she didn’t heed him. “Adaira can’t wed Budge. He’s nearly thrice her age!”
Aonghus Budge’s grin slipped.
Her father looked her way. His face turned thunderous. “Hold yer tongue, lass.”
“Please, Da,” Adaira choked out the words. “I don’t want this … I can’t—”
“Silence!” Spittle flew as their father leaned across the table. Una reached out, plucking at her husband’s sleeve to calm him, yet he shoved her hand aside. “I will not have my daughters defy me. Ye will do as ye are bid.”
Tears streamed down Adaira’s face. Her hazel eyes were wide, desperate. “I won’t do it,” she gasped. She gripped the edge of the table as if it was her anchor in a stormy sea. “I won’t.”
“Ye will!” Malcolm MacLeod launched himself forward and threw the contents of his drinking horn in Adaira’s face.
The Great Hall of Dunvegan went silent.
Blood-red wine dripped down Adaira’s cheeks, staining the pale blue kirtle she wore. Beside her, even Aonghus Budge looked taken aback by MacLeod’s outburst. Wine splattered the clan-chief of Islay’s cream-colored léine. “I have agreed to the match, Malcolm,” he growled finally. “There’s no need to lose yer temper.”
MacLeod collapsed into his chair. His face was dangerously red now, and he wheezed as if he were out of breath. Una watched him, her face taut with concern. “Malcolm?”
“I’m alright,” he mumbled. “Just give me a moment.” His gaze remained fixed upon Adaira. She made no move to wipe the wine off her face; instead, she merely stared back at her father, her expression stricken.
The look in her sister’s eyes made an iron band fasten around Rhona’s chest; it was a look of utter betrayal. Out of the three daughters, their father had always been softest with his youngest. He’d called Adaira his ‘fairy maid’, his ‘wood sprite’. He’d indulged her over the years.
It made his treatment of her now even harder for Adaira to bear.
