Page 15 of The Beast's Bride
Rhona arched against him and threw her head back. However, Taran shifted his head to one side to avoid the blow. “Good,” he grunted. “At this point I might try to lift ye off yer feet. There are two things ye can do to prevent this. The first is to drop, as if yer legs can no longer support ye. This will turn ye into a dead weight and make it harder for me to shift ye. Or ye can hook yer foot back behind my ankle and use it to anchor yerself. Try that.”
Rhona did as bid, stretching her leg back and entwining it with Taran’s. However, his legs were strong, big, and muscular. It was like trying to wrap her ankle around a tree trunk.
“That’s right,” he replied. “Now, if I try to lift ye, I won’t be able to.” Taran attempted to pull her off the ground, but Rhona didn’t budge. “This will give ye another chance to head-butt me … or rip off one of my ears if ye get yer arm free.”
“What the Devil are ye two up to?”
Malcolm MacLeod’s deep voice boomed across the deserted yard, causing both Rhona and Taran to freeze.
Rhona glanced left to see her father bearing down on them. Even the fact he was limping slightly from his gout didn’t make him any less intimidating. Two of his wolfhounds skulked at his heels, following their master into the yard.
“Da.” Heat rose to Rhona’s cheeks. All the times over the years she’d trained with Taran and her father had never known. He wasn’t an early riser, especially of late, and Taran had sworn the servants and other warriors to secrecy. Rhona tensed—had someone betrayed them? “Ye are up early?” She tried to ignore the fact her father’s eyes were bulging and his bearded face had turned the color of liver.
“I’m taking the dogs out for a hunt,” he snarled, stopping before them. “What are ye doing with my daughter, MacKinnon?”
Taran let go of Rhona and stepped away from her. Rhona glanced over at him to find his face unreadable. His gaze was direct as it met her father’s. “Lady Rhona bid me to teach her the art of hand-to-hand combat and self-defence, Chief,” he replied.
“It looked like ye were embracing her to me.”
“I was showing her how to get free of a hold.”
The clan-chief’s attention shifted from Taran, spearing Rhona with a look she knew well. “How long has this been going on?”
Rhona swallowed but held his gaze. “A while.”
“I didn’t give ye permission to train my daughter, MacKinnon,” her father’s gaze returned to Taran. “How dare ye go behind my back.”
“It’s not his fault,” Rhona interjected. She didn’t want Taran blamed for this—let her father’s wrath fall on her. He could be vicious with his warriors if they displeased him; he’d be gentler with her. “I bid him to do it … made him swear to tell no one.”
Malcolm MacLeod stepped close, and even though she could almost meet his eye, Rhona dropped her gaze. Dread rose within her. Would he beat her for this? She’d defied him deliberately, and she understood his anger.
“There will be no more training,” MacLeod said, his voice a low, threatening growl. “Is that clear?”
Rhona nodded, desperation constricting her throat. Her one small freedom—gone.
“I didn’t hear ye?” Her father bellowed in her face.
“Chief, I—” Taran began.
MacLeod cut him off. “Not another word from ye.”
“Aye, Da,” Rhona replied, her gaze still fixed upon the straw-flecked ground between them. “It’s clear.”
Chapter Seven
Caged
TARAN CLIMBED THE guard tower’s circular staircase, returning to his quarters. Unlike many of the young warriors who served MacLeod, Taran didn’t sleep in the barracks that took up the lower floor. Instead, his position as one of the chieftain’s personal guard had earned him a chamber of his own.
Taran was grateful for that, for after the scene in the training yard, he was in no mood for company. Reaching the third-floor landing, he strode into his chamber and shoved the door shut behind him. The noise reverberated in the stone tower.
Standing inside his private chamber—a space he’d only just vacated a short while earlier—Taran felt caged. The chamber was small, with damp stone walls and a tiny hearth at one corner, which was unlit this morning, for it was high summer. Clothing hung from hooks on the wall, and a narrow pallet lay under a tiny shuttered window.
Taran raked a hand through his short hair and ground out a low curse.
That was it—the end of his contact with Lady Rhona. He wasn’t going to fool himself. He’d receive more than a tongue-lashing when MacLeod returned from taking his dogs out. However, he’d take whatever punishment came.
It had been worth it to be able to spend time with Rhona over the years. Their practice sessions had been irregular at best, yet he’d lived for them. Most of the practice had been with wooden swords, although the past two sessions—when he’d taught her how to defend herself using her hands—would remain forever in his memory.
