Page 18 of The Beast's Bride
She should have enough to buy passage across the water from Kyleakin to the mainland, and for a horse to carry her south after that. The only other things she needed were time, opportunity—and courage.
The thought of fleeing didn’t scare her. But the realization that she would have to leave everything she knew and loved, including her sisters, made Rhona feel sick.
Who would protect Adaira with her gone? Caitrin was beyond her help, but Adaira still needed her.
And yet, the truth of it was that she would soon likely be unable to help her younger sister anyway. If she stayed and the games took place, who knew what man would win her hand? She’d heard that many warriors were coming from the mainland. It was highly likely she wouldn’t even stay at Dunvegan.
“These are delicious.” Rhona took a bite of twice-baked oat-cake and chewed it with gusto before favoring Greer with a smile. “I don’t suppose ye could spare some?”
Greer glanced up from where she was rolling out pastry. “Of course, milady. Do ye need anything else?”
Rhona nodded. “Adaira and I are visiting Dunvegan market this morning. We thought to spread out a blanket by the loch’s edge and have our noon meal there.”
Greer smiled, revealing a deep dimple on one cheek. “I’ll fix ye a basket then.”
Comely, with thick brown hair she always wore in a long braid down her back, Greer was Rhona’s age. Despite their differing rank, the two young women had always shared an easy rapport. Of late, Rhona had seen Greer spending time with Gordon MacPherson, Taran’s friend. They’d danced together at Beltane, and Rhona had felt a pang of envy for the lass—not because she wanted Gordon, but because the cook’s daughter was free to chose her own future.
“Hurry up then, lass.” Greer’s mother, Fiona—Dunvegan’s cook—clicked her tongue and cast her daughter an impatient look. “Don’t keep Lady Rhona waiting.”
Greer dusted her hands off on her apron. “What would ye like?”
“Nothing fancy,” Rhona replied, feigning casualness. She needed food that would keep well enough for her journey, but which wouldn’t raise anyone’s suspicions. It was two days since Caitrin’s departure; Rhona couldn’t risk waiting any longer. “Oat-cakes, a wedge of hard cheese, and some apples will do nicely … and a skin of water.” Rhona tensed then as Greer reached for a large wicker basket. “We’re riding to the market … so a cloth bag will be easier to carry.”
The young woman nodded, no sign of suspicion on her face. Rhona was so nervous this morning that she worried others could sense it. Fortunately, unlike Adaira, she was adept at not letting her feelings show on her face for the whole world to see. Even so, involving Greer and Fiona in her plans put her on edge.
Da won’t punish them,she assured herself as she watched Greer disappear into the larder to fetch the cheese and apples.They have no idea what I’m up to.
What am I doing?Rhona’s heart pounded as she let herself into her father’s solar.How will I explain myself if I’m caught in here?
Rhona didn’t have a ready excuse, just a desperation to leave this isle—and to do that, she needed maps of Skye and the mainland.
The morning sun filtered in through the window, illuminating the dust motes that floated down from the ceiling. Servants had been in here and opened the shutters to air the chamber. It was a mild morning, yet they had laid the hearth. Even at the height of summer this keep remained damp and cold.
Moving to her father’s desk, Rhona’s gaze searched the piles of parchment and the stacks of books that covered it.
She remembered then that Malcolm MacLeod kept his maps in a clay vase. Turning from the desk, she spied it sitting upon a shelf next to the MacLeod drinking horn. Rhona’s heart sank when she saw that the vase was packed with scrolls; she didn’t have time to sort through them all.
Fortunately, the map of Skye was the first she picked out. She quickly unscrolled it, her gaze sliding over the familiar lobster-shaped outline of the isle. The map showed the road south from Dunvegan and the various routes she could take to reach Kyleakin. Breathing quickly now, her ears straining for the sound of her father’s heavy tread, Rhona rolled up the map, and started rifling through the vase for one of the mainland.
Malcolm MacLeod was slow in the mornings. He rose late these days and tended to linger over his bannocks. However, his unexpected appearance at dawn in the training yard warned her not to grow complacent where her father was concerned. He was growing old and fat, but he had a mind like a whetted blade. The man missed little.
It took some searching, but at last she found a small scroll that showed the western seaboard of the mainland, and Argyle. There, perched on the coast, was Gylen Castle.
Stuffing both scrolls up the sleeve of her kirtle, Rhona strode to the door of the solar and slowly opened it, peering out into the corridor beyond.
All clear.
Stepping out, she glanced left and right before hurrying toward the steps that led to the bower she shared with Adaira. She’d hidden a satchel under the bed with the provisions she’d gotten earlier from the kitchens. The satchel also contained her slingshot. Her father, who had taken her hunting with him when she was a child, had taught her how to use it, although these days she was likely a bit rusty. Hopefully, she’d be able to forage and hunt along the way.
Rhona had nearly reached the stairs when a tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped out of the shadows.
Swallowing a cry of fright, Rhona stopped. “Taran,” she gasped, “ye gave me a fright.”
“Apologies, Lady Rhona.” Taran regarded her a long moment, before his brow furrowed. “Ye are flushed. Is something amiss?”
Rhona shook her head and favored him with a bright smile. She’d forgotten that her father’s right-hand often patrolled the hallways of the keep. “I’m perfectly well, thank ye. I’ve just come back from a walk in the bailey.”
His frown deepened. “But ye have come from the wrong direction,” he pointed out.
