Page 22 of The Beast's Bride
Rhona focused her thoughts on what lay ahead, not what she was leaving behind. She knew that if she dwelled upon Adaira any longer, she would falter. She needed to remind herself why she was doing this.
The games loomed upon the horizon like an approaching storm. She would not suffer being wed to a man she didn’t want. She wouldn’t suffer being wed at all.
Rhona set her jaw and marched into the stables behind the inn. Today was the start of a new life, one where she’d carve her own destiny.
Her mare whickered as Rhona approached the stall. Murmuring gently to Lasair, she saddled her before leading her through the yard and out the front to the loch side, avoiding the busy market and her sister.
Beyond she heard the chatter of voices, as the market got busier still. Adaira wouldn’t miss her for a while yet, not while a sea of colorful fabrics and baubles tempted her.
Upon the loch shore, Rhona sprang up onto Lasair’s back and urged the mare into a brisk trot. They skirted the southern edge of the loch, leaving the village behind, and then Rhona guided her left. They crossed the road, before Lasair broke into a bouncy canter.
The first of a series of rolling hills that stretched south rose before her, and the wind fanned her cheeks. A smile split Rhona’s face. She crouched low over the saddle and gave the mare her head.
“Foolish wench!” Malcolm MacLeod roared, spittle flying. “Surely ye must have seen which way she went?”
“No, Da.” Tears streamed down Adaira’s face. She stood before the chieftain in his solar, trembling in the face of his rage. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t … the market was busy and I—”
“Silence!” MacLeod shifted his gaze past his daughter’s shaking form, to where Taran stood silently by the door. “Why weren’t ye with them, MacKinnon?”
Taran stiffened at the accusation. “The lasses always go to the Dunvegan market without an escort, Chief,” he growled back. “Ye agreed to that years ago.”
It was a rare day that Taran challenged MacLeod, yet he wasn’t about to let himself be blamed for this. The news that Rhona had disappeared felt like a punch to the gut. Taran’s hands clenched by his sides. There wasn’t any point in laying blame.
MacLeod glared at him, his bearded face thunderous. “Ride after Rhona,” he snarled.
“What if someone has taken her?” Adaira gasped, daring to interrupt her father. “She might not have run away. She might be hurt.”
Taran’s belly clenched at these words, although they had little effect on MacLeod. He continued to hold Taran’s gaze. “Then, I’ll have the culprit dragged back here and gelded,” he growled. “Track her down, MacKinnon, and bring her home.”
Taran nodded. “Shall I gather men to ride with me?”
MacLeod shook his head. “There’s no time … and I don’t want anyone else to know she’s missing. News of this mustn’t leave this chamber … not with the games so close.” He shifted a gimlet stare to his daughter. “If anyone asks, Rhona has a fever and is in her bed-chamber. Is that clear?”
Adaira nodded, her tear-streaked face pale and strained.
MacLeod looked at Taran once more. “Find her,” he rumbled, “and don’t return here until ye do.”
Taran gave a brusque nod, turned on his heel, and marched from the solar. Descending the stairwell to the ground level of the keep, he strode out into the bailey and headed for the stables. There, he swiftly saddled Tussock, his rangy bay gelding. The stables were busy this morning, with men, dogs, and horses everywhere. But Taran spoke to no one as he prepared to ride out, his gaze firmly fixed upon his task.
“Where are ye off to?” Connel Buchanan, who’d just returned from a deer hunt bellowed to Taran when he led his horse out into the yard.
“Out on an errand for MacLeod,” Taran called back. He took care to keep his tone nonchalant, with the bored edge the other men were used to hearing from him.
Connel’s eyes gleamed with curiosity at this. “Why’s that?”
Taran ignored him. Connel was as nosy as he was loud; he’d be the last man Taran would confide in. MacLeod had been clear: no one was to know of Rhona’s disappearance.
He left the keep at a slow trot, making his way down the narrow winding path from the Sea-gate to the rutted road below. It was only when he was a good distance from the castle that he urged Tussock into a canter. It wouldn’t do to be seen racing away from Dunvegan at a flat gallop—it would only set tongues wagging.
Reaching the nearby village, where the market was now finishing up for the day, Taran drew his gelding up and let his gaze sweep from west to east. Adaira had not seen what direction her sister had left in, so it was up to him to track her down.
Firstly he rode into the village, where he discreetly asked some of the folk he encountered if they had seen MacLeod’s fire-haired daughter this afternoon. None had. He then went to The Stag’s Head. The inn-keeper hadn’t seen her, but one of the stable lads had.
“I saw Lady Rhona lead her horse out of here mid-morning,” the lad admitted, putting down the pitch-fork he’d been using to muck out one of the stalls. “I didn’t see which way she went though.”
Taran frowned as he considered the possibilities.
Clearly Rhona hadn’t been abducted. So where had she gone?
