Page 27 of The Beast's Bride
“He bid Adaira to tell everyone ye were taken ill in yer chamber, and were not to be disturbed,” he replied. “I’m sure there will be tongues wagging upon our return, but since some of the warriors have already arrived to prepare for the games, he wants to keep this quiet.”
Taran’s words made fear knot itself in the pit of Rhona’s belly. Her father would be wrathful; she needed to ready herself for it.
Her supper suddenly felt oily in her belly, and she swallowed the bile that now stung her throat. Across the fire, Taran’s grey-blue gaze remained upon her, steady and direct. He too knew what awaited her in Dunvegan.
The rain pattered down, stippling the surface of the loch, when they reached Dunvegan at last. The summer shower had freshened the air and brought out all the smells: the salt of the loch, the sweetness of grass, and the rich scent of warm earth. Thunder rumbled in the distance as slate-grey clouds rolled in from the west.
Lasair side-stepped, snorting nervously at the sound of the approaching storm. Rhona reached forward and soothed her with a stroke to the neck. Shortly before arriving at Dunvegan village, Taran removed the restraints from her wrists. It would look suspicious if he brought her home a captive.
Following the loch-side road north, the two riders didn’t speak. Rhona spared a glance in Taran’s direction, noting the sternness of his expression as he stared straight ahead. It was the look of a determined man, one who’d almost completed the task his chief had given him.
They rode up the steep causeway, passing through the Sea-gate and into the bailey. Folk turned to watch them, and Rhona stiffened. It seemed her disappearance wasn’t the well-kept secret her father had hoped. It would make his mood all the sourer upon their reunion.
Inside the courtyard they drew more stares. Unfortunately, Dughall MacLean was one of the warriors to spot them first. He’d been shoeing a horse, but straightened up when the two riders clattered into the yard.
“What’s this?” he said with a smirk, his gaze raking over Rhona. “Not laid-up with the grippe after all, are ye?”
“Leave it, MacLean,” Taran rumbled, drawing up his horse and swinging down from the saddle.
Dughall’s smirk faded, although his eyes remained sharp. “Led ye on a merry dance, did she?”
Despite that Rhona braced herself for the blow, the impact of her father’s palm hitting her across the face nearly knocked her off her feet.
“Disobedient, headstrong bitch,” Malcolm MacLeod snarled, drawing his arm back once more. “Ye have defied me for the last time.”
The second blow threw Rhona back against the wall. Her skull cracked against stone, and her vision swam. Sagging against the cold stone, Rhona raised a hand to her face. Her fingers came away bloody, and she realized her bottom lip was bleeding; one of her father’s rings had cut her.
“I gave ye everything, but ye appreciated nothing. Ye humiliate me … ye shame yerself.” His voice was choked, and glancing up, Rhona saw he was standing motionless facing her, his big fists clenching and unclenching. Fear arrowed through her, making it difficult to breathe.
He looked as if he wanted to kill her.
“I’m sorry, Da,” she whispered. And she was. Suddenly, all the fight had gone out of her. His rage was a terrible thing to behold, and she only wished to hide from it.
MacLeod glared at her, his eyes narrow, glittering slits. His face had turned the color of raw meat, and a nerve ticked in his cheek.
“Not sorry enough,” he growled. “I’m done with ye.” He turned his head toward the closed door to the solar. “MacKinnon!”
The door flew open, and Taran strode inside. He abruptly halted, his face pale and taut. He stared at where Rhona leaned against the wall, still cradling her injured mouth. Their gazes met, and she saw his ice-blue eyes turn flinty.
“Take this wench up to the tower room and lock her in. She’ll not leave it till the day of the games—is that clear?”
Taran hesitated, a muscle bunching in his jaw. Then he nodded.
“Get on with it then,” the clan-chief growled. “I’ve nothing more to say to her.”
Tears welled in Rhona’s eyes at the venom in her father’s voice. His loathing of her was worse than his rage. She’d have preferred his fists to this cruel dismissal.
“Da … I—”
“Take her away, MacKinnon. Before I lose what’s left of my self-control.”
Malcolm MacLeod turned away then and crossed to the window. The shutters were open, although rain was driving inside, wetting the stone sill. Taran stepped close to Rhona, his fingers closing around her upper arm.
“Come,” he murmured.
Rhona let Taran lead her out of the solar. Her legs were shaking so much she barely made it. In the hall outside she wrenched free of his restraining hand and flattened herself against the wall. Her vision swam, and a sob rose up within her. However, she kept it sealed inside, her hand pressing against her injured mouth.
“Lady Rhona,” Taran rasped her name. He stepped close, his gaze clouded with worry. “Are ye hurt?”
