Page 33 of The Beast's Bride
Breathing heavily, Taran went over to the ringside, where Gordon waited. His friend passed him a mug of ale. “Here … ye look like ye could do with this. Although Connel needs it more by the looks of things.”
Taran glanced over at where Connel stormed out of the ring, with face like thunder, and huffed out a breath. “Sore loser.”
He lifted the mug to his lips and took a deep draft. The surrounding cheering died away, a murmur of anticipation taking its place. The whole day had been leading up to this moment.
The last two competitors left standing. The deciding wrestling match.
Taran’s opponent stood on the far side of the ring, watching him.
Dughall MacLean was staring him down, challenging him to meet his glare, but Taran ignored the warrior for the moment.
Let him wait.
“Dughall’s good,” Gordon advised Taran. “He’ll try to take ye down with his feet. Make sure ye are ready for him.”
Taran nodded. “Aye … I’ve been watching him wrestle,” he replied. “I know his tricks.”
He glanced north then, for the first time looking to the stands. This was to be the final contest of the games, the one that decided everything. He’d been avoiding looking in Rhona’s direction, but he needed to now.
Seated between her father and Adaira, Rhona wore a low-necked green kirtle over a grey léine, clothing that hugged her statuesque form. Her long dark-red hair was loose, spilling over her shoulders, framing a face that had never been more beautiful. Even pale and tense, her full lips compressed, she captivated him.
Her grey eyes met his gaze and held for a long drawn out moment. Her skin tightened over her high cheekbones. He didn’t need to exchange words with Rhona to know she was furious.
She looked at Taran as if she wanted to grab a pike and gut him.
He didn’t blame her, but he didn’t regret this either.
He’d been unable to sleep for the first two nights after their arrival back in Dunvegan. He’d wrestled with his conscience, his duty, and his desire—and in the end his desire had won.
All his life he’d stood aside and let others claim what they wanted. For once he’d make a stand for himself. If he lost to Dughall MacLean, he would be bitter, but at least he would know he’d tried.
Either way, Rhona would hate him. But at least with him she’d never be mistreated.
“Wrestlers,” Aonghus Budge boomed once more, impatience in his voice. “Take yer positions.”
Taran tore his gaze from Rhona and passed the empty mug back to Gordon. The warrior met his eye and winked. “I’d wish ye luck, but I know ye have no need of it … ye never have. Ye have always won out of sheer force of will, and this time will be no different.”
Taran’s mouth curved into a wry smile. He appreciated Gordon’s confidence in him. They’d soon find out if it was warranted.
Rhona twisted her fingers together until the joints hurt.
She was living a dark and terrible dream. Two men—both of whom she knew and neither of whom she wanted—were about to compete for her hand.
Taran MacKinnon and Dughall MacLean.
Either way she was doomed.
Bile rose, stinging the back of Rhona’s throat. Fate was cruel indeed. It was punishing her for her headstrong ways. Of all the warriors who’d competed here over the past days, it had come down to these two.
Hysteria bubbled up within her as she watched the two men grapple with each other, taking up positions.
“Hold!” Aonghus Budge barked.
The warriors slammed together, circling, their bare toes digging into the trampled grass as each tried to over-power the other. The roar of the surrounding crowd was so loud that it broke like thunder over the stand.
Rhona stopped breathing. She watched Dughall hook his left leg around Taran’s right. The two men danced right and then left, crablike, and then Taran toppled sideways.
The crowd bayed, and Aonghus Budge grinned. He took hold of Dughall’s hand and held it aloft. “The first bout goes to … Dughall MacLean!”
