Page 35 of The Beast's Bride
And so it began.
The cheering was deafening. Around Rhona folk clambered to their feet, bellowing insults or encouragement. In order to see what was going on below, she was forced to stand up. However, her legs nearly gave way under her when she did so. Adaira grabbed her, looping her arm through Rhona’s.
“Courage, sister,” she murmured. “It’s almost over.”
Round and round they went, first one way, and then the other. Fast as an eel, Dughall struck, again and again, trying to hook his leg around one of Taran’s huge calves. And after half a dozen tries, he managed.
Only this time it didn’t end as it usually did.
Taran used his strength to his advantage, heaving Dughall against him. It was a parody of a lover’s embrace—and would have looked foolish if there hadn’t been so much at stake. They tottered forward a few paces, Dughall struggling and snarling in Taran’s arms, and then backward.
A heartbeat later Taran twisted around and launched the full weight of his body forward, unbalancing them both. Limbs still tangled, the two contestants crashed to the ground like two mighty trees, Dughall crushed beneath Taran.
Chapter Sixteen
Behold
TARAN ROSE TO his feet. He barely noticed the roaring and cheering crowd. Dughall still lay sprawled on the ground, chest heaving. The fall had winded him.
“We have a winner!” Aonghus was suddenly at Taran’s side, gripping his hand and holding it high. Did he imagine it, or was there a vindictive gleam in the man’s eyes? “Taran MacKinnon has won the Dunvegan Games, and in doing so he has won the hand of Rhona, daughter of Malcolm MacLeod.”
The cheering continued, crashing across the arena like waves upon a shingle beach. Dughall rolled onto his side, his gaze seizing Taran’s. “Ye fought dirty, Beast.”
Taran favored the warrior with a dismissive look. “Aye, but then so did ye.”
He looked away from Dughall, ignoring the hate on the man’s face, and shifted his attention to the stands. The crowd was in a frenzy; folk applauded and whistled.
Yet amongst it all Rhona remained as still as a statue carved from granite.
Taran’s chest constricted. Her skin was ashen. He hadn’t expected to see joy on her face at his victory, in fact he hadn’t let himself think about victory at all. He’d never thought he’d even get this far. Some of the warriors he’d competed against over the past two days had been formidable. And yet here he was.
And there Rhona was, looking as if her life was about to end.
Gordon appeared at his side then and slapped him on the shoulder. His friend was smiling. “Well done. He was a slippery bastard, but I knew ye would get the better of him.”
Taran huffed. Exhaustion dragged down at him. His body ached. “Did ye? I wasn’t so sure for a while there.”
Their gazes held, and Gordon’s smile wavered. “Are ye sure this is what ye want?” he asked, his voice almost drowned out by the cheering.
It was Taran’s turn to smile, although the expression wasn’t a humorous one. “It’s too late for regrets,” he replied. “I wouldn’t have competed if I hadn’t wanted to wed Lady Rhona.”
Gordon watched him, understanding lighting in his eyes. “Ye kept that secret hidden well,” he murmured. “Ye had me convinced of the contrary when I dared suggest ye loved her.”
Taran waved him away, breaking eye contact. He didn’t want to talk about his feelings for Rhona, or why he’d never confided in Gordon. Truthfully, he was beginning to wonder if he was the world’s biggest fool. He’d just won the hand of a woman who would most likely hate him.
Eventually, the surrounding crowd quietened and a tense hush settled over the hillside. A cool breeze fanned in from the loch, feathering across Taran’s heated skin as he watched the clan-chief of the MacLeods rise to his feet.
“Come forward, Taran MacKinnon.” Malcolm MacLeod’s voice boomed down from the stands. There was a harsh edge to it, and Taran realized that despite the chief’s calm demeanor, MacLeod was angry.
At him—for winning his daughter’s hand.
Taran left Gordon’s side and did as his chieftain bid. He walked forward to the edge of the arena, his gaze meeting MacLeod’s.
“Congratulations.” There was no warmth there. Taran had served MacLeod since his sixteenth winter. His loyalty to the chief was unquestionable. Hence the name ‘MacLeod’s Hound’ that those who’d been jealous of his status at Dunvegan Castle had given him. However, Taran had the sense that all of that was about to change. He’d stepped out of line, reached too far above himself. The clan-chief hadn’t stopped him from competing—perhaps believing Taran would never reach the finals—but looking at the man’s face now, Taran knew the truth of it.
MacLeod would never trust him again.
“Ye have won my daughter’s hand,” Malcolm MacLeod continued before inclining his head. “Stand up, Rhona … so yer intended can look upon ye properly.”
