Page 38 of The Beast's Bride
“Bramble wine for the bride?” A servant appeared at Rhona’s elbow.
“Aye.” Rhona grabbed the heavy goblet before her and held it aloft. She usually preferred ale to wine and drank sparingly. Tonight was different. Maybe some wine would take the edge off her misery, would make the rest of this ordeal easier to bear.
The servant filled her goblet, and Taran’s, before moving on.
Ignoring the man beside her, even if she was acutely aware of his presence, Rhona lifted the goblet to her lips and took a large gulp, welcoming the warmth of the wine as it slid down her throat.
Please Lord make this night pass swiftly, she silently prayed.
However, as the sound of laughter and the lilt of a harp echoed off the stone walls, she realized that this was about to be the longest evening of her life.
“Rhona.”
Taran’s voice roused Rhona from her thoughts. Taking another sip—of her third goblet of wine—she reluctantly shifted her gaze to him. She found Taran watching her steadily.
“Ye can call me ‘wife’ now, ye know?” she challenged him. The words slurred in her mouth, warning her that the wine had gone straight to her head. She’d hardly touched the platter of food before her. It was still piled high with food, for Taran appeared to have little appetite either.
His mouth quirked. “I’ll need time to get used to that.”
She eyed him coldly. Around them, the hall thundered with raucous voices and laughter. It was so loud now that it drowned out the music. Still, the harpist played on at the end of the dais, where the chieftain’s table sat.
No one could hear the conversation between the newly-weds, although—across the table—Rhona could sense Adaira watching her. The poor girl was seated in-between Aonghus Budge and Baltair MacDonald. Although Baltair ignored Adaira, Chieftain Budge hadn’t. If Rhona hadn’t felt so sorry for herself, she would have pitied Adaira this evening. Her sister had worn a hunted expression ever since taking her seat for the feast.
“I’m sorry.” Taran’s voice was gruff, as if he’d had to tear the words from his throat. “I know this isn’t what ye want.”
“Then why did ye go through with it?”
Taran didn’t answer, although he continued to hold her gaze.
Rhona stared back. The wine had made her bold. She didn’t usually stare like this, nor so brazenly hold a man’s eye. Cressets burned on the wall behind them, illuminating the lines of Taran’s face. He often looked as if he needed a shave, his rugged jaw shadowed, but he’d scraped the stubble off for his handfasting. His smooth jaw drew the eye to the two long scars that marred his face. The one that slashed vertically, from his brow and down his left cheek, was the scar that stood out the most.
She wondered how he’d gotten that awful wound and still kept his eye.
Rhona took another sip of wine, her gaze never wavering from him. “How did ye get those scars?”
The moment the question was out of her mouth, Rhona wanted to call it back. There were some things you just didn’t ask someone, no matter how much wine you’d imbibed. Taran’s gaze guttered, and he drew back from her, as if she’d just spat at him. “It doesn’t matter,” he replied, his voice terse.
Then he turned his attention from her and reached for his own goblet of wine. Raising it to his lips, he took a long draft. His face had drained of color.
Rhona turned her attention back to her untouched meal. She wanted to apologize, and yet the words stuck in her craw. Why should she? He was the one who’d trapped her. She wanted to break his nose, and yet something inside her twisted at the sight of his ashen face.
“It’s time for the bedding ceremony!”
The words Rhona had been dreading all evening reached her through the din of laughter and singing. The feast had long since ended, and the tables had been pushed back so that the revelers could dance.
Rhona and Taran hadn’t joined them. Instead, they’d sat in stony silence while the rest of the hall celebrated. Eventually, red-faced and bleary eyed, Malcolm MacLeod had lurched to his feet and held his drinking horn aloft to make his announcement.
Ice washed over Rhona, despite that the air was close and warm inside the hall. She kept her gaze fixed forward, not daring to look Taran’s way. She didn’t want to see his reaction.
“Come on then!” Aonghus Budge, even redder in the face than MacLeod, raised his goblet. “Get them up to bed.”
Ribald laughter echoed around the hall, and some of the men shouted out coarse comments. Then, a group broke away from the dancing and moved toward the dais.
Rhona dropped her gaze to her hands. Her heart was pounding so hard she thought it might leap from her chest. She glimpsed movement from the corner of her eye and saw that Taran had risen to his feet.
“Don’t look so worried, MacKinnon,” one of the warriors jeered. “We’ll be gentle with ye.”
“Aye … we’ll carry yer pretty bride to bed,” added another.
