Page 40 of The Beast's Bride
There were a few dark looks, curses, and muttered threats, yet no one else challenged Taran. Instead, they kept hold of Connel, who was frantically trying to stem the flow of blood from his nose, and left the chamber.
Taran followed them, before he threw the heavy oaken door shut in their wake. The boom of the thudding door shook the room. Not taking any chances that the bedding party might return, Taran turned the iron key.
He and Rhona were now locked inside.
Chapter Eighteen
I Won’t Lie With Ye
“I WON’T LIE with ye.” Rhona faced Taran as he turned from locking the door. “Ye will have to force yerself on me.”
Taran didn’t reply. He merely favored her with a weary look and crossed the room to the sideboard, where the servants had left a ewer of spiced bramble wine and two goblets for them. Wordlessly, Taran poured them both a drink.
Watching him, Rhona could see the tension in his shoulders, the grimness of his jaw. It dawned on her then that he’d been dreading this moment as much as she had.
“I’m not going to rape ye, Rhona,” he said, his voice low. There was a note of fatigue to his tone that hadn’t been there earlier. He carried the goblets across to Rhona and handed her one.
She took it without a word of thanks, her fingers clenching around the stem. “So, what happens now then?”
His gaze met hers. “I don’t know.”
Rhona moved away from him, shifting over to the window. Liosa hadn’t closed the shutters, for it was a warm evening. A sultry breeze whispered into the chamber, feathering across Rhona’s face. She lowered herself onto the padded window seat and took a sip of wine.
Spiced with pepper and cinnamon, costly ingredients that she only usually tasted at Yuletide, the rich red wine was delicious. She really shouldn’t drink anymore, for her senses had already been numbed by the wine at the feast. However, the nerves that danced in her belly needed settling. She was trapped in this room with her husband—a man who was supposed to bed her or they’d both be whipped in the morning.
Silence stretched out between them. Eventually, it was Taran who broke it. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I didn’t think yer father would make us wed so soon. I thought ye would be given time … to warm to me.”
Rhona turned to him, scowling. “I used to trust ye, Taran. I’ll never do so again.”
Taran actually flinched at that, his gaze shadowing. His throat bobbed. “And I hope ye will grow to trust me again.”
She shook her head, her mouth twisting. “I hate ye.”
Silence fell between them once more, and then he loosed a deep sigh. Crossing to the hearth, which sat unlit on this mild night, he leaned against the mantelpiece, still cradling his untouched goblet of wine. “I’ve made a mess of things.”
“Aye, ye have.” Rhona looked away from him, staring out into the dark night. There was no moon out tonight; the sky was pitch-black. She could hear the faint noise of the revelers, who were still dancing, drinking, and singing in the Great Hall below.
The sound made the center of her chest ache, as if a heavy hand pressed down upon her breast bone. Her eyes burned, and she blinked, pushing back the tears that threatened. She wouldn’t cry. Not here, not now.
Never had she felt so alone.
“It was my father,” Taran said. His voice was barely above a whisper, yet in the silent tower room she heard the words clearly.
“Excuse me?” She tore her gaze from the night and forced herself to look at him.
He met her eye. “Ye asked how I got the scars. It was my father.”
Rhona went still for a moment, taking in the two dark slashes disfiguring his face. Then, she drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I shouldn’t have asked ye that,” she said, the words clumsy. “It was cruel.”
“Ye are my wife.” His voice was flat, emotionless. “Ye should know about my past.” A beat of silence passed between them before he continued. “It happened a long while ago. Da was mad … a man torn between periods of morose moods and murderous temper. He terrorized my mother and thrashed me daily. Everyone knew what was happening, but none stopped it … not until the day he beat my mother to death. I tried to prevent him, and he slashed my face with a boning knife.” Taran reached up, tracking the vertical scar with his finger tip. “He would have killed me too, if our neighbors hadn’t finally intervened.”
Rhona stared, a sickly feeling welling inside her. “What happened after that?”
Taran’s severe face turned even grimmer. “The MacKinnon clan-chief executed him … took his head off with an axe.”
Rhona swallowed. She had no answer for that. Any response would sound glib.
She watched Taran in silence, really looked at him. For the first time ever, she saw beyond his role. To her, he’d only ever been her father’s loyal warrior: the man who trained her in secret and the guard who shadowed her father. She’d never given a thought to his past, to his family.
