Page 48 of The Beast's Bride
The warrior plunged the glowing iron horseshoe into a pail of cold water after shaping it, and steam billowed. A few feet away the waiting horse snorted and stamped its unshod foot.
Sensing someone’s approach, Gordon glanced up. “Good afternoon,” he greeted Taran with a grin. “Ye look a bit worse for wear.”
Taran grimaced. “Aye, a handfasting will do that to a man.”
Gordon straightened up and wiped his sweaty forehead with the back of his arm. “I’ve never attended a celebration like it.” Gordon eyed him, his expression speculative. “The bride didn’t scratch yer eyes out, I see?”
Taran’s mouth curved. His friend’s curiosity was palpable. “No, she didn’t.”
Gordon put aside the horseshoe, his work forgotten. “And are ye preparing yerselves for a whipping?”
“There’ll be no need for that.”
Gordon inclined his head before giving a low whistle, his mouth twitching. “Ye rogue. I didn’t think she’d let ye anywhere near her.”
Taran huffed. “I’ll try not to take offense at that.”
Gordon scratched his stubbled jaw. “So, all is well between ye?”
“For the moment,” Taran replied. He paused here, considering the question he’d sought his friend out to ask. He wasn’t sure how to present it, so he decided to be blunt. “Gordon … how did ye manage to woo Greer?”
Gordon raised an eyebrow. “Who says I’ve succeeded?”
“Ye are set to wed her at Samhuinn. The girl adores ye.”
The warrior cleared his throat and glanced away. Taran’s candor had thrown Gordon off guard; he actually looked embarrassed. “I’m not sure what I did to deserve her,” he said finally. “Why do ye wish to know?”
“I must woo Rhona.”
“But ye are already wed to her.”
“It matters not. I want my wife to love me.”
Gordon’s gaze widened. “Of course,” he murmured. “I’d forgotten that ye have been long carrying a torch for her.”
“Aye.” Taran dragged in a deep breath. The night before seemed like a dream, but everything had moved so fast. He wanted to take things back to how they should have been. “Do ye have any advice?”
A wolfish smile spread across Gordon’s face. “Aye, throw the lass down on the bed every night and plow her till she begs for mercy. She’ll soon not be able to live without ye.”
Taran raised an eyebrow. “Is that it?”
“Aye.” Gordon puffed out his chest. “It works for me.”
Taran snorted, casting his friend a rueful look. He was still no wiser about how to approach his wife, to win her heart. “Remind me not to ask ye for advice in future.”
Supper in the Great Hall was a tense affair that evening. Taran and Rhona joined the chief, his wife, Adaira, and Aonghus Budge at the long table upon the dais. Many of the warriors who had attended the games had left for home, emptying out the keep. Baltair MacDonald had departed for Duntulm as well.
The Great Hall seemed silent after the revelry of the night before.
Rhona broke a piece of crust off the hare pie and chewed it slowly. Beside her Taran ate with a similar lack of enthusiasm. The mood at the table had robbed them both of appetite.
Malcolm MacLeod sat hunched over his meal. He devoured it with grim determination, as if his supper was a foe to be vanquished. He had not spoken a word to either his daughter or his son-in-law since they’d joined him at the table. Beside Malcolm, Una nibbled at her meal, a pinched expression upon her pretty face.
Aonghus Budge broke the weighty silence. He leered across the table at Taran and raised his goblet to him. “Good to hear yer new wife did her bidding last night.”
Taran didn’t answer. Rhona felt him grow still next to her; the thigh that rested against hers under the table tensed.
Oblivious, Chieftain Budge blundered on. “Although with a face like that, I suppose ye have always had to force yerself on women, eh laddie?”
