Page 6 of The Beast's Bride
Their elder sister’s face was pale, and she had dark circles under her eyes. Her belly—huge now—thrust out before her. She wore a loose, tent-like kirtle that accentuated just how big her stomach had grown over the last few weeks. Rhona was no midwife, yet she guessed her sister’s time was near.
“Are ye ready?” Caitrin asked with a wan smile. “Da awaits.”
Rhona’s nostrils flared. No, she wasn’t ready—and she never would be. Yet Caitrin didn’t deserve the sharp edge of her tongue. Neither did Adaira. The pair of them weren’t to blame for today, so Rhona merely nodded.
The aroma of roast goose and the less savory smell of cabbage, turnip, and onion pottage greeted Rhona as she led the way into the Great Hall, her sisters following close behind her. Servants carried out baskets of bread and wheels of cheese to the table; while others circled with ewers, pouring wine, ale, and mead. A lad sat next to one of the huge hearths that dominated either end of the hall and played a small harp. The happy tune didn’t match Rhona’s mood.
Usually, she looked forward to feasts such as these—roast goose was one of her favorite meats—but not today. Her stomach had closed. She had no appetite.
The rumble of conversation stopped when Rhona appeared. She made her way down the hall and along the aisle between the rows of tables, head held high. No one here would know how she dreaded this feast.
Her father watched her approach, as did the man seated to his right: Aonghus Budge.
The chieftain of the Budges of Islay rose to his feet, his thick lips curving into a smile. “Lady Rhona, ye have grown into a lovely lass.”
Rhona forced a smile in return and curtsied. “Good day, Chieftain Budge.”
She took her seat at the table, thankfully across from her suitor rather than next to him.
“Aye, Rhona’s the image of my mother as a lass,” Malcolm MacLeod boomed, reaching for a cup of wine. “She has the same red hair and wild temperament. It takes a rare man to tame such a woman … yet my father did.”
Rhona inhaled sharply and dropped her gaze to the empty platter before her. She hated it when her father spoke of her in such terms.
“A strong-willed girl like Rhona needs an equally strong man.” Her step-mother, Una, spoke up. “A soft-hearted, weak husband would ruin her.”
“Ye need not worry there,” Aonghus Budge assured the clan-chief’s wife, his attention still fixed upon Rhona. “I know how to handle a woman.”
Rhona ground her teeth.Aye—and I’ve seen how ye do.
She remembered the soft blonde woman he’d once been wedded to. They’d visited Dunvegan around five summers earlier for Lammas—a feast that took place late in the summer, which heralded the harvest. Rhona recalled seeing the poor woman voice an opinion during the meal, she couldn’t remember what about, and the way Aonghus had backhanded his wife across the face in reply.
Rhona glanced up, her gaze traveling to her suitor. He watched her under heavy lids, his florid face flushing further under her scrutiny. Like her father, he’d been strong and muscular as a younger man, yet at forty-three winters he was now growing fat. A flaccid, high-colored face ran into a short, thick neck. The ring-encrusted hand that grasped his cup of ale was blunt and coarse with grime-edged finger nails.
Rhona’s bile rose. She would never let him near her. She’d sink a knife into her breast first. If her father thought to soften her attitude, this wasn’t the way to go about it. More than ever she felt determined to avoid the trap that had brought many a woman misery.
The feast began, and Rhona picked at her meal. Her body had drawn taut like a bow-string as she waited for the arrow to fly. Sooner or later her suitor would bring up the subject of marriage.
Aonghus had just begun his third cup of ale when he did. “Lady Rhona … ye will have heard that I was widowed this past winter?”
Rhona looked up, her gaze meeting his. “Aye … and how did yer wife die?”
A shadow moved in the depths of Aonghus Budge’s blue eyes. The question was impertinent, for she already knew the answer—all of Skye did. However, she continued to hold his gaze.Good.The sooner he realized she would make him a poor wife the better.
“She took a fall,” he said after a long pause. “Down the tower stairs … and broke her neck. God rest her soul.”
Rhona pursed her lips.Poor woman.What hell she must have endured as this man’s wife.
“As I was saying.” Aonghus started again, undeterred. “I am widowed … and in need of a wife. I’m looking for a strong, hardy woman to bear me plenty of sons. I think ye will suit me well.”
Rhona clenched her jaw so hard it hurt. Her fingers tightened around the cup of wine before her. How she wished to throw it in his face. “No … I won’t suit ye at all.”
Silence fell at the chieftain’s table.
Everyone went still, even the servants who had been moving from feaster to feaster, refilling cups, halted their passage. Either side of Rhona, Caitrin and Adaira paled. Caitrin dropped her gaze to the table, while Adaira’s eyes grew huge and frightened.
“Excuse me?” Aonghus broke the hush, his gravelly voice now harsh. “What did ye say?”
An angry breath rushed out of Rhona, a red haze obscuring her vision. Enough. She was tired of this mummery. She’d not be trapped or forced to wed this man. She’d hid her true feelings long enough.
