Page 51 of The Beast's Bride
Taran attacked unexpectedly, with a speed she’d come to anticipate. The blade of his practice-sword cut through the cool morning air.
Rhona stepped back and brought her blade up to block the attack. She then twisted free and danced sideways, grinning. “Ye are fast, husband … but not fast enough.”
“And ye are full of yerself, wife,” he growled back, his gaze twinkling. “Too much so.”
He attacked again.
Rhona parried this time, pushing his sword out of the way with her own, before she attacked him.
A smile split Taran’s face. He was enjoying this—as much as she was.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
The ring of their colliding blades echoed out over the yard. Rhona was vaguely aware of a crowd gathering around the edge. Greer, the cook’s daughter was among them. Like many in the keep, Greer would have heard the rumor that Rhona had long trained in secret; she could feel the curiosity in Greer’s stare now as she watched her.
However, Rhona didn’t take her eyes off Taran.
When he attacked her again, she counter cut him—stepping back and then swinging her blade round to strike his arm. The wooden blade struck Taran’s forearm. He let out a hiss and shifted back, out of reach.
Grinning, Rhona went after him. She stabbed her blade toward his torso, going for his belly.
Taran stepped to the side, his blade sweeping round. Too late, Rhona realized she’d left her flank exposed. An instant later the wooden blade slammed against her ribs.
Rhona lurched to the side, going down on her knees as the breath gusted out of her.
“Only stab when yer opponent is incredibly vulnerable,” Taran warned her. “Ye just left yerself wide open to an attack.”
Rhona gritted her teeth and climbed to her feet. “I knew that.”
Taran huffed. “As I said … ye are rusty.”
“She’s a woman,” a belligerent voice intruded. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”
Rubbing her aching ribs, Rhona glanced over her shoulder at where Dughall MacLean stood at the edge of the practice yard. Connel Buchanan stood next to him. The smirks on both their faces made her hackles rise.
“My wife handles a blade as well as ye, MacLean,” Taran replied. His tone was mild, although when she glanced back at him, Rhona saw a warning in his eyes.
Dughall snorted. “Maybe ye should lend her to me awhile then … let me see for myself.” His lip curled. “And then after I’ve bested her, I’ve got another sword she can attend.”
This comment made Connel snigger, although none of the surrounding crowd appeared to share the young man’s mirth.
Taran’s gaze narrowed. Tension suddenly crackled in the air.
One look at Dughall’s face told Rhona that he nursed a great bitterness toward her husband. A muscle ticked in his cheek, and his large hands fisted by his sides.
Taran cast aside his wooden practice sword and approached Dughall in long strides. Rhona tensed. This was what Dughall wanted. He was deliberately goading Taran, hoping he’d make him lose his temper.
However, Taran MacKinnon wasn’t easily drawn into a fight. He’d spent his life weathering taunts and insults. Instead, he pushed his face close to Dughall’s, and the two men eye-balled each other for a long moment.
When Taran spoke, his voice was deathly cold. “Never.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Lammas Morn
“ARE YE SURE about this, Taran?” Rhona cast a wary glance up at the sky as she followed her husband down to the loch’s edge. “It looks like it might rain.”
Taran cast her a look over his shoulder and smiled. “Just a few clouds … nothing to worry about.”
