Page 60 of The Beast's Bride
“Aye, but it’s not the wee lad’s fault,” Rhona chimed in. “Some things can’t be helped.”
Eoghan MacDonald gurgled, his chubby hands reaching up to Adaira. He had a thick head of dark hair already, just like Baltair.
Rhona met Caitrin’s eye. Her sister’s lovely face was tired and drawn, although the dark smudges under her eyes had gone. She looked thin under the voluminous kirtle and léine, her collarbone more prominent than Rhona remembered.
“Are ye well, Caitrin?” she asked gently.
Her sister nodded. “I’m much stronger now, thank ye.”
There was a formality to Caitrin’s voice, an edge that warned Rhona from pressing further. The three sisters sat in the women’s solar. The windows overlooking the hills to the east were open. The hot breeze breathed in, fanning their faces.
It was then that she realized Caitrin was studying her intently.
Rhona stiffened. “What?”
Her sister’s mouth quirked. “Ye seem different … I can’t put my finger on exactly what.”
“This heat has made me crabby,” Rhona replied with a shrug.
Caitrin gave a soft laugh. “No, it’s not that.”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Adaira spoke up. “She’s a wedded woman now.”
Caitrin smiled, although her blue eyes remained shadowed. “Of course. Taran MacKinnon … I was surprised when Baltair told me.”
Rhona cast Adaira a look of censure. Her younger sister had a wicked smile on her face, as if she wished to say more. She’d kick her in the shin if she did.
The mood turned awkward. Rhona sensed Caitrin’s curiosity. She knew her sister wanted to ask her of her wedding night, wanted to know if Taran treated her well. But to ask such questions would shine a light upon her own marriage. Caitrin didn’t want to talk of Baltair—that much was clear. Once they were alone, Rhona had hoped to have a private word with Caitrin, but now she wasn’t sure her sister would welcome such a conversation.
“Taran’s not as frightening as everyone thinks,” Adaira continued. She then gave a soft sigh. “The opposite in fact. Ye should have seen Rhona’s face the day after the handfasting … she looked like the cat that got the cream.”
“Adaira,” Rhona growled. “Enough.”
“What?” Adaira favored her with a look of mock innocence. “It’s the truth.”
“Don’t be a goose,” Rhona snapped, rising to her feet. She couldn’t believe Adaira was bringing this up, especially after their conversation the day before. Her sister hadn’t understood a thing.
Adaira drew back, her features tightening. “I’m not a fool,” she said quietly. “Don’t treat me like one.”
Rhona and Adaira stared at each other. Caitrin cleared her throat, breaking the tension. “Come … let’s not argue. I’m so happy to see ye both. Ye have no idea how lonely it gets in Duntulm.”
Rhona tore her gaze from Adaira and forced a smile. “I’m glad ye are here,” she said. “Wee Eoghan too.”
As if recognizing his own name, the babe gave a squeal.
“Da said ye would get me a sword.”
Taran glanced up from where he was sharpening a blade upon a whetstone, to see Iain MacLeod standing in the doorway to the armory. Even at sixteen winters, the lad carried his father’s authority. Auburn-haired, with those penetrating MacLeod grey eyes, Iain wasn’t someone Taran had ever warmed to.
The young man’s aggressive tone, his pugnacious expression, didn’t improve Taran’s opinion of him this afternoon.
“Aye,” he replied, rising to his feet and gesturing to the wall of swords behind him. “Did ye have a blade in mind?”
“I want a Claidheamh-mor … like Da’s.”
Taran resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow. “Yer father has twice yer girth and strength,” he pointed out. “Why not try a lighter long-sword?”
Iain’s mouth twisted. “I didn’t ask for yer opinion,Beast. Get me what I asked for.”
