Page 62 of The Beast's Bride
RHONA WAS SITTING at the window, staring out at the dusky sky, when Taran entered their chamber. It was shortly after supper, a tense meal during which she’d thought her husband and Baltair MacDonald might come to blows.
“Would ye take a walk with me?”
Rhona turned from the window and put down the embroidery she’d barely touched, to see Taran leaning against the doorframe. In his mail shirt and braies, stubble covering his chin, he looked rough—dangerous.
Belly fluttering, Rhona swallowed. Just the sight of him, the impact of their gazes meeting, made her wits scatter. She didn’t seem to have the same effect on him though. Taran’s expression was unreadable as he watched her.
“What … now?” she asked, nervousness rising within her.
His mouth curved. “Aye … it’s a beautiful evening out, and tomorrow I leave for battle. I’d like to take a stroll in the gardens with my wife.”
Wife. The way he said it made the fluttering in Rhona’s belly increase tenfold. A walk would give them time together—time for her to broach the issue that loomed over them.
“Very well.” She rose to her feet, smoothing her light linen kirtle. “I could do with some fresh air.”
They left the tower chamber, traveling single-file down the narrow turret stairs. However, once they reached the wider stairwell below, Taran held out his arm to her. Wordlessly, Rhona took it, linking her arm through his. Together, they left the keep via the Sea-gate and made their way down the causeway. Turning off it, they took a path south to where the gardens lay, a riot of color against the stark outlines of the hills beyond. The dying sun had gilded the garden, and a wall of scent hit Rhona as they walked into it.
She inhaled deeply and tried to quell the churning of her belly. She’d forgotten how flowers released their scent in the evening.
“The garden is at its best this time of day,” Taran said, echoing her own thoughts. “Yet few bother to visit it now.”
“Ye are right,” Rhona replied. “Thank ye for suggesting it.”
He placed a hand over hers, squeezing gently. “We haven’t seen much of each other these past days. I’m sorry for it.”
Rhona heaved in a deep breath. “Aye, and tomorrow ye are leaving.”
“I shall return.”
She cast him a sharp look. “Sure of yerself, aren’t ye?”
His mouth twitched. “A warrior has to be.”
“But what if ye don’t … what if a Fraser sticks a dirk in yer guts, and I’m left a widow?” Rhona pulled her arm from his and halted, turning to face him. “What then?”
His gaze met hers. “That would be a shame.”
Rhona gritted her teeth. Was he trying to vex her? “It would,” she muttered, “and an even greater one, for I would have only had one night with my husband before losing him.” She placed her hands on her hips, gathering the shreds of her courage. She had to speak now or she never would. “Are ye planning to shun me tonight as well?”
He loosed a sharp breath, his gaze guttering. “Ye talk as if I’ve treated ye cruelly, Rhona. I’m trying to show ye respect.”
“By ignoring me? I’m beginning to think ye regret our handfasting.”
He shook his head. “What I regret is the way it all happened. Ye were forced into wedding me. I’m just letting ye get used to being my wife.”
Rhona scowled. “There’s no time for that. I’m not a delicate flower that has to be handled gently for fear of breaking. Ye are starting to infuriate me, Taran MacKinnon.”
His face tensed. “Then, I’m sorry.”
Rhona clenched her hands by her sides. If he apologized once more, she swore she’d hit him. “I don’t want ye to tell me ye are sorry,” she growled. “I want ye to start treating me like yer wife. God’s Bones, ye haven’t even kissed me yet! What’s wrong with ye?”
She regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Yet it was too late. She couldn’t take them back.
Taran yanked back from her as if she had just struck him.
“Taran,” she gasped. “I—”
Her husband took a step away from her, his big body tensing, and turned back toward the entrance to the garden. He might have stridden away from her then, if a man’s voice, rough with anger, hadn’t intruded.
