Page 68 of The Beast's Bride
Rhona cleared her throat. “Did Alasdair actually propose?”
Caitrin nodded, looking away.
Silence fell in the solar. It struck Rhona that the three of them really didn’t know each other as well as she’d thought. They’d always been close over the years, but it seemed they held much back from each other.
“I always wondered why Alasdair left the isle so suddenly,” Adaira mused aloud.
“He went to fight for the king against the English,” Caitrin replied, her tone sharpening. “He didn’t leave because of me.”
Adaira gave her a pained look. It was clear that was what Caitrin wanted to believe. Neither of her sisters were going to contradict her.
Rhona tightened Lasair’s girth and stiffened. She could feel the weight of someone’s stare. It was stabbing her between the shoulder blades.
Casting a glance over her shoulder, her gaze met Dughall MacLean’s. It was not yet dawn. Torches illuminated the bailey as the MacLeods, MacDonalds, and Budges prepared to ride out. Dughall sat astride a heavy grey stallion a few yards away. The warrior’s face was cast partly in shadow. He watched her under hooded lids, his face stony. “What’s this?” he growled. “The Beast’s Bride dresses like a man this morning?”
“Aye, and she fights like one too … so mind yerself,” a male voice quipped. Rhona’s gaze shifted to where Gordon MacPherson was leading his horse out of the stables. He cast Rhona a conspirator’s look and winked.
Rhona glanced back to Dughall to see he was scowling. “MacKinnon clearly wants to be made a fool of,” he growled. “Or maybe he’d like to see his pretty wife gutted on the battlefield.”
The threat in Dughall’s voice made Rhona tense. She was just about to spit out a cutting reply when Taran stepped up beside her. His face was hard as he met Dughall’s gaze. “Mind yer manners, MacLean.”
Dughall’s face twisted. He then stretched out his neck and spat onto the cobbled yard between them. “Mind yer wife today, MacKinnon … I’d hate to see her come to any harm.”
“That’s enough, Dughall,” the rumble of the clan-chief’s voice broke across the yard like thunder. “Threaten my daughter again, and ye will spend the rest of yer days in my dungeon.”
Dughall paled, his jaw bunching. However, he did as bid. Malcolm MacLeod strode toward them, his bulk clad in chainmail, iron, and leather. Iain followed a few feet behind, his own armor clanking as he walked.
Surprised that her father had actually interceded on her behalf, for he barely even talked to her these days, Rhona met Malcolm’s eye. Their gazes held for a long moment, and then her father smiled. Actually, it was more like a grimace, although his eyes held more warmth than she’d seen in a long while.
He stopped before her. “I never thought I’d see a daughter of mine ride into battle.” His tone was rueful, but unlike the morning he’d caught Taran and Rhona training, there was no anger in it.
Rhona raised her chin. “Icanfight, Da.”
His gaze slid to the sword she carried at her hip. It wasn’t a Claidheamh-mor—for that was a man’s blade. Instead, Taran had given her a lighter longsword. She also carried a dirk at her waist. “I don’t doubt it,” he murmured. He reached forward and clasped a large hand over her shoulder, squeezing tightly. His gaze seared hers. “I’m proud to have ye fight with me today.”
He released her shoulder and stepped back then, shattering the moment. Rhona swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. Never had her father spoken such words to her. The unexpectedness of it completely threw her.
Malcolm MacLeod moved away and started barking orders at his men. Iain followed him, although not before casting his elder sister a look full of jealous spite. Their father had praised a daughter while his first-born son stood forgotten in his shadow—Iain would never forgive her for that.
Rhona found that she didn’t care.
They rode out of Dunvegan as the first glow of dawn warmed the eastern sky. It was a grey morning, and a chill wind blew in from the north, whipping up the surface of the loch and ruffling their horses’ manes. The column of riders snaked out of the keep, bits jangling and shod hooves beating out a tattoo that shook the earth.
The MacLeods led the way, followed by the MacDonalds, and then the Budges. Rhona hadn’t seen Baltair MacDonald since the previous evening and was grateful to be spared his baleful glare. Taran had told her what had happened after she led Caitrin away; the MacDonald chieftain would be nursing more than a broken nose this morning.
Nonetheless, Rhona found herself wondering if he’d been upset that his wife had not come out to see him off. Did he care for her sister at all?
“Why the fierce look, Rhona? We’ve yet to meet the Frasers.”
Rhona glanced left to find Taran watching her. He’d reined in his bay gelding, Tussock, up next to her mare. They rode so close that their thighs almost touched.
“I wasn’t thinking about them,” she admitted with a wry smile, “but of Caitrin. I wish she wasn’t wedded to that serpent.”
Taran’s brow furrowed, and he nodded. Silence stretched between them for a few moments, before he answered. “It’s hard to see someone ye love suffer,” he said quietly. “I watched my mother grow from a laughing, beautiful woman to a frightened mouse … but I was just a bairn and couldn’t do a thing about it.”
Rhona studied his face. She couldn’t even imagine how it must have been, to see his mother slain in front of him. “Ye must have hated yer father,” she murmured.
Taran’s gaze guttered, his features tightening. “No … I adored him,” he replied. “That’s what made it all the harder.”
