Page 72 of The Beast's Bride
“Good,” Malcolm grunted. His gaze met Rhona’s then. “I heard about MacLean … treacherous dog.”
Rhona swallowed. Her throat still ached in the aftermath. Dughall’s fingers would leave livid bruises on her neck. Her father’s gaze then shifted to Taran. The two men looked at each other for a heartbeat, and then Malcolm MacLeod nodded.
Rhona watched her father limp away, before she glanced up at her husband. “I’m afraid that’s the closest ye will get to a ‘thank ye’.”
He favored her with a weary smile. “Fortunately, I don’t need his thanks.”
“Taran …” A warrior approached them. He was a young man, his blue eyes hollowed with fatigue. “Gordon MacPherson’s been injured. He’s asking for ye.”
Taran’s face blanched. “Where is he?”
“On the other side of the vale. Follow me.”
The warrior led the way across the corpse-strewn field. Although Rhona was loath to walk amongst the dead, she doggedly followed her husband. She was fond of Gordon and would see him too.
They had nearly reached the half-way point, when Rhona spied the body of Baltair MacDonald. She halted, catching hold of Taran’s hand. “Look.”
Taran turned, his gaze following hers.
The MacDonald clan-chief lay on his side, curled up around the blade that still protruded from his abdomen. The Fraser warrior he’d fought lay next to him, his throat slit. Baltair had managed to bring him down before dying.
Her brother-in-law’s face looked different in death. He was a handsome man, even with the broken nose Taran had given him, although in life his character had harshened his features. They appeared softer now.
“I’d say I was sorry to see him dead,” Taran murmured, “but I’ll not lie. The world’s a happier place without Baltair MacDonald in it.”
Rhona squeezed Taran’s hand in wordless agreement.
They continued across the battlefield.
Gordon lay propped up against a log on the far side of the valley. Ashen-faced, he still managed to greet Taran with a smile. However, the expression was tight with pain. Rhona drew in a sharp breath when she saw the deep slash down his right thigh. She could see a glint of white—the cut had gone to the bone.
They needed to get him to a healer.
Taran hunkered down before him. Rhona saw the worry in his eyes, although when he spoke, his voice didn’t betray it. “Getting yerself into trouble again I see, MacPherson.”
Gordon huffed. “One of those Frasers got under my guard,” he rasped. “Didn’t even see him coming.”
Rhona knelt down next to Taran, her gaze shifting to where blood still ran from the gash upon Gordon’s thigh. “I need to bind that for ye,” she muttered. Rhona pulled up the edge of her mail shirt and grabbed hold of the hem of the léine she wore underneath, ripping a strip free. She was making a habit of this of late.
Gordon’s gaze widened. “Lady Rhona … don’t worry yerself over me.”
Rhona cast him a quelling look, before she shifted closer and started winding the length of linen about his thigh. “I’m not,” she replied. “I’m ensuring ye don’t bleed to death before we get ye back to Dunvegan.”
Gordon’s throat bobbed. He shifted his attention back to Taran. “If I don’t make it, will ye give Greer a message from me?”
Taran’s brow furrowed. “No need for that … we’ll be back home tomorrow. Ye can tell her yerself.”
“We’ve got a live one!”
The shout, a few yards away, made Rhona glance up from her work. A cluster of warriors were forming around a figure that lay prone upon the battlefield.
“It’s Morgan Fraser’s eldest!”
Malcolm MacLeod lumbered across to join them. He was limping heavily, having strained something during the battle, but his face was set in determination. “Let me have a look at him.”
The MacLeod chieftain elbowed his way through the gathering crowd and peered down at the unconscious man. Rhona was too far away to make out the young man’s features, yet she caught sight of a shock of red hair—a brighter shade than her own.
“Aye, that’s Lachlann Fraser, alright,” Malcolm MacLeod growled. “I haven’t seen him since he was a lad, but he’s got his father’s looks.”
