Page 74 of The Beast's Bride
How Things Change
CAITRIN DIDN’T WEEP when Rhona told her Baltair was dead.
She showed no reaction at all.
Rhona hadn’t expected tears, but this carven figure before her, devoid of emotion, of life, made concern flutter up within her. “Caitrin,” she said gently, taking a step closer to where her sister stood. “Did ye hear me?”
Caitrin held Eoghan in her arms; the babe had gone still, his blue eyes huge, almost as if he understood what Rhona had just said. Caitrin swallowed, before she gave a curt nod.
Across the chamber Adaira shifted. She had followed Rhona into the solar upon her return to Dunvegan. Unlike the other women, Caitrin hadn’t come out to welcome the returning warriors.
“So, the Frasers were defeated?” Caitrin asked finally; the faint rasp to her voice was the only sign of the emotion she was keeping in check.
“Aye,” Rhona replied. “Morgan Fraser was badly wounded … it’s likely he’ll die.”
“Who was that man they dragged down into the dungeon?” Adaira asked. Her blue eyes were full of curiosity. “He has hair like flame.”
“Lachlann Fraser, the chief’s eldest son,” Rhona answered.
Adaira pulled a face. “I almost pity him. The pits down there are foul.”
Rhona shrugged before turning her attention back to Caitrin. Her elder sister had not moved. Her gaze seemed unfocused, as if she was lost in her thoughts. “Caitrin?”
Her sister blinked. “How did he die?”
“A blade to the belly.” It would have been an agonizing death, but there was no need to tell Caitrin that. “They have brought his body back and laid it out in the chapel.”
Caitrin’s features tensed. “I will go to him later.”
Rhona nodded, relieved that she had come to life. Still, her sister’s lack of emotion, her detachment, concerned her. Caitrin carried too much within; even with her sisters she couldn’t seem to share what lay within her heart.
“Da wants us all to join him in the Great Hall tonight,” Rhona said after a pause. “There will be a feast to honor our victory … and our dead.”
Caitrin’s mouth pursed. “Tell him I’m not well enough to attend.”
Rhona shook her head. “I’m sorry … but he’s insisting. He says he wantsallthreeof us to join him.”
Caitrin looked away, her jaw clenching. “I tire of having men tell me what to do,” she growled. “All my life I’ve had to mind them. I look forward to returning to Duntulm, to being left in peace.”
Rhona didn’t reply. She understood Caitrin’s frustration, for she’d endured much of late at her father’s hands. And yet, because of him she was now wed to Taran. Warmth flowed through Rhona at the thought of her husband. Last night he’d made slow, tender love to her; she’d wept in his arms afterward.
She knew too that her sister would find no peace at Duntulm. The MacDonalds of Duntulm were now without a chieftain; sooner or later Caitrin would be subject to the orders of another man. Rhona tensed at the thought.
Caitrin had suffered enough. Couldn’t they just leave her in peace?
Taran watched the healer apply a poultice to Gordon’s thigh. His friend bore the treatment stoically, although his face had gone grey, and sweat beaded his forehead and top lip. Greer stood beside Gordon, her fingers grasping his. Her eyes glistened.
“Well,” Gordon grunted as the healer drew back and reached for a strip of linen to bind the wound. “Will I keep my leg?”
“It’s a deep wound,” the man replied. Old and bent, with a thick mane of white hair, the healer’s bright gaze fixed upon Gordon. “Even if it doesn’t fester, ye will bear a limp for the rest of yer days.”
Gordon’s face tightened at this news.
“Willit fester?” Taran asked.
The healer glanced at him. “It’s too early to tell … for now the flesh is healthy. I will return tomorrow to tend the wound.”
Taran watched the healer bind Gordon’s thigh. Then the elderly man collected up his basket of healing herbs, powders, and tinctures, and bid them all good day. Gordon was one of many warriors he’d have to see today.
