Page 7 of The Beast's Bride
“Ye heard me,” she growled. Her heart started to race then. She was bold, yet knew when she’d taken things too far.
“Rhona.” Una’s voice lashed across the table. “How dare ye speak to our guest so. Apologize. Now.”
Rhona ignored her step-mother. The woman didn’t have—nor would she ever have—any authority over her.
Instead, Rhona held Aonghus Budges’s eye—aware that next to him, her father had turned the color of liver. “I will not wed ye, Aonghus Budge—not now, not ever.”
“Ye have gone too far this time, wench. Ye insulted our guest and shamed me in front of my hall … my kin.”
Rhona stood before her father, inside his solar. They were alone. He’d summoned her there directly after the feast had ended. A large room with south-facing windows, the solar had a great hearth in one corner with a stag’s head mounted above it. Thick furs covered the floor, and richly detailed tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung from the pitted stone walls.
Meeting Malcolm’s eye, Rhona tensed. He hadn’t raised a hand to her since childhood, yet she feared he might now. His legs were braced, his bulky body hunched, and his hands were fisted by his sides. His face still had a dangerously high color.
“Da … I—“
“Silence!” He advanced on Rhona, towering over her. Even growing old and fat, he was still an imposing man who dominated any space he occupied. Sometimes Rhona forgot just how tall her father was. But she didn’t now.
“I’ve spoiled ye … indulged ye,” he choked out the words, “and this is how ye repay me. Ye made a fool of me today, Rhona, and I’ll not have it.”
“But I—“
“Still yer tongue.” He grabbed Rhona by the shoulders, pinning her to the spot. “I will not hear another word.”
Rhona swallowed and heeded him. Her father was not a man to tangle horns with.
“Aonghus Budge will not have ye now,” he growled. “Ye have offended his pride and put my relationship with him at risk.”
The news caused a wave of relief to crash over Rhona. She would weather her father’s displeasure if it meant she would be free of Chieftain Budge. However, she was careful not to let joy show on her face. Her father would not thank her—not in his current mood
“Aye, ye have spurned yet another suitor,” Malcolm continued, “but this will be the last time ye do.”
Rhona stared at him, a chill replacing the relief of moments earlier. What did he mean by that?
Malcolm MacLeod pushed his face close to hers. His breath stank of wine, and his grey eyes had turned flinty. “At Mid-Summer this year I will hold games outside this keep,” he continued. “Men from all over this isle, and beyond, will be called upon for yer hand.” He paused here, perhaps noting his daughter’s suddenly strained expression, the horror on her face. Grim victory lit in his eyes as he finished. “Ye shall wed the winner.”
Chapter Four
What News of My Wife?
“MY LIFE ISover.” The words burst out of Rhona, brittle and choked. She stared out the window at the wind-swept hills to the south, beyond the gardens.
“Nonsense,” came Caitrin’s gentle reply. Her gaze was shadowed as she observed Rhona. “Yer life is just beginning. Ye don’t know who will win yer hand. He might be a man ye could grow to love.”
The two sisters sat opposite each other in what had once been their mother’s solar. It was an airy chamber decorated with plaid cushions and bouquets of dried heather. Heavy floral tapestries covered the damp stone walls. Rhona had a basket of wool at her feet that she was supposed to be spinning, while Caitrin worked upon a tiny tunic for the coming bairn.
Rhona tore her eyes from the view and cast her sister a withering look. “Ye sound like Adaira,” she replied, not bothering to dilute her scorn. “I don’t want to be trapped, dominated … treated like a dog.”
Caitrin heaved in a deep breath and leaned back in her chair, wincing slightly as she adjusted her position. Her face appeared strained; the babe did not sit easily in her belly and often seemed to cause her discomfort. “Ye will have to become a wife one day, Rhona,” she pointed out after a pause. “There’s no use continuing to fight it.”
Rhona’s mouth thinned. She didn’t want to argue with her sister, but she completely disagreed with her. Why should she wed? Men could choose, so why not her?
She favored Caitrin with a narrow look. “Are ye pleased ye wed?”
Her sister tensed, and for a moment Rhona regretted her bitter words. She knew Caitrin wasn’t happy. Often she would see the melancholy in her sister’s eyes, that faraway look when she thought no one was looking. She’d wed Baltair, the chief of the MacDonalds of Duntulm, two years earlier—and had rarely smiled since.
“Happy enough,” Caitrin replied, her voice dull. She glanced away then. “I chose Baltair … no one forced me to wed him.”
Rhona watched her. Curiosity rose within her. There was a weight of things unsaid in her sister’s expression, her soft voice. Rhona realized then that Caitrin had never really confided in her.
