Page 10 of The Beast's Bride
Rhona tensed at this. She hated it when Una mentioned her mother. Martha MacLeod had died many years ago, yet Una held a strange jealousy toward the chieftain’s first wife.
It seemed that Malcolm shared his daughter’s view, for he cast Una an irritated look. “Martha bore four bairns without problems,” he reminded his wife. “It was not childbirth that ended her … but a fever.”
Una’s full mouth pursed at this, and Rhona waited for an acerbic reply. However, none came.
Malcolm reached for his fourth wedge of bannock—a large flat cake made with oatmeal and cooked upon an iron griddle. He then slathered it thickly with butter and heather honey.
“So I hear yer fiery Rhona is to be wed?” An amused male voice interrupted.
Baltair MacDonald sat farther down the table, his hands clasping a cup of fresh goat’s milk.
Rhona cast him a swift, dark look, but he merely smirked. From the look on his face he’d brought the subject up to cause trouble.
“Aye,” Malcolm replied with his mouth full. He broke off a piece of bannock and fed it to the wolfhound that sat expectantly at his feet. “I’ve sent word out—and men from all over the isle, and beyond, have answered.”
Rhona’s belly cramped at this news, and she swallowed her mouthful of food without enjoyment.
“Even the Frasers?” Baltair asked, a smirk still upon his handsome face. “Surely not?”
MacLeod’s face grew thunderous, while Una pursed her lips and cast Baltair a censorious look. Rhona watched a muscle bunch in her father’s cheek. Even the mention of the name ‘Fraser’ was enough to put him in a sour mood. Of late, the Fraser chieftain had been mischief-making: hunting in MacLeod lands, denying travelers passage through his territory, and even refusing to trade with his neighbors.
“No, not them,” Malcolm MacLeod growled. “If just one Fraser dares venture here for the games, I’ll have him stoned out of Dunvegan.”
“I wonder how many warriors will come,” Una spoke up, her voice overly bright as she sought to change the subject. “Many have already left to fight at the king’s side for the glory of Scotland. There may be few left who are free to travel here to win Rhona’s hand.”
Malcolm favored his wife with an irritated look. However, her words had managed to distract him from thoughts of his arch-enemy. “The glory of Scotland, indeed,” he rumbled. “It’s time we took back what is ours. The English think we’ve gone soft, but we’ll show those arrogant bastards.”
Baltair snorted in agreement at this, and MacLeod turned his attention to the MacDonald chieftain. “Have ye heard from yer brother? He fights for King David now, does he not?”
“Aye,” Baltair grunted. “With the English sailing south to fight the French, he believes our time grows near. David will strike within the next few months.”
Malcolm nodded, his brow furrowing. “The timing for the games isn’t ideal,” he admitted. “But my Rhona’s a bonny lass … I’m sure a good number will turn up on the day. Besides, we only need one winner.”
“It was a clever idea,” Baltair replied. “If the lass won’t choose a husband, take matters into yer own hands.” He still wasn’t looking Rhona’s way, as if she was beneath his notice.
Rhona inhaled deeply, her anger rising. Was it any wonder she wished to remain unwed? There were far too many men upon the isle like Baltair MacDonald—men who believed a woman was of no use at all, except for cooking, sewing, and swiving.
“Rhona may find a good husband this way,” Una replied with a cool smile. “Better than she deserves.”
“Rhona deserves a man as strong and brave as her,” Adaira piped up from where she sat next to Rhona. “At least this way, they get to fight for her hand.”
Rhona cast her sister a quelling glance, but Adaira was not looking at her. Instead, she was glaring at Una, her face uncharacteristically fierce. A rush of affection flowed through Rhona.
Her sister looked particularly lovely when riled. Her hazel eyes had almost darkened to green, and her mouth had set in determination.
Una huffed in response although she made no reply.
“And what of ye, Adaira?” Baltair asked. “Surely ye too want to wed?”
Rhona watched the way her brother-in-law gazed at Adaira and felt her hackles rise. Whereas he made a point of ignoring Rhona, he stared boldly at Adaira this morning. His voice, usually rough, was as smooth as cream.
“I will,” Adaira replied, suddenly going all meek and flustered under his gaze. She looked down at her half-eaten bannock. “Once Rhona has found a husband.”
“The sooner the better,” Malcolm cut in, brushing crumbs off his broad chest. “All this talk of suitors and handfastings makes me weary. Sons are far less trouble.”
No one at the table replied to that, although Rhona saw her brother, Iain’s, chest puff up at the compliment. She also noted that Baltair still watched Adaira, a wolfish gleam in his eyes.
“Have ye heard? Caitrin wasn’t the only one to give birth in the keep yesterday,” Adaira hurried after Rhona as they left the Great Hall. “Milish has had a litter of pups!”
