Gordon and Taran took their seats at the end of one of the long scrubbed wooden tables. It wasn’t the place Taran would have chosen to sit, especially not in his current mood, for Connel and Dughall sat opposite. He didn’t like the way they both smirked at him.

  A servant placed two large pies before Taran and Gordon, while another slammed down frothing tankards of ale. Gordon dug in to his meal, ripping through the buttery pastry shell to the dark meat stew underneath. However, the sight of the food made Taran’s belly clench. He was too wound up to be hungry. Instead, he took a long draft of ale.

  Around him men fell upon their pies, the clatter of spoons and the thud of tankards blending with the rumble of their voices. Taran forced himself to start eating, aware that not to do so would raise eyebrows. But each mouthful tasted like ash.

  “Why the scowl, Scar-face?” Connel’s voice drew Taran out of his brooding. He glanced up to find the straw-haired youth grinning at him. “I hear ye are a hero. Tracked Lady Rhona down and dragged her home. Well done.”

  Taran didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his tankard to his lips and took a large gulp.

  “Aye … although I find it odd he sent ye out on yer own.” Dughall spoke up. The warrior had finished his pie and was watching Taran with a hooded gaze. “How can we be sure the lady’s virtue is intact?”

  Connel cast Dughall a wry look. “Fear not … ye can count on The Beast’s honor. He’d cut off his own rod rather than sully a highborn woman with it.”

  Taran clenched his jaw. He then helped himself to another tankard of ale from a passing servant. Once again, he remained silent. Connel and Dughall were baiting him. They wanted to anger him.

  Next to him, Gordon gave a snort of derision. “At least he’s got a rod,” he said to Connel. “That slug in yer braies can’t be named such.”

  Gordon’s comment caused barks of laughter to erupt around them. But Connel didn’t look amused. He favored Gordon with a sour look and was about to respond when Dughall interrupted him.

  “I hope ye are right, Buchanan.” Dughall’s gaze didn’t leave Taran as he spoke, the threatening edge to his voice hard to miss. “When I win her hand at the games, I want my lady wife to be a virgin when I take her.”

  Connel snorted. “Ye are competing against me so I wouldn’t be so full of yerself.”

  Dughall’s lip curled, and he gave Connel a look that told him exactly what he thought of that assertion. His attention then returned to Taran. “Fifty warriors have pledged to compete at the games,” he said. “Lady Rhona is a prize it seems.”

  Taran glared back at him, before he finally answered. “Aye, she is.”

  “I can’t believe ye ran away. Ye could have taken me with ye!”

  Rhona turned from the window to meet her sister’s angry glare. She’d been waiting for this confrontation, although with less dread than the one with her father.

  “It’s just as well that I didn’t,” she replied. Her cut lip stung as she spoke. “Since ye would be in trouble now too.”

  Adaira scowled, a rare expression for such a sweet-tempered lass. Her hazel eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “I was so worried.” Her voice wobbled slightly. “I thought someone had carried ye off … had done ye harm.”

  Rhona stared back at her. She hadn’t thought Adaira would come to that conclusion. Her throat constricted, and she swallowed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to leave without saying anything, but I had to.”

  Adaira scrubbed at the tears that had escaped and were now cascading down her cheeks. “Da is in a terrible rage.”

  Rhona suppressed a shudder. “I know.”

  Adaira’s gaze dropped to her sister’s swollen lip. “He hit ye?”

  Rhona nodded before turning away. She didn’t want to talk about it.

  The shutters to the tower room were open, revealing a cool afternoon. The sky was still grey, but the storm had spent itself before moving east. The air that drifted in was fresh and clean.

  Rhona took the scene in numbly. None of this seemed real. Two days ago she’d been free, riding with the wind in her face toward a future of her own making. Now she was to be confined to this chamber till the games. She could already feel the walls closing in on her.

  The soft pad of slippered feet warned her of Adaira’s approach. A moment later she felt an arm loop around her waist. Adaira hugged her tight, the strength of her embrace warning Rhona of the emotions her sister held on a tight leash.

  “The world is so unfair,” her sister whispered. The broken sound of her voice made Rhona’s vision blur. “I can’t stand to see ye unhappy.”

  Rhona’s mouth twisted at the irony of it. She could stand anything except seeing either of her sisters hurt. The bond between them had always been strong, enough to weather anything—even this.

  “Whatever happens, don’t let them break ye,” Adaira continued, her voice turning vehement. “It’s bad enough that Caitrin is like a ghost these days. I don’t want to lose ye too. If ye had succeeded in running away, we never would have seen each other again. Was freedom worth that much?”

  A tear trickled down Rhona’s face. Reaching up, she knuckled it away. She knew Adaira didn’t understand why she’d had to flee. “It ripped a hole in my heart,” she answered softly, “but aye, it would have been worth it.”

  Silence stretched between them. The sisters stayed where they were, Adaira clinging to Rhona like a barnacle. Rhona let her, for her sister’s embrace brought her comfort.

  “What will ye do now?” Adaira asked finally.

  “I don’t know … nothing it seems.”

  “Ye could try to sneak away again … take me with ye this time. There’s that passageway in the dungeon we discovered years ago. We could leave that way.”

  Rhona shook her head. She’d already considered the hidden passage as a means of escape, and dismissed it in favor of taking a horse south to Kyleakin. Rhona, Caitrin, and Adaira had stumbled upon the passageway one summer while exploring the dungeon. Folk at Dunvegan had long talked about the existence of a hidden passageway somewhere in the keep. Once they discovered it, the sisters made a pact to keep its location secret.

  Tears flowed, hot and silent, down Rhona’s cheeks. “Da will post guards outside my door at night. Even if we got past them, they’d run us down like deer. We wouldn’t get far.”

  “But I want to help.”

  Rhona took Adaira’s hand and squeezed. She didn’t deserve such a sweet-natured sister. She’d acted selfishly, and yet Adaira still loved her, still wanted to help her. “Ye are helping,” Rhona replied softly. “More than ye realize.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Day of the Games

  THE DAY OF the games dawned warm and sunny. The weather didn’t care if Rhona was miserable, that she’d dreaded each sunset that brought her closer to her fate. The time had sped by—and Rhona awoke to honeyed sunlight filtering through the shutters into her chamber.

  A short while later Liosa brought a platter of food up to her. The hand-maid found Rhona swathed in a thick robe, perched on the sill of the open window, knees pulled up under her chin.

  “Morning.” Liosa favored her with a smile and carried the tray over to the table that sat in the center of the chamber. “Lady Adaira didn’t think ye would be hungry, but Fiona insisted.”

  Rhona’s gaze glanced off the fresh bannock, butter, and honey, and the mug of milk that accompanied it. Her belly lurched. “Adaira’s right,” she replied. “I can’t eat.”

  Rhona remained seated on the window sill while Liosa padded about the room, readying the clothes Rhona would wear for today. They’d already picked out her outfit: an emerald-green kirtle over a dove-grey léine. The kirtle, edged with gold thread, had a low rounded neck and long bell-like sleeves. It was the costliest item of clothing that Rhona owned, and had she not felt so miserable, she’d have enjoyed wearing it.

  As it was, she felt like hurling it from the window.

  Rhona dressed in silence, while Liosa said little—unusual, for the hand-maid was usually full of observations in the morning. Neither of them spoke as Rhona fastened the laces of her kirtle down the front of her bodice.

  Outside, the excited chatter of women in the bailey below filtered up. The folk of Dunvegan had been looking forward to this day for weeks; everyone loved games, for it broke up the routine of everyday life and gave servants a break from their chores.

  “I’ve never seen the keep so busy,” Liosa said finally. “Men from as far away as Caithness and Lothian have come to compete.”

  Rhona drew in a deep breath at this news. “How long will the games last?” she asked. In her misery she hadn’t considered the details of what her father was planning.

  “Two days. It’ll start with a day and a half of strength tests, and then the finalists will wrestle each other for yer hand.”

  Rhona inhaled once more, trying to ignore the anxiety that twisted inside her belly like a trapped eel. She smoothed her sweaty palms upon the silky material of her kirtle and squared her shoulders. She’d be damned if she’d let anyone see her despair.

  “Come on then,” she said, turning to Liosa and meeting her eye. “Let’s get this over with.”

  A summer’s breeze laced with the scent of crushed grass feathered against Rhona’s cheeks. She sat upon the stands before the competition field and waited for the first of the strength games: the tossing of the caber.

  Erected out of slabs of pine, the stands rose three tiers high. Much preparation had gone into this day. The MacLeod plaid—a crosshatch of yellow, black, and grey, threaded with red—fluttered from the ring that encircled the competition field.

  Excited spectators chattered around Rhona, while crowds of village-folk gathered around the perimeter of the field. She sat in-between her father and Adaira, hands folded upon her lap. Since leaving the tower room, no one besides Adaira had spoken to her. Caitrin hadn’t come to the games, as her infant son had a fever, although Baltair was here. He sat farther along the bench, laughing over something with the man seated next to him.

  Baltair had not greeted Rhona, or even acknowledged her—not something that bothered Rhona. But it stung that her father ignored her. Even Una stared right through her.

  It was all part of her punishment. Rhona’s fingernails bit into her palms. How she wished she was far from here.

  Men, clad only in plaid braies, their naked chests gleaming in the morning sun, walked out onto the field. Rhona’s throat closed at the sight of them.

  So many … at least fifty.

  Most of the faces she didn’t recognize, however, some she did. A blond, grinning young warrior called Connel, and Dughall MacLean. Of course—she’d known he’d compete.

  The latter stood at the front of the group, dark blue eyes riveted upon the stands—upon her. Rhona ignored him. Let him stare, she thought. If he wins the games, I’ll scratch his eyes out on our wedding night.

  But Connel and Dughall weren’t the only faces she recognized in the crowd. Rhona’s breathing stilled when she saw a big, broad-shouldered figure with short dark-blond hair and a scarred face standing at the back of the group.

  Taran MacKinnon.

  Confusion swept over Rhona, muddling her thoughts for a few moments. Connel and Dughall she understood, for both of them had made their interest in her clear.

  But Taran?

  Betrayal followed swiftly on the heels of confusion. She’d been furious with Taran for dragging her back to Dunvegan, yet she’d believed he’d had some sympathy for her plight. What was he doing competing for her hand?

  Rhona clenched her jaw till it ached. She glared at Taran, willing him to meet her gaze, yet he did not. Instead, his ice-blue stare seemed unfocused, as if he was deep in thought.

  Beside her Malcolm MacLeod rose to his feet. The chatter in the stands quietened, and the crowd of warriors waiting below shifted their gazes to the clan-chief.

  “Welcome.” Her father’s voice carried across the field. “For some of ye, Dunvegan is yer home, while for others ye have traveled far to reach us. I greet ye all and thank ye for doing us this honor.”

  A few of the warriors below cheered at this, while others beamed up at MacLeod. Malcolm then turned to where Rhona sat silently next to him. “Daughter, stand up.”

  Rhona complied, hands still clasped before her. Dozens of hungry male gazes raked over her. She felt as if they were stripping her clothing from her. Rhona raised her chin, barely suffering the indignity.

  “Aye.” Her father’s voice held a smug note as he continued. “Lady Rhona MacLeod is a fiery beauty. She’ll make one of ye a fine bride and bear ye plenty of sons … but ye will have to fight for her. The motto of this family is ‘Hold Fast’. The MacLeods face-down our enemies without fear, and we charge toward our destinies. I encourage all of ye to do the same.”

  A cheer went up, and when it died away, all gazes fixed upon Malcolm MacLeod, awaiting his next words. Tension rose around them, and Rhona saw the excitement in the contestants’ eyes, their eager smiles. The sight just made Rhona feel ill.

  Her father’s command, when it came, fell like an executioner’s axe, splitting the silence. “Let the games begin.”

  The morning was torture. Rhona sat there, silent and tense, watching as one-by-one, the warriors competed at tossing the caber. They heaved a long log off the ground and balanced it vertically, staggering forward before tossing it. The log spun, turning end over end before striking the earth with a dull thud.

  Three men succeeded in tossing it farther than the others. Two of them were warriors from the mainland, both sons of clan-chiefs, while the third was Taran MacKinnon.

  Rhona watched him toss the caber into the air. She’d seen Taran shirtless before, and remembered his sculpted torso.

  She wasn’t the only one to notice. Two women seated beneath Rhona started to whisper and giggle.

  “He may be an ugly brute, but he’s got the body of a god,” one of them tittered.

  “Aye,” her companion replied with a smirk. “I’d wager the rest of him is just as big and strong.”

  Rhona’s face flushed at their bawdy language. She glowered down at the women, hating their smugness. It wasn’t their fate that was to be decided here.

  The Braemar Stone and hammer throw contests came next. Dughall did well in the former. Rhona watched him take his position. He took the large, heavy stone in his hand, and cradled it in the crook of his neck. Dughall’s body tensed, his gaze focused on the strip of grass before him. A moment later he tossed the stone from standing, hurling it away from him. A cheer went up in the stands. He’d bested all the warriors who’d gone before him.

  Rhona didn’t join them.

  Grinning, Dughall glanced up into the stands, his attention focusing on Rhona.

  “Dughall MacLean looks confident today,” Una murmured to her husband.

  “Aye,” Malcolm grunted, unimpressed. “He’s cocky, but let’s see if he lasts the distance.”

  “I can’t believe Taran is competing,” Adaira whispered to Rhona, her gaze wide as she watched the warrior stride up to take his turn at hurling the Braemar Stone. “I didn’t think he was interested in taking a wife.”

  Rhona frowned, although she had to admit her sister was right. In all the years Taran had served her father, he’d been a lone wolf. Unlike some of the other warriors, who flirted with the servants inside the keep and stole glances at MacLeod’s three daughters, he’d seemed oblivious to women.

  Of course, that was ridiculous. He was an adult man; he would have needs like any other.

  “I don’t know what his game is,” Rhona muttered, wincing as another bout of cheering rocked the stands—Taran had thrown well. “I can’t believe he’d betray me like this.”

  Adaira turned to her, eyes as big as moons, as something occurred to her. “Do ye think he’s in love with ye?”

  “What?” Rhona almost snarled the question. Sometimes her sister could be as silly as a goose.

  Unfazed, Adaira continued. “Don’t look so shocked. It makes sense. Maybe that’s why he’s never taken a wife.”

  “Nonsense,” Rhona snapped, turning her attention back to the competition. “It makes no sense at all.”

  By the time the first day of the games was over, Rhona had a terrible headache. Her mother had suffered from such pains, but until today Rhona had not. Her temples pulsed with red-hot agony, and the gilded late afternoon light hurt her eyes as she climbed onto the wagon that would take her back to Dunvegan Keep.

  The pain made it difficult to concentrate, to focus. It felt as if an iron band had fastened around her skull and was slowly tightening. The intensity of the pain made Rhona feel giddy and nauseated.

  For the first time since returning to Dunvegan, she longed for her cool, dark tower room, where she could shut out the daylight and the world.

  The spectators moved on, their voices drifting through the warm air as they returned to their homes, their chores, and preparation for supper. Meanwhile, the contestants filed back to the keep, ready for an evening of drinking, feasting, and entertainment. Rhona had heard that a bard had come with the men from Lothian and would entertain the revelers.

  Rhona was relieved she wasn’t invited.

  Instead, she fled up the steps to her tower room, her head throbbing with every step. Adaira joined her for a spell, and Liosa brought up a tray of supper, before Rhona sent them both away.

  “I’ll see ye first thing tomorrow morning,” she assured her sister, who looked at her with a worried frown and hurt in her eyes. “For now I just need to sleep.”

  After Adaira and Liosa had gone, Rhona splashed cool water on her face, closed the shutters tight, and stretched out upon her bed. Agony constricted her skull with each breath, and she closed her eyes.

  The noise from the rest of the keep, although muffled by thick stone, still reached her: the raucous laughter of men and the shrill, excited voices of women.

  Everyone had enjoyed the first day of the games. All except Rhona.

 

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