The Handfasting (11 page)

He
wanted her here, now, in this field, below where his men on foot marched, near
enough to the keep that any could come upon them. Rather than tame, the thought
incited. To show-off her abundant softness, the wild passion focused on him,
had him rolling her to the ground, pinning her beneath him, her hands held
tight above their heads.

"You
are mine!" he pressed against her, widened his legs to urge hers apart
until she cradled him.

"Oh,
aye," she allowed, "For a year and a day.” She pulled his head to
hers.

He
allowed it, long enough to know she was saturated with wanting. He risked
lifting up to look down on her, at the lush rise of her breast, at lips swollen
from his kisses, cheeks flushed from desire. "You don't shy from this, yet
still expect to leave me?"

"Imprisoned
by Handfast, I will reap whatever rewards I can.” Hands bound by his, she
arched her back.

He
didn't understand her willingness. The hunger, aye, for it was that strong
between them. But that she would risk, even incite, mating, he could not
comprehend. Not when she wanted her freedom so fiercely. But the Bold was not
named so for missed opportunities.

One
hand still holding hers, he used the other to tease with a gentle stroking,
along the side of her body, barely brushing the side swell of her breast.

"You
are so bloody luscious," he gave in, filled his hand with her, molded,
squeezed as he lowered his head to suckle. He couldn't resist any more, freed
her hands to fill both his with her softness. "You make me hurt, ache with
wanting you. Since the first moment I saw you, my blood has risen so high I
fear I’ll burst. Ease me, Maggie girl, ease my pain."

She
made it more insistent, urging the heat in him to rise even higher. She pulled
his head to hers, kissing him with a full mouth. Her hips rose to his, circled
impatiently, as he thrust against her.

Too
much cloth between them, Talorc thought of his knife, to slice it away, to give
him access to her breasts as he wadded her skirt in his hand, lifting it
higher, higher. He wanted to see her legs, her hips, raised himself to do so,
but stopped.

"I'll
not have you caught like this," he thought out loud. "We've barely
made our pledge, left your home and already I'm ravishing you. Your clansmen
will certainly see the change in you then."

Her
eyes met his, so fierce, so wanton he was surprised by her words. “This is not
how they see me as different, Laird MacKay.”

She
was battling him with words when he was still battling his body. Trying to calm
it.

She
continued. “What they think is that I am more than I am.”

“Aren’t
you proving that as we speak?” He asked, fighting for breath, fighting to tame
the wildness in his veins. It didn’t help that she arched her back, squiggled
her hips trying to pull from beneath him. He wasn’t ready to let her go. "They
know you, Maggie. They’ve always known you, they just didn’t recognize you as I
do."

She
snorted. “Know me or no, you dinna' get my ken last night.”

“You
said you would Handfast, you gave your word.”

She
lashed out. “Oh, aye, I had no choice. You wouldn’t listen, would you? You had
to keep going.” She shoved him aside, freed herself of his hold. “Like a
boulder down a mountain, you are. But I told you, over and over. Know me or no,
I don’t want you.”

“You
don’t know what you want.”

"Ach!”
Maggie rose, twitched her plaid straight with trembling hand. “I do know what I
want!” She railed. “That's how little you know me, because I have always known
what I wanted. I want my home, I want my family, I want a simple life without
all the complications of a man like you.

"I
don’t want to fight to be heard, fight to be listened to, fight to be believed
or to have my way.”

“You
want to be in control.” Talorc nodded. He understood the desire, not that he
was going to let her have her own way.

He
stood, towered over her.

“Aye,
I want control of my life, no one else’s, just mine.” She dragged her hair from
her face. “Is that so much to ask for?”

Talorc
shook his head, caught a stray lock of her hair with his finger and tried to
push it behind her ear. She slapped his hand away.

 Her
sigh was weary and old as the mountains. “Lord knows, you're a fine enough
looking man, and you have an uncanny way with a woman's body," she
granted, "There are plenty of women who would want you. Why does it have
to be me? Why, when you are nothing like what I want?"

Frustrated,
and knowing there was no hope for it, Talorc snorted, “I’m not scrawny enough
for your tastes? Is that it? You won’t be able to rule me as you might a lesser
man.”

“Hah.”
She snuffed, rose to his bait. “Of course, you would think that just because a
man is of lesser build he would be a lesser man.”

“He’d
not be able to protect you as I would.”

“I
have brothers enough for that. And I know how they are, how they try to bombard
my wishes for their own. I've known you less than a day and already you ignore
my wants, my cares.”

Talorc
smiled, “Every man will try to have his way, in his own kind. Don’t
underestimate a male’s hunger for control, just because he’s closer in height
to you.”

She
looked as sorrowful as a wee lamb tangled in the bracken. He had torn her from
her home, her family, but he had a home and family to offer her. With time, she
would understand that. “It is a brave thing you do lass, leaving everything
that's familiar to you. I mean to make it up to you, to prove that it will be
worth the pain you are feeling now.”

She
turned to him, trails of tears long since dried, lined the length of her face. "The
only comfort I have to that pain is knowing I will be home this time next year.
My Ma promised me, if I don’t give you my heart, then we would not be wed. And
that, you can be sure, will be easy.”

Startled,
he moved, to better see her. She was a lusty lass for one who wanted to walk
away from a Handfast. This explained that. “Is this what she told you?”

“Aye,”
her eyes narrowed, “is that not the truth of it?”

"Oh,
aye," he mumbled, certain her heart would rule her body. She just didn't
know that. But he was coming to understand her openness to his touches. She
didn't fear their passion, because she didn't consider it a threat to her
singleness.

Now
that he had her attention, Talorc wasn’t certain he wanted it. She didn’t know
that, should she share her body with him, should they mate, they’d be wed. The
chance of a child was enough to bind the least likely of couples.

The
attraction was strong. The past moments were proof of that. It wouldn't be long
before he slid between her thighs, no cloth to bar him, and slid into the core
of her, toppling their Handfasting into marriage.

They
belonged together. Their passion was his strongest weapon against her denial of
their bond. Her mother would know that. She had played his hand for him.

Intriguing.

“Do
you not think you could give me your heart?”

Maggie
was still fighting to right her plaid, the MacBede cloth. Not so different from
his own. Not really, but the colors were off, dyed by plants grown in a
different soil and the MacBedes’ had a thin orange line that couldn't be found
on the MacKay cloth. Talorc frowned, he’d not noticed, others would. It would
make her a stranger, a visitor, to them until the day she wore his colors. He
wanted that change soon.

“My
heart was ripped apart with my brother's death. You know well enough that a
scar can cause lasting damage.”

“I’ve
patience enough.”

She
snorted. “Patience? Is that why you said your vows as you did? Is that why you bound
yourself to me, this day? ‘I take thee, Maggie . . .’” she mimicked. “Not ‘I
will take thee,' at a future date. No, you say, 'I take thee.’  You commit
yourself to now. Why would you do that MacKay, why would you pledge yourself
for life when you knew I would not match those words? Why would you put that
upon me, if you have the patience you speak of?”

“I
trust in what the future will bring.”

“You
think you know me better than I know myself?”

“Aye,
I do.” He stalled her sputtering denial with a gentle finger to her lips. “I’ve
seen more of the world than you, Maggie. I know what is out there, I’ve been
married before. Between us, there is more than the best of marriages have. You
just need to learn of it.”

She
stood, courageous and straight. It reminded him of their vows, their Handfasting.
She had been brave then, yet so vulnerable. She had kept her head high, her
sight on whatever wall was before her. She didn't look to the people, would not
look at him. If she had, would the joy in all the smiles have softened her
heart?

He
had watched her then, from where he spoke with her father. Dowry, land and
furnishings, handed over with a pledge, simple transactions.

She
had not come so willingly.

The
ladies had to surround her, one lamb to be shepherded to his side. He had
lifted her hand, placed it upon his arm. She barely allowed it to rest there,
barely touched him. By the time he had led Maggie to the top of the entrance
stairs, every available MacBede had been below, in the courtyard, to witness
the joining.

She
had not wanted to be there, continued to refuse to look at him, or the people
below. He was the one to take her right hand in his right hand, her left in
his, their hands bound in an unbreakable pattern of forever. His had been sure
and warm, hers trembling and cold.

When
he married Anabel, she had trembled as well, though there’d been a shy smile
upon her lips. Not so with Maggie. Stoic, brave Maggie. He’d have to bring that
smile to her lips and when he did, he doubted it would be shy.

“I
suppose ‘tis time we were off.” Maggie sighed, bringing him back to the
present.

“You
spoke your vows loud and true, Maggie, I’m thanking you for that.”

“I
said I’d Handfast with you. I’d not go back on my word.”

“The
whole of the courtyard heard you.”

“’Tis
what they were there for.”

“They’re
dreaming of happy endings.”

“They’re
allowed their dreams. It’s reality that I must face.”

“I’ll
give you a dream, if you’ll let me.” He’d caught her wary attention again.

“And
what do you mean by that.”

“We
can have a happy ending.”

Her
hair shifted, a silken mass upon her shoulders, as she shook her head. “Nay,
life is not a happy thing. Don’t be making promises you can’t keep.”

“Trust
me, Maggie. Trust me to do what's right for you.”

She
looked at him then, keenly.

“I
would like to, Talorc, I would like to, but you’ve not given me much ground for
trusting you, if you ken my meaning.”

“Aye,”
he nodded, frowning. It was true, he had cornered her into hHhandfasting. He
had skirted truths and played games to get her where he wanted her, but in the
end, it would all work out. He said as much.

“We’ll
see,” she acknowledged with a touch too much defeat for his Maggie.

That
weary wariness troubled Talorc, but there was no time to fret. The men had
ridden on. It was time Maggie and Talorc join them. As safe as his lands could
be, bordering the MacBedes, there was no telling what the Gunns were willing to
risk for retribution. She was his to protect now. He’d not come this far to
lose her to his enemy.

CHAPTER 10 - THE WICKED

Chants
rumbled on the breeze. Shadows from the flicker of torch flames, writhed
against monstrous standing stones, much as he expected the women would writhe
this night.

 His
blood throbbed in anticipation. The steady stomp of his men’s feet, the thumping
of their wooden staffs, ensured they felt the same.

Amid
the acrid scent of a burning carcass, leftovers from a feast, women moved with
solemn grace, circled a stone altar stained with the blood of sacrifice. A lamb
led to slaughter, much like the youngest of the lasses this night, too naïve
and trusting to understand the trap set for them.

They
desired rituals of old, the promise of magic. It was not the season of Beltane,
or dances of fertility, but they wanted celebrations. He was not at fault for
turning their desires to his.

An
owl passed over low, a sign:  the wisdom of the ages looked down upon them.
Fanciful superstition over no more than a predator looking for prey.

He
withheld laughter. There would be time enough for that, once he broke through
the circling, the twined lines of men in capes green of the forest, women wrapped
in the brown of earth. The shades of their cloaks were faded, the hems ragged,
for they were outlaws, with no warm home and hearth full of spinning and
weaving. All they had was wickedness and the power it gave them.

Through
deeds so perverse there was no forgiving, clans banished them. Sent them to
live in the wilderness, as if that diminished their threat. As if they would
not find each other, these renegades. As if they would not bond in their
despicable ways, and grow as any family would grow.

This
very night, they would dance a devil’s dance and prove the lassies of the
highlands no safer from outlaws banished than with them nestled in the bosom of
their kin.

Nor
were the clans themselves safe, which was his doing. He played mischief with
them, pitted one against another, never risked his own hide or that of his
people. It was a deliciously devious plan. He had used their own might, their
own vengeful selves, to create their demise.

They
would destroy each other and he would rise up to have his way with the
highlands just as he would have his way tonight.

He
looked to the woman who stood opposite him, a deceitful, cunning and
blasphemous whore. He licked his lips, his body aching for release.

She
was the one who promised power from the old ways, taught the women to move as
the sun and the moon, east to west, knowledge to intuition. She explained how
the men, with their cocky strides, were to travel from earth to strength, north
to south.

She
was a willing partner in these dances, eagerly enticed young lasses to join
their troupe, for she knew his taste. The rebellious, the lonely, the insecure
were sweet succor to his band.

The
moment was ripe. It was time. As the Green Man, he stepped inside the circle,
horns upon his head, a wooden staff in hand. She stood opposite, a large vessel
cradled at her hip.

It
was a familiar game.
Catch me if you can
, she teased. He was willing to
be diverted. He knew how the night would end.

The
human chain stopped in place, swayed and chanted, captured by the story
unfolding before them. They expected the portrayal of his death and rebirth,
unaware it was the ruin of innocence they would witness.

He
used his staff as a shepherd’s hook, he worked to corral the woman, head her
toward the altar. They sidled one way, then another, adversaries. He smiled
again. He rather liked this sport, becoming The Green Man. It was a shame the
season was wrong and he couldn’t create a mask of leaves and branches.

He
swung out with his rod. Nimbly she jumped, twisted and taunted, beckoned as she
did so, managing to hold her distance. He allowed it, drawing out the
reckoning.

The
wind toyed with their cloaks. The moon, as though in tune, played its game of
light and dark. With a dip of his head, he showed off his antlers, a stag's
crowned achievement, and held his ground.

The
wench stood at the mouth of the south, vessel on hip, offered a saucy smile.
The south was his place, the man’s place.

Melodic
tinkling foreshadowed the emergence of her arm covered in silver bracelets. The
other women raised their adorned limbs, shook them, for a musical backdrop to
the sensuous dance.

His
woman wove hers through the air, a cobra’s salute to the piper’s tune.
Mesmerized, he startled when she jammed that sensuous limb deep within the
vessel.

 The
women of his troupe rang tiny bells of encouragement soon matched by the young
lasses who watched and learned; the men stomped their feet, their curdled cries
riding on the night wind.

Perhaps
there was something to these rituals after all.

Oblivious
to the blood draped altar behind her, his night’s mate laughed as she lifted
her hand high, fingers coated in thick, viscous, honey. Riveted, he watched, as
slowly, ever so slowly, heavy rivulets trailed down her hand, along her arm.
Head angled, she watched him as she caught syrupy globules with her lips,
followed their path with her tongue, darted flickers for taste, wide swaths for
hunger. She traced the honey up, up, up to the tip of her fist.

Fight
though she did, the fist did not fit in her mouth, it was too big. So she
suckled each finger in turn, drew hard, her cheeks no more than shadowed
hollows.

He
groaned. All the men groaned as the women chimed their bells. Enough was
enough.

 "You
will be as the earth!” He bellowed. "My seed will feed your womb upon the
blood of our victim."

Startled,
her sensuous sucking stopped. She settled her hand light on her breasts.

"It's
a cold night for such things.” Sticky fingers slipped inside the opening of her
cape. He knew what ripeness was hidden within that cloak, imagined suckling
their honeyed sweetness. He loved honey.

"I
will make you burn.” He advanced.

"You
will make me burn," She trilled as lightly as the jingle of her bracelets.
Despite her twirls and sways, he was pleased to see she moved closer before she
stopped just outside the reach of his staff.

One
moment a soft female, the next a forceful presence, up she went, high on her
toes, vessel raised to the skies. He swung his staff left then right. Nimbly
she jumped each swipe.

Without
warning, she hurled the honey pot straight at him. One mighty swing and he
shattered her vessel with the knotted head of his staff.

"I
will flame your fire.”

Bracelets
jangled as she clapped. "May the power of my essence incite your passion
as I bear your strength.”

He
knew the younger lasses, the newcomers, were uneasy with the turn of play. They
shifted, eyed each other, looked to the older women, but they could not run.
His men clamped hands upon their shoulders, for it was their fight, not his, to
keep the lasses from running. Foolish girls to trust strangers, to believe they
could ever go home again to be comforted by mother or father, sibling or cousin.

One
act of disobedience and they chose their destiny. It was their own folly that
led them to the service of his band. To become outlaws. That is, if they
survived this night.

Their
restless movements, the terror in their faces, provoked a lust that had already
burgeoned. He pawed at the earth, tilted his head, a stag in rut, and charged.
Shoulder to belly, he swooped, lifted, carried.

The
men’s chants thickened, heightened by the game, over riding cries of terror.

Not
to be undone, his woman arched her back, rode him like a ship’s mast, opened
her cape, offered her nectared breasts. "I give succor to your strength.
Taste of my sweetness."

Greedily
he accepted, licked and suckled as he carried her through their arena. His
laughter rode the night, echoed by the tiny tinkle of bells, as he dropped her
upon the altar, hips on the edge, legs dangling.

"You
must pay a price!” She commanded.

He
chuckled. She was in no position to be making commands, but he would humor her.

"Vixen,"
he turned to his audience, "Is she worth a price?"

The
men stomped and bellowed.
"Plunder,
plunder, plunder!”

"Honor her, honor her, honor her.”
Bells jangled, as the women countered the men, some frantic in their
pleas.

He
was the Green Man, he would make the choice.

Slowing
his pace, drawing out the tension, he ran his hands along the sweet curve of
her thighs. They were full and round, would embrace his hips with softness.
Just the thought, enflamed by the narrowing of her eyes, a sure sign she was
ready to challenge him, made him hungry for more.

Without
warning, he gripped her legs, splayed them, revealing the shadowed opening to
her womb.

Despite
her tries to wiggle free, to negotiate the cost of this privilege, he held her
firm. Let her know who had the power.

"What
price?"

"The
MacKay," She inched back, away from the edge of the altar. "I've
helped you weaken the MacKay," voice sultry as a promise she lifted,
leaned back on her hands, breasts tantalizing mounds in the moonlight.
"You've set the Gunns toward failure. But all could be lost."

"I
will not lose."

She
scrambled onto her knees. "There is one who has turned the tide away from
us.” Her finger trailed a path from his lips to his chest. "You must kill
her," she leaned closer, "kill her," she licked his lips,
"kill her!” swung her legs around, encircling his waist.

He
was swollen and greedy, more than ready to finish this. "Who is this
woman?” He grunted, as he ground against her softness, bringing a moan for his
efforts.

Still,
she did not leave her plea. "Maggie MacBede.” Another moan. “We cannot
risk a child born to her.”

"You
want her blood?” He spread her cloak, lowered it, so all could see as his touch
roamed mounds and valleys, squeezed and soothed in turn. Her buttocks were cradled
in his arms, her legs wrapped about his waist, her breasts a breath away from
his lips, as he strode the perimeters of the circle. A boastful male.

"She
wants me to destroy the MacBede girl, daughter of a Chief.” He shouted.

Brushing
her chest against his mouth, she pleaded. "Promise me The MacKay will have
no heir."

Ah,
so that was it.

"I
want to kill him.” He grabbed her bottom, raised her up, to slide her down
along his rigid need before placing her, once again, on the altar.
"Torture him.”

"Her,
kill her.” She scrambled on the blood slick stone to kneel before him.

He
shoved her down, onto her back, her hair tangled in blood, and leaned over her,
master of what he beheld. She gripped his arms, as though she knew he would
soon leave this subject. "He must live to be humiliated, to see his own
destruction. She is in the way. She can die. Must die."

"Devil’s
harlot.” His chuckle was lost as he teased her nipple. "Perfect.”

"You
promise."

"Oh,
my lusty earth bride. I promise, with pleasure. Here, on this altar, we will
slice her slowly, little by little. Her screams will make my blood rise. I will
want to take you for days afterward. But now, tonight, all bargaining is done.
We will think of nothing else, but my plundering you."

Arching
his neck he shouted, "Take your wenches men!  Seed their bellies!"

He
was too late. Two lines had become one thick writhing cord as bodies sank to
the ground, chants turned to moans of pleasure, mingled with screams and cries.
Cloaks opened, flesh meshed, male to female, a time old chain of fertility.