The Handfasting (26 page)

"He
should have known."

Maggie
forgot how stubborn her people could be, once they took a side.

"We
all thought the Gunns had gone, turned tail and fled. They had been gone that
long. But you know the Gunns are a sneaky lot. I'm just that grateful that I'm
free of them. Talorc thought they were set on capture, and against that he did
a fine job."

Fiona
fussed over Maggie's forehead. "There's still a lump, lass. He should have
taken the blow."

"I'm
fairing well, ma."

"You'll
fair better, now that you're home."

"Aye,
ma, I'll fair better."

* * * * * * * * * *

If
only it had been true. That Maggie would do better at home. But she didn’t. Her
ma may not have been ill, but Maggie surely was. It came on slowly but soon
took over her life.

At
first, she blamed it on the emotions at battle inside of her. They sucked her
dry, like a sawdust doll that leaked its inners. It left her all floppy and
listless. But it didn't stop there. No. Terrible little sithichean, fairies by
the bucket load, danced and jigged in her belly and soured all she smelled,
made her sick, until she could keep naught down.

Her
mother hovered, too close.

As
all children born in the wee hours of the night, Maggie was expected to be
brilliant, as well as wild. Because of that, she had been given a fair amount
of freedom. Now, to have her ma, her da, all her brothers and their wives
perched so near, was about to drive her crazy. Even when she retched, someone
would hold her head, another would hand her a wet cloth, and the lot of them
stood witness to the embarrassment of her weakness, for Maggie never ailed.

"How
close did you come to be, to the Bold?" Her mother asked, after one such
bought.

How
close? Maggie moaned, which her mother put down to illness. They had been as
close as two people can be. They had also been as far apart as two people could
be.

Or
had they?

"He
was gone, much of the time. And when he was there, he had clan business to see
to. He did not follow me about, if that's what you mean."

"Could
you be his wife?" Finally, the question had come.

"Mayhap,
one day.” Maggie hedged.

"I
see," Fiona nodded, as if that explained all.

But
it didn't. It didn't explain to Maggie why she felt so lonely among the people
she loved. It didn't explain the fear she felt, that Bold would never come for
her. It didn't explain the hunger for kisses and caresses and soft whispered
words.

It
didn't explain why she felt those things never felt before.

* * * * * * * * * *

Talorc
rode into Glen Toric's snow- swirled courtyard well after dark. He doubted the watch
knew he was there before he was straight under their noses. Especially as he
had traveled alone, leaving his men to their dinner and sleep. They were not as
anxious to return to the keep. None were newly married. None had just come to
'know' their wives, nor was the hunger still licking at them to get to know her
again.

 He
told the guards not to announce him. He wanted to surprise Maggie there in the
hall, to see her reaction when he stood waiting for her welcome. No doubt, she
would be as ravenous for him as he was for her. She proved the truth of it in
the barn. It was that good between them.

Together
they would go above stairs, ready a bath so she could bathe him. Her fingers
would run over his head while she lathered it. Her hands would knead the ache
in his shoulders and back, as it warmed the cold that had settled in his
marrow. He would teach her how to ease the lower aches as well. To run her
fingers from his shoulders, down his chest, across his belly, to his loins.

He
stormed up the steps, to the door of the keep.

The
memory of Maggie held him fast in hand combat, kept him alive, for he promised
he'd not leave her. And he'd not. No more fighting with reckless abandon. Not
now. He had enough experience to fight with skill and care. Maggie gave him the
reason to do so.

Talorc
moved into the doorway of the great room to look over the crowd. Even before he
spotted Maggie, he saw Seonaid there with her child. His innards clenched. His
head shot around, as he scanned the crowd, suddenly aware of the unusual muted
tones. It was Donegal who saw him first.

"Bold."

The
quiet turned to calls and shouts, questions about the battle, urgings for him
to move close to the fire, have a dram. Someone swiped snow from his shoulders,
but it wasn't Maggie.

"Where's
my wife?” He hadn't meant to bellow, to frighten her with his need for her. But
the escalating fear could not be squelched.

The
room stilled, an ominous thing. Una, always proud to be the first to impart
news, called out. "She's gone to the MacBedes, but she said naught about
being a wife."

Lustful
hunger turned to a nest of vipers deep in his gut. "She's my wife. Make no
doubt about that. She should be wearing a kerchief."

"Bold,"
Ealasaid bustled through the crowd, with a grim look shot at Una. "You'd not
expect her to face us on her own with such news now, would you? She would need
you by her side.”

He
acknowledged the truth of it with a grunt. “Is it true? Has she left?"

"True."

"How,
with who?”

Old
Micheil barged forward, pushed his way in front of Ealasaid. "Her brothers
came for her. Said her mother was ailing and she should go."

Talorc
nodded to Micheil. "Alright then, so she should.” He would follow, snow or
no, be by her side. Make certain they, Maggie included, all knew he was her
mate.

First
things first. Talorc crossed to the fire, to warm the cold that ran to the
bone. He would warm himself, have a bite to eat and a dram to burn out the cold
that ran deeper yet.

Beathag
tugged at his arm. "The MacKays refused our hospitality."

"What?”
He looked to Micheil, to see the truth of it.

The
old man nodded. "Wouldn't even dismount."

"Shite.”
Talorc grabbed the goblet Seonaid offered and downed the whole of it. The whiskey
hit as true as a campfire to his belly. He shook his head, like a dog shaking
off water. "The MacBedes are strong allies. Did you not make them feel
welcome?"

"She
offered it, herself, but they refused to dismount until she insisted.”

"Did
they give reason?"

"Blamed
it on the snow to come."

"Fair
enough.” Talorc took another swig of life, then sat on the bench before the
fire. He pushed for days, to return to her, just to face this reception. He
should have waited.

Fatigue
hit with the weight of what was said, and what wasn't. It could be far better
than it sounded. Or it could be far worse. "Their mother was ill and the
weather had taken a nasty turn. Reason enough to be quick about things.”

"They
asked for you, insulted you weren't there to greet them yourself."

"And
did you tell them why I wasn't there?"

"She
did, herself."

"Maggie?”
In response, the men grunted. Talorc continued to reason it all out rather than
succumb to panic. "She offered them hospitality, she explained my absence,
she worried over her mother. Is there more to the telling?"

"They'd
not speak with us, and wouldn't go to the keep. Just watered and fed their
horses, drank their own draft."

It
didn't make sense. Maggie may have been angry that Talorc was called away, but
her family had no way of knowing. "They were here not six days since. They
left with good heart. What do you think happened to turn their minds?"

"Wasn't
the same two brothers."

"Ach,
crikey!  And you wait to tell me this? Which brothers came?”

"Feargus
and Nigel.” Liam told him.

"Feargus
and Nigel? And they were cold?"

"Aye."

"Was
there anything untoward that happened? Anything her brothers might report, so
the family would send the heavy arms?"

"Laird?”
It was a soft voice, buried deep in the throng of clansmen around him.

"Speak
up, lass."

Lizbeth
moved forward, shy but determined. "Do you think it was something Mistress
Maggie put in her letter?"

Mule
kicked. Maggie and her ways had that effect on him. "What letter?"

"Before
he left, Maggie gave Jamie a piece of parchment for her ma."

"Here
lad," Micheil shoved a flask of whiskey into Talorc's face. He swiped it
away.

"Did
any of you write it for her?” But he already knew the answer. If anyone around
her knew how to read or write, Maggie would have hounded to be taught the same.
She would have written it herself.

"What
do you think it means, Laird?” Ealasaid worried.

"Her
mother's not sick, at least not in her body. She's probably soul sick, though,
if Maggie had her way."

"But
she's your wife. You said so yourself, when you first arrived."

How
could he answer that? True, he had had her body, but he didn't have her heart.
Not if she would run like she did. Nor had they said the words that would bind
them in marriage, and Maggie had yet to learn that with a Handfasting the
binding of bodies was as good, if not better, than words.

He
halfway wondered at the Gunns’ timing. It was just a little too true to their
purpose, but how in heaven would they know that? If he had stayed, if he hadn't
gone to fight the Gunns, she would have been here at Glen Toric and securely
his.

But
there was no way the Gunns could know, on the heels of the event, that he had
consummated his marriage.

He
wanted to believe that nothing would have taken her from Glen Toric, if he'd
been there to confirm that she was his wife. But he doubted the honesty of
that. He had tricked her into going to Glen Toric. He had used her against
herself to keep her, then left at the turn in their relationship.

I
will take thee, Talorc MacKay, she had said at the Handfasting. She had yet to
say I take thee. One wee word, a teeny wee word and she was still free.

"Laird,"
Ealasaid said, "She was not so happy to be going, but she truly believed
you'd broken a vow."

"I've
broken her maidenhead. My seed is in her belly. That's enough that she should
be here to discuss her concerns with me.”

But
she wasn't here, and if his seed had not taken, he didn't know if he could get
her back.

CHAPTER 2 - REVELATION

Blade
scraped against stone, back, forth, back, forth, rasped against Fiona's nerves.
She closed her eyes, took deep breaths, as Feargus continued with his task.
Resentment simmered.

Men! 
Oblivious to a woman's moods, a woman's needs. Fiona opened her eyes to the
muted light of late afternoon. She crossed to the fire, to distance herself
from the rhythmic rasp, and tried to swallow her ire toward a sound that
soothed so many times in the past.

Nothing
soothed today.

"Feargus,"
his head popped, his wary glance proved he knew of her temper. "It's
almost time to light the torches, and Maggie's still in bed. She has been since
we cleared up from the mid-day meal."

"She's
not well. She needs rest.” Eyes narrowed, he ran his thumb over the blade of
his dirk. Fiona sighed.

Feargus
was a warrior. No nuances for a man of his sort. Guilt was cut and dry. He
imagined the Bold's neck under that honed edge, and found satisfaction in the
thought. A vengeful draw of blood to ease his own conscience. But it would
never erase it. Guilt was a gray thing with a wide spread shadow.

Fiona
crossed her arms, her foot tapping a swift metrical beat. She didn't want
vengeance, she wanted answers. "You're as worried as I am."

"I'll
admit she's never been sick before."

"You've
seen Glen Toric."

"What
has that to do with anything?” His eyes shifted away, culpable. He should have
known the Bold well enough, vetted him more strongly. Just because the man was
a brilliant tactician and fearless warrior did not mean he was decent husband
material.

If
Feargus had misgivings, she would force him to face them. "You've been to
Glen Toric, you know what it is like, if it's full of disease. Should we be
looking to some strange illness Maggie brought home with her?"

Feargus
snorted. "It's clean enough."

"Fool
me for asking.” She rolled her eyes. "As if a man is any judge of such a
thing."

Fidgety
as Fiona, Feargus rose to pace between the chair and the fire. "I can tell
you, there weren't people puking their guts in the streets, woman."

She
clicked her teeth, "Impervious probably."

A
caustic rumble carried through the high window, voices raised in fight. Feargus
frowned, focused on the doorway, as the sound grew with an alarming speed
toward the keep. Someone would be there soon, to report the uproar. Fiona shook
her head at Feargus, telling him to stay put. They had more important problems
to sort out.

She
rushed on, as the outer door burst open, intent on gaining information before
anyone could get from the door to the Great Hall. "Were there signs that
the people were brutal?"

That
gained Feargus’ attention. She knew it would, had held off asking, rather than
plant seeds in a mind fertile with anger. "What are you asking?"

"Are
they a brutal people?"

Color
raced up his neck, shading his face as he shouted, "Are you finally
telling me there were marks on our daughter? If he put a hand on her, I'll bloody
kill him, I'll . . .”

"I
never laid an ill hand upon her body!"

Fiona
spun around, as fast as her husband had, to see Talorc, bold as his name
implied, disheveled from a fight, surrounded by a hostile pack of MacBede sons
backed by a huge crowd of clansmen. He stood in the entrance to the hall, tall
and defiant, as though Feargus the younger and Nigel did not have a grip of his
shoulders, captors delivering captive.

The
MacBede charged toward them. "What in God's name have you done to our
daughter?” He bellowed.

Armed
with his own might, Talorc shook away his captors, stepped toward Feargus. The
two lairds faced off like raging bulls. Or, at the least, Feargus looked like a
raging bull. Fiona tilted her head, studied Talorc.

With
seven sons and a warrior of a husband, she was accustomed to fights, knew how
to read opponents, how to judge the intensity of the conflict. The Bold would
not back off, he stood large, shoulders back, chest forward, confrontational.
Feargus' head was forward, prepared for attack. The Bold would hold his own,
but he would not be the aggressor.

Good.
If Feargus wanted to fight a man half his age, when the other would fight
merely to defend himself, so be it. He was on his own.

A
sharp sideways nod to Jamie, the only one whose eye she could catch, and word
passed round the broad, barbaric circle of men. Anxious to fight, they did not
stand still, kicked at the floor as her instruction spread. Grumbles and
sideway glances to her ensured they didn't like the message, but they would not
jump into the fray. That was as much satisfaction as she could hope for.

The
combatants circled, feigned charges, until finally they met with an impact that
forced deep grunts from each. They shoved, neither gaining ground. Feargus
fought with punches, The MacKay blocked hits, parried each blow with a bark to
settle the conflict with reason. A fruitless effort against weeks of building
fury.

"Feargus.”
The Bold shouted above the roar of a hostile crowd. "I'm telling you I
never harmed her, would never want to.” He thrust The MacBede away.

Broken
apart, both men backed off, breathing deeply, to catcalls for violence. Feargus
dove in again, struggled. Talorc avoided a direct hit to his mouth, but caught
one in the gut.

"You
want to fight now, do you," the MacKay bashed into Feargus, caught him in
a headlock, "Tell me why you took my Maggie, old man." They twisted
and turned, fell to the floor. "She's mine," Talorc hissed.

"Forget
that," Feargus heaved.

 Talorc
pinned him. "She's pledged to me and then you steal her when my back is
turned. Give me a good reason for taking her out from under my
protection."

Feargus
snorted. "You call that protection?"

“Steal
her away?” The Younger dove onto the Bold, to pull him off his father.
"You want to take on someone your own age with that challenge?"

"That
would be me." Nigel pushed forward, followed by Alec, who claimed,
"Oh no, you don't, I'm more his size."

"Stop!”
A good head shorter than her children, Fiona stood, arms akimbo, eyes narrowed,
and waited until the entire hall silenced.

"Nora,"
she called out to the lass rooted by the door that led to the kitchens.
"Bring out some chicken and a dram. The man must be freezing from his
travels."

"Fiona."

"Ma.”

"Mother."

Feargus
and the boys complained. She ignored the indignant cries, shooed the other
clansmen from the hall. Tone sharp as a pinched ear she ordered, "Let him
up, and leave him be. I want to hear what he has to say."

Wary,
reluctant, they followed her command. The Bold and Feargus stood, brushed themselves
off and refused eye contact. Talorc straightened, his attention on the mistress
of the keep. "I heard you had been taken deathly ill, Fiona MacBede, but
you're looking fit enough now."

"Cheeky
boy," she admonished and wondered if she could shake his irreverence.
"I'm not the one who's ailing.”

He
stood, arrogant and angry, still heaving with the effort of defending himself.
He had already proved he had no intention of inflicting harm. He was not out to
make enemies. He was out to fetch his Handfasted. Fair enough, if he deserved
her.

She
waited as his anger turned to impatience.

"I'm
sorry others are ill, but I'd like to see Maggie."

No
one moved. Talorc looked at the somber faces, the antagonism that came with
bereavement. His arrogance froze. He shook his head, to negate thoughts racing
into it. A flash of emotion shuttered through him. Emotion Fiona could not
read. Concern she expected, but not with an edge of caution.

"Maggie's
not well?"

Only
his eyes shifted, his body frozen, feelings held tight.         

Angered
that the man wasn't more frantic with worry, Fiona snipped. "She's still
abed, and it's near dusk."

Crisdean
barreled forward. "I've seen animals go to ground when they've been poorly
treated."

"She's
not been poorly treated.” Talorc snapped, but gave little notice to Crisdean,
intent on Fiona instead, as if she held the answers. "Did she say she'd
been ill-treated?"

"There
was another woman at the keep for you."

Talorc
cursed. "Not to my mind and she knew that."

Thank
God, Fiona released her breath. The confrontation between the two Lairds
confirmed Talorc could control his aggression. It was the worry of another
woman that had nagged.

The
Bold did not command his patience as well as his aggression. "I've come a
long way to fetch her. Where is she?"

Feargus
blocked him. "She's no' fit to travel."

Fiona
restrained Feargus, with a hand on his arm. "Settle yourself now, we need
to hear what the man has to say."

"We'll
hear it from Maggie.” Feargus argued.

"If
that were true, we'd have heard it by now."

"Has
she said nothing?” Talorc asked.

Fiona
shook her head and looked to the men who surrounded her. They were all of a
size, powerfully built men, who took up space in a hall the size of a practice
field. It was more than build, it was their presence. These were men of
authority, they carried it with them. Force sizzled in the air around them.

It
was not up to a ma or a da or great overbearing brothers to decide whether
Maggie left for Glen Toric. It would be up to Maggie and the Bold. Fiona
balanced just how to move forward, to protect her daughter without alienating
the man.

Gentling
the truth, Fiona said, "Feargus is right, we're that worried about Maggie.
She has not been well, certainly not fit for travel."

"What
sort of illness does she have?"

Fiona
had taken his arm, to lead him to the fire, but stopped. "You're not
surprised, are you? You've expected her to be ill? You know what it is she's
suffering from?” All her worries about sickness at Glen Toric flooded back.

He
didn't answer her, but nodded toward the three maids putting food out by the
fire. "You offered me a bite to eat,"

Anger
billowed. "You expected her to be sick. What are you not telling me? Are
others ailing at Glen Toric?"

"I'm
wanting to see Maggie."

"And
you will.” Fiona snapped,   "I'll go up and fetch her myself."

"Give
me your word you'll not hide her away."

"How
dare you.” Feargus snarled.

"How
dare you steal her?” Talorc shouted right back.

"Stop
it, both of you.” Fiona glared,   "I promise that you will be seeing
Maggie within the hour. Though I make no pledge you will see her alone. Now
eat.” She waved toward the food, as she turned to fetch her daughter . . . who
stood upon the stairs.

Stronger
for the rest, Maggie watched Talorc with her family, and felt a flood of
relief. She had missed him, wanted him to guide her through the change in her
place within her own home.

She
knew he could, knew he would understand and, when he didn't, she knew he would
hold her while she rode the waves. That is, if he were there for her.

He
might not be.

She
sat on the step, watched through the railings as her da charged into a fight,
and her brothers circled and growled, no better than a pack of dogs ready to
rip to shreds.

They
meant to send him away without seeing her. Without asking her what she wanted.
She did not want him to go, almost called out to stop them, until she realized
if he did not stand against them, for her, then he did not want her.

She
prayed he would make a stand.

Her
mother interceded, as she did so often with her brothers, her da. The voice of
reason in a volatile family, the hand of calm but firm control. Fiona wielded
her power with ease.

Maggie
stood, garnering her strength by watching a master.

Talorc's
voice rose to the ceiling.

"How
dare you steal her?"

That's
just fine, Maggie thought, stir up the hostilities. But it didn't. All her da
did was grunt. Her brothers followed his lead, their heads up, arms crossed
against chests puffed up with a lot of hot air.

Silly
posturing.

Her
mother turned toward her, saw her and stopped.

At
least Maggie was well enough to take a stand to settle things. She called out
to her Handfasted. "You've come."

Talorc
toppled his bench in his rush to rise.