Bold (The Handfasting) (4 page)

“Oh,
aye,” her cousin Muireall sighed.  “What a man that one is.”  Maggie snorted. 
Everyone knew Muireall thought the same of all men. 

“He’s
even larger than The MacBede.”  Another cousin brayed.  Too true, Maggie
glowered.

“Did
you see his eyes?”  Muireall trilled, “I’ve never seen anything so blue in my
life.  They’re as clear as the summer sky.”  Summer sky?  Nay, not so simple. 
They were more like a gem and its playful light, fire and ice all in one
place.  Just as likely to burn as to make you shiver.

And
shiver she did, remembering his eyes when he looked at her.  Thoughts of him
were like a fierce undertow.  A body could drown in it while scrambling for a
shore that was safe and secure.  Maggie released the spits handle, startled by
her own thoughts.  She had to get out of the room, away from the talk, talk,
talk.

“Are
you fancying him then, Muireall?”  Alec's wife, Caitlin, lured Maggie back with
her question.  “For you must know when a man is that large, he’s that large
allllll over.”  Maggie blushed.  She doubt if all she felt was bunched cloth,
which meant Caitlin's words were truth.

 “You’re
not telling me anything I don’t know.”  Muireall bragged, “My own Malcolm, God
rest his soul, was no little tyke.”

“No,”
the others laughed together, “no he was no small man, and a shame it was he had
to go so soon.  He’s missed.”

“The
missing wouldn’t be so bad,” Muireall confided with a laugh, “if it could be
shared with someone like the MacKay, now.  And as he’s been widowed these three
years, well . . .”

“Och,
Muireall,” Nigel’s wife, Leitis, humphed, “he’s not looking for a widow such as
yourself.”

“And
why not?”

Maggie
snorted. There was no need to turn around to see the glances passed from one
woman to another.  They’d all be looking about, wondering who would do the
telling.  It was Leitis who finally admitted, “He’s not going to look for a
lady willing to share the warmth in
any
bed.  A man
such as the MacKay will show more discretion.”

You tell her, Leitis
, Maggie thought sourly, only to feel guilty moments later when Muireall
countered, “Say what you like but you can’t ken the loneliness of an evenin’
alone.  You don’t know what it’s like to have your man taken in his prime, not
even married a full year and no bairn to wake me in the night with cries. The
loneliness, och, it’s a terrible thing.”

“Oh,
aye, Muireall,” Leitis admitted, “it is a sad thing, I’m sure, but you know
it’s a worrying thing as well.  You have to watch yourself.  Too many see, too
many tell.  And what that means is there’s just too many.” 

The
women burst into laughter, all but Muireall who looked about, her brow
furrowed.  “Too many what?”  She asked.

Laughter
descended to snorts as Leitis quipped.  “Too many men in your bed.”

Both
Sibeal and Caitlin offered, “That’s not being fair to cousin Muireall, now. 
She didn’t take on Puny Piers.”

“He
had Maggie’s eye, then, didn't he?”  Leitis chided.

“Well,”
Muireall defended, “I’ve never warmed myself with Babbling Birk the bard.”

“For
the same reason.”

“And
now there’s Maggie’s Hamish the tailor,” Agnes tossed in, “Muireall hasn’t gone
near him!”

Once
again the room erupted with laughter as women called out, “Who else would
notice those scrawny buggers but our Maggie?” 

“There
not fit for anyone.”

“'Tis
Maggie and her love for the runts of the litter.”

“Stop
it!”  Maggie swirled about, anger as wild as her wind-tossed hair, “you know
nothing about it.  They are good men, each and every one of them.   Just
because they aren’t as big as a mountain and as thick in the head doesn’t mean there
isn’t some goodness to them.”

“Oh,
aye, Maggie, I’m certain you have the right of it.”  Caitlin eased.

“Besides,”
Maggie swallowed pride to loyally defend her men, “it was I who was not good
enough for them.”

“Don’t
be daft.”  Sibeal snipped.

“Aye,
it’s fact," back straight, chin up against the humiliation of reality
Maggie admitted.  "Not one of those men would have me now, would they?” 
The silence of the room told her what she already knew.  It was the truth.

“Ach,
lassie,” Muireall sighed, “you should be praising God that you weren’t landed
with those boys.”  Maggie kicked the fire's coals.

“Come
on now Maggie girl,” Neili and Roz beckoned her, “Don’t be listening to them. 
We’ve need of your light hand with the pastry here.”

Fine
ones to talk, those two.  The same age as Maggie and they'd been married for
years and before that they'd been courted by a number of good, decent men. 
Warring men.  They could have them.

“Flattery
now?”  Maggie mumbled, but she went to help them as two men sidle in through
the back doorway.  Maggie snorted.  If they wanted to be invisible, let them
try, but with their size, their sex, and the fact that they were MacKay
Clansmen, and therefore unfamiliar, they weren't likely to be overlooked in a
roomful of women. 

 “Are
you so lazy you want me to help you?”   She asked the two pastry workers.

Neili
and Roz took no notice of Maggie or her taunt.  No one did.  The only response
to her words was the spit of the fat dripping into the fire.  Unlike Maggie the
others couldn't carry on once two strange men had walked into their spheres. 
Huge grins gleamed white against tanned faces, the only features discernible in
the shadow where they stood. 

Predictable
as ever, Muireall preened.  Maggie grunted and chuckled to herself with a quick
glance to see what the men made of her cousin.  Only, they didn't look at Muireall,
didn't seem to notice her at all.  They had their sights fixed firmly on
Maggie.  She swallowed her chuckle, grabbed a dollop of dough.  The feel of it
a familiar distraction, she bent her head to the task, worked the lump of dough
smooth, turning it round and round in her hand.  The men may as well stand
right behind her, breathing down her neck for the way it prickled. 

Fortunately,
Muireall was not one to be ignored.  She went into action, grabbed two mugs
from the counter, splashed ale into them from the pitcher on the table. 
"Is there anything you'd be wanting?" she asked them, her voice husky
with innuendo, as she moved about.   "Drop of ale?" She lifted up the
mugs.  "Bannock cake, perhaps?"  She swiped some off the cooling
rack, and stood in front of the men mugs filled, a plate of steaming cakes on
offer, before they could answer.

Maggie
tried to watch from the side, her eyes cast down.  Muireall stayed with the
men, one hand at her waist, the other holding the pitcher of ale braced on her
hip, her head tilted flirtatiously.  She was a site, for certain.  Men rarely
ignored Muireall, but though the three talked in low murmurs, the men never
dropped their sights from Maggie.  She was trapped in a web that made no
sense.  They were the Bold's men.  They were there in his interest.

Enemies,
to her at least.

Muireall
left them against the far wall and sashayed back to the table. The women
resumed their work.  The men whispered to themselves, bannock cakes gone in a
bite, ales sipped slowly.  Stilted silence hung over the room, testament to
their presence. 

Sibeal,
who would not, could not, let a conversation drop broke the moment to lean over
and pat Maggie's shoulder.  Maggie jerked back in horror even though Sibeal
managed to keep her voice lowered.  

“Maggie,"
Sibeal whispered, "it wasn’t that those boys were better than you.  They
just knew what we already know.” 

With
a hard shake of her head Maggie tried to stop the conversation.  "Leave it
Sibeal, you don't understand."  Propelled by the humiliation, Maggie
worked the pastry flatter and flatter between her palms.  People teased her, as
if her choices were a joke, a bit of fun.  No one understood the shame of it,
of knowing what you want, who you want and knowing that they didn't want you in
return.

 “Maggie,
don't you see?" Sibeal continued.  "You’re just too much for
them."

"Stop
it." Maggie shot a quick glance to see if the strangers had heard.

"She's
right," Neili countered.  "There's nothing to those men, not in body,
not in mind.  You're just too much woman for them.” 

 “Oh,
aye,” the others chorused in comforting whispers.

“Too
much spirit.”  Caitlin chimed in a bit louder.  Maggie shot her a silencing
frown.

Muireall,
who loved to have an audience, ignored Maggie's distress. “Maggie lass,"
she boomed, "Take a look at yourself!  Don't you know, you're just too
much," she hefted her own bosom, "body.”  The word exploded in the
room, followed by a barrage of earthy squeals.

Maggie
glared.  Her curves were no more than God's way of balancing her height,
keeping her in proper proportion.  There was naught she could do about that.

“Oh
aye.”  Leitis trilled, discretion forgotten.  “Can you not hear the gossip
‘Puny Hamish the tailor dies with a smile on his face?  Drowns in the full
bodied womaness of Maggie MacBede.’”

Hoots
filled the air.  Even the MacKay men, who tried so foolishly to blend with the
wall, boomed their amusement.  People would hear it across the loch.  You’d
think the kitchen was full of rough and rowdy men rather than a passel of
women.  And what did any of them know?

“They
were a disgrace measured next to you.”  Leitis offered as she fought to catch
her breath.

Maggie
pressed dough in her hands, thinner and thinner, her head bent to her task,
anger building with each round of pastry. 

These
women knew nothing.  Look at Muireall, who angled for a brute of a warrior
having already lost one husband to the fight.  Didn't they see what they were
asking for?  Did they all wish to feel the loneliness that Muireall suffered?

“You
weren’t made to be the wife of a runt.”

Harder
and harder she turned the dough until it was a circle so fine you could see
through it.  She placed her latest effort on the pile of finished tart shells
and tried to break the flow of humor.  “You know,” she tilted her head, the
shrill crack of her voice the only sign of irritation, “I think it was not
exaggerating you were up to, Neili!  I’m thinking you spoke the truth!  I do
have a fine hand with the dough.”

“Oh
do you?”  Roz elbowed Neili.

“Aye,
I’m thinking that my pastry shells are the best.”

“Well
then, whatever you say, Mistress Margaret.”  Neili winked at Roz.  “And as you
are the best,” Roz sidled away, “you should do them all!”

“You
wouldn’t.”  Maggie hurled the pastry at the giggling girls.

Like
a spirit, appearing from nowhere, Fiona caught the dough in mid-air.  The room
stilled.  Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noted that the men stood
straighter, their smiles wiped clean.

Fiona
sighed at Maggie.  “Enough of chattering and playing, daughter.  You need to be
getting yourself ready.”

“Ready
for what?”  Nosy Muireall asked.

“For
The MacKay, of course."  Fiona answered.  "He is to be our guest.”

"What
does that have to do with me?"  Maggie snapped, not that she wanted to
know.  Not that she wanted any one to know.  But she had opened her mouth and
the worst came out.   Quiet settled on the room.  Maggie sighed.

One
of the MacKay's, so silent up until now, spoke.  "Lady MacBede you speak
as if you know what the Bold is here for?" 

Fiona
shook her head.  “Nay. 

The
man accepted that as answer enough.  This time Maggie's sigh was full of
relief.

Fiona
turned to Simon, "Have some lads send more hot water up to my chamber. 
I’m going to see to the men’s baths."  She faced Maggie again, "And
you, young lass,” she took Maggie’s shoulders, looked her up and down with a
shake of her head.  "Look at the state of you.  Your hair is naught but a
tangled mass.  You need to be seeing to yourself.”

“But
Ma.”

“No
buts daughter.  I'm not knowing the why of it, but the MacKay is here to see
you."  She turned to the men, "Is that much not so?"

Their
stupid grins were back in place.  "Aye, mistress, 'tis a fact."

"Well
then, child," Fiona flipped a strand of Maggie's hair from her shoulder,
"you’d best make yourself worth seeing?”

Nothing,
absolutely nothing, moved within the room except Fiona.   Oblivious to the
reaction she’d created, she swept past the other women. 

The
frozen state lasted for as long as one woman could hold her breath then all
manner of chaos erupted.

“The
MacKay?”

“Oh,
aye, isn’t that a ripe one.”

“Our
Maggie?”

“You
don’t say?  Well, it’s about time.”

“And
here she had us all thinking she was sweet on Hamish the tailor.”