The Handfasting (19 page)

CHAPTER 6 – ENEMY WITHIN

Bold
couldn’t find Maggie. Naill and Sim had been spotted riding hard for Glen Toric
and he wanted here there, by his side, to greet them. He wanted her with him
when he heard their report.

It
was his own fault. When Deidre suggested they do their best to ensure his Handfasted
enjoyed the MacKays, he never thought they would keep her from him. They played
that game last night.

They
could not play the game in his chamber. Temptation and caution tangled in the
middle of the night. He felt he’d won that round, if sharing a bed was the
prize. He still played the price of caution, furthered by watching her slip,
naked, from the bed.

Temptation.

Soon,
he would make her his wife, but first he had to find out who was working
against the clan.

William
caught up with him at the bottom of the castle steps. "Is it Naill and Sim,
do you think?”

 “Aye,
and none too soon.” He had been waiting for them too long already.

"This
is the first you’ve heard of them since they set off?”

Talorc
nodded. Sim, their best tracker, along with Naill, who was a wily fighter,
pursued the men who attacked Maggie on the road to Glen Toric.

"I
thought we might have lost them.” Talorc admitted with a deep sigh. “I was
about to send you and Bruce out to look for them.”

Bruce
strode into the courtyard, as the two weary riders came into sight. Their
horses lathered and steaming, the men looked no better. They greeted with
familiar grunts, nods, and slaps to the back. The only words spoken were swift
and short. "Ayes" in response to Talorc's, "You're faring
well?" and then Niall's, "Your Handfasted still stands?”

"She’s
a harder noggin than that.” He gave a curt nod. “But let's get inside. You men
have words to give us."

"That
we do, laird," Sim shook his head, "and not good ones either.”

The
riders handed their horses off to a lad, as the five men headed for the keep. By
the time they reached the fire, a pitcher of ale and a plate of cheese had been
set out on a table. The bustle of the great hall quieted, everyone  aware of
the riders’ importance, though none left. People milled about in small groups,
whispering and waiting to hear what was found.

Sim
did not so much sit as collapse at the table, his head bowed low. Niall stood
to the fire, hands out.

"They
know our lands, Laird." Curt and to the point, he didn't look up with the
telling. "They led us straight into our own lands, quick as you please. You
would have thought they knew the way better than we did."

"They
ne'er tried to hide their tracks. Bold as you please, they were. They took us
through MacKay land, then turned, like they were going to go to Gunn territory.
So we followed."

"Could
you name them?"

Niall
turned around, used his knife to cut a hunk of cheese. "They’re not Gunns,
Laird, for they went into Gunn land and played some mischief. We don’t know what
for sure, but, well . . ."

"They
disappeared.” Sim finished. "I lost the track because I was distracted,
see, by the Gunns, or true Gunns, if you will.” He shook his head slowly. "It
doesn't make a wee bit of sense, does it? These men played a trick on the Gunns,
and then the Gunns retaliated against us."

Talorc
held up his hand. "It makes sense, alright. It’s the first thing to make
sense in these past few years, why the Gunns have been picking fights.” He
caught the eye of each of his men, as he admitted. “We’ve not been dealing with
the Gunns. They’re not the ones who have been playing us false. It’s renegades
set on causing trouble.”

Such
a simple thought.

Naill
and Sim looked to each other. “But there are so many of them, all together.”

“They’ve
no honor,” Bruce spit at the ground, “despicable is what they are, too depraved
to live with another. How could they band?” Bruce argued.

“Aye,”
Talorc explained, “their crimes may be inconceivable to us, so despicable we
cast them out. But I wonder if they don’t boast among each other. Hearts of
thieves.”

Naill
shook his head, “They had naught to lose, but they’ve always been too busy
fighting amongst themselves to be any sizeable threat.”

 That
they banded together to cause mischief was a fearsome thought. Bold thought of
the altars, of the way they tried to get Maggie, and scanned the room to see
that she was there, that she was safe.

The
danger made too much sense. If the renegades had come together, they did so
with a strong leader. A man Talorc should have killed himself, rather than ban.

So
what had they done, what contemptible act on Gunn land, brought retribution on
the MacKays?

“You
said retaliation, did you not? What do you mean? What retaliation are you
talking about?"

"The
one that sent us back here, before tracking those men again."

"So
you said, but vengeance for what?"

Both
men halted, looked to each other, then at their laird. It was Naill who finally
said, "Old Micheil has been taken."

Talorc
froze.

"Taken?"
Bruce bellowed. "What do you mean, taken?"

"Our
whiskey man's been taken and all his supplies, or what they could carry. What
they couldn’t take,” Naill’s eyes filled with tears. “They smashed to pieces, Laird.
Nothing left of all you planned. Nothing.” And he hung his head, as Talorc
looked from one man to the other.

“Everything?”

“Aye.”
Naill acknowledged. “Sim tracked the kidnap, that's why we didna’ finish
tracking those others. Sim knows where Old Micheil is."

Cold
ran down Talorc's spine. Old Micheil kidnapped along with his whiskey making
equipment. Not an easy task. The master distiller, and their new scheme, was
the most closely guarded secret of the clan.

Stunned,
he looked up and there she was, Maggie, at the threshold of the great room,
with Deidre’s daughter, Eba. He hadn’t told her what they were about because he
wanted to show her, to take her around the MacKay’s land and show her. There
had been no time.

Now,
their plans had been destroyed. Someone outside of the clan had known where the
whiskey man lived and what he was about.

The
MacKays were a taciturn lot, stingy with words that needed saying, let alone
those forbidden to be said. It was against their nature to share a secret. Kill,
thieve, be a scoundrel, yes, but a traitor, never. It was contrary to who they
were. Loyalty was taught from birth. A clan was family, their bond meant
sustenance for more than food. It was a tightly woven support system. Who would
betray that or even want to?

“What
about the guards?”

“There
was a skirmish, it drew men away.” William cursed, but Naill stopped him. “Patrick
stayed behind but was overtaken, a rock to his head, much as your Handfasted. He’s
up and about now and with the others. They’re bringing Old Micheil’s family to
the keep.”

Of
all his worries, he could never have anticipated this. “For them to learn of
Old Micheil, it had to be one of our own.”

He
searched the room again and found her, his Maggie, standing in the shadows,
near enough to have heard what they had said, without knowing the significance
of it.

 Windblown,
she carried fresh air and sunshine. New beginnings, that was what she meant. It
was time now, to tell her.

“You
wouldn’t be knowing.” He had to look away, to gather himself for the importance
of what he had to say. When he looked back, he wondered if it had been right to
wait, to not have told her sooner what she meant to the clan. Just why he
pushed so hard to have her with him now, rather than later. “We’ve been
preparing things for trading. It’s a new idea, because of you.”

“Me?”

“Aye,
you.” He smiled, for he knew how she would feel about this. “Your brother, your
Ian, shared a story about you, for a laugh.” He crossed to her, ready to tell
her the clan’s secret.

 “Laughing
at me?” She shook her head. “That sounds like any one of my brothers.”

“I’ve
come to see that, but they don’t laugh at you Maggie, they laugh with the joy
of who you are.”

She
pulled in on herself then, crossing her arms before her. “And what was it they
said?”

“Well
now, before you hear what it was, you need to know that it was not so funny, as
it made good practical sense.”

Maggie
stood firm. “Go on then, what was he laughing about?”

“Whiskey.”

“No
surprise there, they are fond of their whiskey.”

“And
you’re full of telling them so.”

She
snorted. “Waste of time, that.”

“And
you told them, if they drank less, they could trade what was left and wouldn’t
have to be raiding and fighting to keep their families alive.”

He
didn’t touch her, just stood close and watched, as countless emotions shifted
her features, like clouds across the sky. Her awed, “You’re preparing whiskey
for trade?” made him feel proud, fueled him with the same excitement the
original idea had inspired.

“Aye.”
He knew his smile was grand, for the idea of it, the pure simple idea of it. “We’ve
been trading whiskey in a small way for the whole of our lives, but the demand
has not been so great until now, with Old Micheil. He’s the finest whiskey
maker in these lands.” He rubbed his hands together. “He’s the best in the
world, and why we haven’t thought to pursue trading I canna’ tell.”

“You’re
going into business.” She couldn’t seem to get past the thought. “Why have you
not told me of this?”

“It’s
still early days, Maggie. We don’t know if it will work. But we do know it all
started with a wee thought from you.”

She
braced herself against a table. “You’ve buckled my knees, that you’re . . . I
mean . . . you wouldn’t need to be fighting.”

He
steadied her, sighed. “Maggie, we aren’t there yet. And fighting is something I
will have to be about.” He was going to tell her that he would be about it
soon, this very day, but she didn’t give him the chance to finish.

“Because
the whiskey maker has been taken and all the supplies you’ve been setting up?”

“Aye.”
Talorc took her by the shoulders. “He’s been taken, and everything we’ve been
trying to put together has been broken or stolen, but we know where to find
him.”

“How
many know of your plans?”

And
that was the worst of it. “Only the closest to me in the clan, Maggie. Only
those on the inside.”

            
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The
Bold turned to his men, as Maggie stepped back into the shadows. Diedre and
Ingrid were busy filling the table with more food and pitchers of ale. Maggie
should be doing that herself, it was time she got involved, made a place for herself
here, but she couldn’t move.

He
had taken her idea and turned it into reality. Or, at least, he was trying to. He
had taken her seriously.

She
couldn’t stop staring at him. Like a moonstruck lass, she found the line of his
cheek, the lay of his hair, the way words formed on his lips, utterly
fascinating. Even the bend of his body, as he reached across the table for a
hunk of bread, teased her senses.

He
believed in her. The idea of it blew away any resistance she concocted. She had
lost the fight to be free of him. Had fallen hard for a great big bear of a
beast. A beast who could be tender and caring.

That
changed nothing, though. He was a fighting man. There would always be call for
that. She had to face it, challenge it, or accept it. Like her family, she was
prone to fight rather than accept. It didn’t bode for a peaceful marriage.

His
men talked on top of one another, but not Talorc. He stood still, silent, a
warrior steeled and ready for battle. He would have all his senses opened. Aye
and he did too, for he turned as though he knew she watched him.

She
was selfish enough that she did not want him to go, even as she knew he had no
choice, not this time. With his going was the chance he would not return.

She
spun away, accepting that which she had promised herself she would never accept.
She had given her heart to a fighting man. The fear of it rose to her throat.

Hand
shaking, she reached into the pouch at her side and found the packet; a bit of
plaid that held soil and heather, a gift from the MacBedes upon her leaving. Her
most cherished possession.

“Maggie.”
He spoke to her. She brushed away tears, not wanting him to see the ridiculous
reaction that swallowed her whole. Even when she turned to him, she couldn’t
respond, couldn’t get words past her throat.