The Handfasting (22 page)

When
she shoved past him, he was too stunned to stop her. She stormed through the
room, tossed down the blanket and whipped a kirtle over her head, settled it to
all the curves he craved to caress. He watched as she wrapped a plaid about
herself, a MacBede plaid, no thanks to her brothers. That was all he needed now.
A fine reminder that she was not his. Not yet.

She
tossed one last glare his way before she stormed out the door. Where ever she
thought to go, he hadna' clue, but he'd leave her to it.

Aye,
she'd lost one brother. One brother out of seven. Her da was still alive, just
as the father of their children would stay alive. Talorc would see to it.

But
she needed to do her fuming. He understood that, too. She needed to run around
and around in her mind, until she was worn weary of the thoughts. Then she
would settle in with him, accept the inevitable.

He
hoped it would happen quickly. He didn't know if he could stand the wait. He
looked at the puddle of blankets on the floor. They'd come so close to being
man and wife.

If
only he'd kept his mouth closed.

* * * * * * * * * *

Mother
, Maggie wrote, then
stopped. She had to be very careful with the way she phrased her life at Glen
Toric. If she told her mother that she was well, that Talorc treated her with
respect and honor, she would be there for the rest of her life.

If
she told her mother that the people of Glen Toric looked up to her, saw her as
a great and wise woman, her mother would never believe it.

But
she would want to.

Mother
. . . Maggie began
again, the point of the quill on the parchment. She pressed, as though that
would bring words to her mind. No cohesive thought came. She lifted the pen tip.
A large drop of black ink marked her lack of inspiration.

Maggie
dabbed the pen against the blotter, as she thought. She hated to waste a whole
piece of parchment for one slight mistake. Unable to look at it, she turned
aside, her eyes narrowed with thought. Nothing. All she could think about was
the black mark and the pitcher of water beside the basin at the end of the
table that was straight in her line of sight.

She
shot a glance at the small wet dab of ink on her paper.

With
an air of innocence, though who she tried to fool she couldna' tell, for no one
else was in the room, she crossed to the pitcher of water, stuck her finger in
and came out with a wetted tip. Carefully, she held her finger upright, with
the drop of water on it, as she walked back to the parchment.

Paper
held at an angle, one flick and her stain became a spilled tear.

Hah! 
She blew, sanded, then waved the paper until it was good and dry and wouldn't
run anymore. She set to her task with fresh enthusiasm.

Mother,

May this find you strong and well. My brothers
will tell you that I am up and about, no thanks to the rock to my head. It
happened on the way to Glen Toric, after I mortally wounded one of the
attacking Gunns. It was my first time in battle. While my soul does shudder
from the memory, the Laird MacKay is quite proud. I think he means for me to
join him in all future battles. To his mind, I am a strong and able soldier.

Strong warrior lass or no, I was felled, down for
three days and four nights. The clan MacKay thought the Gunns had killed me.
But my head can take a stronger bruising than that.

The worst of it was, young Ian came to me in my
dreams, but the MacKay would not let me go to him, so I have no message for you
from that quarter.

She
would not tell her ma about the wee boy. There was no guarantee that it was
Talorc's. She would not encourage her mother to have such thoughts.

Maggie
bent back to her writing.

My head is mending, the headaches are less severe.
The women help to ease my work, especially a woman called Seonaid, so I don't
suffer too terribly... They all say she had no reason to believe the Bold would
marry her. The two are quite close, you see, but he is determined to sacrifice
himself for his people, just as he did with his first marriage. It saddens my
heart to know that I keep the two of them apart. She is ever so full of emotion
when she sees me.

There is talk that he murdered his late wife.

But I am fine. Give my love to our Laird, my
father, and to all the others. It was good to see the brothers. As you have
taught me, I do not let on that my heart is broken with missing my own. Nor do
I allow the brothers to witness the odd way the MacKays treat me. (Do you think
it is because of this Seonaid woman?)  I will keep my silence, so our men will
not fret. They do not have the strength in such things that we women have.

Please, if there is ever any problem at home,
write. I will come to you as swift as a sparrow. If not, I fear Glen Toric is
my judgment.

With all my heart,

Your Loving daughter

Maggie MacBede

It
was a fair bending of the truth, but she was that desperate.

With
quick movements she sanded, blotted and folded the letter, top to bottom and
side to middle, then sealed it with the mark of her broach. The MacBede marking.

With
a deep breath, she stood, stuffed the letter in the cross of her plaid, and
headed to the front of the keep where her brothers prepared to leave. With this
missive, she would wish them God Speed and hope they returned quickly, before
the snow.

She
got to the top of the stairs and stopped. If she was writing letters, it meant
her brothers were truly leaving. She would miss them, terribly. But they would
be back soon. Jamie had, after all, taken a fancy to Lizbeth.

They
would be back.

She
hated goodbyes. Hated leave takings with all that standing about, watching,
trying to find just the right parting words when none would do.

She
dawdled, as if that would keep them there longer, or give her the strength she
needed not to cry with their departure. She went to the kitchen to ask Eilinor
for something special to send with them.

Then
she stopped in the great hall, to have a chat with Eba.

When
she finally reached the great doors, she saw Mary move toward Douglas with
yearning eyes. Too shy, she turned away, hurried up the steps, her head bowed. She
had a piece of MacKay Plaid made into a small packet. She nearly ran into
Maggie.

"Oh.”
She whispered.

Maggie
nodded toward her hand.

"For
your brothers. I thought they might want a parcel with MacKay soil and heather.
They can keep the two together, MacKay and MacBede, for added strength."

Gently,
Maggie took the packet, rubbed the weave of it. "They're very fine, so
soft. Did you weave it yourself?" Mary was one of the girls assigned to
the weaving room.

"Aye,
spun the wool as well."

"It
must be the wool from a kid. It's too soft for anything else."

 Mary
looked uncertain. "Is that not what you do?"

Maggie
laughed, "I'm no dab hand at spinning and weaving. Mine were just scraps
of cloth, not so fine as this. They will be honored, Mary. They will gladly
carry this with them.” She had to fight to get the words past her throat. She
would have to have a word with Douglas. Tell him to look at the obvious. He
could do worse than Mary, and probably no better.

When
she finally made it down the keep steps, the MacBede men were already mounted. Her
delay was meant to make them stay longer, perhaps another day. Instead, she
realized they would have left without any good- bye at all.

"Where've
you been, Maggie girl?” Jamie called out.

"Do
you care? You are ready to ride out without so much as a farewell."

"Thought
it was you, not wanting to say your good-byes, you took so long."

She
tilted her head up, held her tears back. "That's what you know of things. I've
been so long because I went to get sweet cakes for the journey."

"Aye,
so did Lizbeth.” Jamie smiled down at the woman who stood by his horse. "You
women will get us fat."

"You're
certain you won't stay for the winter?" Talorc offered, as he'd done the
night before.

Maggie
frowned. If they stayed, she could not return to The MacBede Keep before spring.
That would be too late. They had to go, and quickly.

"My
mother will fret if they don't return soon."

"Getting
rid of us, sister?" Douglas shouted out.

"Aye,
I have my pride to carry. Don't want you to spoil that with foolish tales of
when I was young."

They
both barked with laughter. "They've heard the stories, Maggie. We didn't
cut our visit that short."

"Come,
little sister, give your old brother a fond farewell." Jamie called out.

They
were really, truly leaving, and if her missive didn't send them straight back,
she may not see them again for . . . it could be years.

Push-pull.
She wanted them to leave. She did not want them to leave.

"Jamie,"
she came up close, clasped his hand. "I've a letter for ma, could you see
that she gets it."

"Aye,
lass. She'd be wanting one and all."

"And,"
she rushed over to Douglas, afraid that tears would start to run down her face.
"Mary made these for the both of you." She handed out the packets,
which the men clutched tight, before stuffing them inside the cross of their
plaid.

"Mary?"
Douglas called out.

"Here,"
she waved from the top of the stairs.

"You’re
a fine woman. We'll be proud to carry your reminder of the MacKays!  Keep our
sister dear."

That
was it. Those were their last words. They, each in turn, eased their horses
over to Maggie, bent for a brief, close hug. They kissed the top of her head,
ruffled her hair with raised brows toward the MacKay, as if to say it was about
time their sister wore a kerchief.

Off
they shot then, through the bailey, and into the MacKay wilderness.

They
were gone so quick, that it was beyond reality for Maggie. She stared at the
path they took, wondering what kind of fool she had been to take so long to
offer her parting. She should have rushed out, first thing, begged them to take
her with them.

She
put her fingers to her mouth, sniffled, but refused to cry.

Eight
days, fortnight at most, and they would be back.

Talorc
put his arm around her, squeezed, but she pulled away.

"I
should have left with them, you know."

She
took a step toward the keep, but he stopped her, his hand to her chin, forcing
her around to face him. "No, I don't know."

"They
are my family."

"And
so are we."

She
shook her head. "No, Bold, you are my friend. They are my family.”

"Maggie,"
but he didn't continue. Instead he took her arm. His hold firm, determined. She
had no choice but to follow his lead, beyond the others, across the courtyard,
to the nearest barn. "Give us space, Domnall.” He said to the lad cleaning
the stalls. Domnall asked no questions, just put down his pitch fork and
scurried out.

Maggie
still at his side, Talorc stood silent, as the barn door closed behind the
young man, then he pulled Maggie around and straight into his arms.

CHAPTER 10 – VOWS

The
rich sweet scent of hay and oiled leather softened the heavy smell of sweat and
horse droppings. Maggie jerked free of Talorc, not realizing how much she
needed the support. Unsteady, she leaned against the wall, refusing to look at
him. Instead, she studied beams of light that filtered between sod roof and
stone wall, watched the dance of chaff floating in that sparse light, and
fought against tears.

"You're
expected to miss them, you know. No one would think unkindly of that."

She
shoved off the stone wall, her arms crossed against a belly so full of emotion she
was afraid of exploding.

"They're
fine men, Maggie. The MacBedes are a fine line. I'll be proud to mix our
bloods."

She
snorted.

"And
what was that for?" He reached, but she pulled away.

"Is
this because of what came between us? Are you afraid of my touch?"

She
refused to answer, she couldn't. It would only open the door to a flood of rash
words flung to hurt. The tumble would reveal Maggie's own weakness, perhaps
even confess a missive just sent.

"Maggie,"
one word, heavy with weariness. "Do you really think the tailor would have
suited you? Or any of the others? Do you really think, if the Good Lord had
wanted you to go that route, you wouldn't already be there? Did it ever occur
to you, that He was saving you for me?"

"No.”
She whispered, horrified his thoughts could so easily mirror hers from
yesterday morning. Then there had been snow on the ground. By mid-day it was
gone and the air mild. Proof she should, could leave.

She
turned to face the stone wall, pushed her head against it, as if to grind away
the confusion that had set so deep inside.

"You've
seen how little prepared we are for guests. You've seen that my people are good,
hard workers, but none of them know how to run a keep as grand as this. But
you’re doing it, lass. The changes you’ve made in a wee bit of time . . .” She
heard him shift, move closer. “I try to do my best, but I need help. You've
been trained to be a Laird's wife. Do you not feel right with it? To have a
purpose? To be in control of your own home.”

Och,
he was right and she hated that. For the truth of his words had the power to
keep her from her home, her people, her family.

“Would
your tailor have given you as much?"

Even
when he'd been out, finding old Micheil, she'd felt at home, at peace within
Glen Toric. She had more reason, more direction, in this past week than  she
had ever experienced. She was no longer a joke, but a woman who had a place.

But
at what cost?

"Maggie,
we can make this work.” Talorc put his hands on her shoulders.

She
dared not move, not one fraction. She yearned too wildly for his touch, was
afraid of her own reaction to it. "Your hands are no comfort.” It was the
truth. It was no comfort knowing she had to wait, to hold off from allowing
what she desired.

He
nudged her to turn, but she resisted. "Let me hold you, lass. No more,
just hold you close so you don't feel so alone."

"No.”
He could keep a hug simple, but Maggie doubted her strength on that score. "No,"
she shoved from the wall, moved away, toward the door. "I would take it
kindly if you would just leave me be, Bold.” She refused to turn and look at
him. "You've brought enough down on me. Don't make me face more than is already
on my platter.”

She
slipped through the opening, closed it behind her, and leaned against it much
as she’d leaned against the wall, in need of something to keep her upright,
when what she truly wanted was to curl into a ball and mourn her brothers’
departure.

She
couldn’t do that here. Silent, eyes closed, she willed herself to move, widen
the distance between them, remove herself from the awful need to have him
closer. He had nestled into her heart, provoked desire. She refused to succumb,
had to keep away, get away.

Eight
days, fortnight at most, and her brothers would be back. She would leave.

If
she could.

She
would.

Maggie
opened her eyes to a courtyard full of MacKays. Hushed, serious, they stared. Her
newfound conviction wobbled as she searched faces, from one to another. A
slight brush of a breeze pulled a lock of hair, tugged at an apron string, the
only movement among them all.

At
the top of the stairs, alone, impressive, stood Seonaid.

Seonaid,
gone with Talorc's departure, despite his order against escape. Back upon
Talorc's return. Seonaid, who everyone whispered about, but none would talk of
openly. At least, not to Maggie.

Seonaid,
who spent last evening close to Maggie's own brothers, therefore close to
Talorc.

Och,
but she goaded a woman.

Maggie
swung the door open again, and stepped inside the shade of the barn. The Bold
stood in the aisle that ran the length of the stalls, his back to her, head
bowed. She must have made a noise, for he looked over his shoulder, frowned and
pivoted half-way.

"She's
out there, Bold.” Maggie snapped. "Seonaid, gone for the length of your
departure, returns with you. She is there every time I look to your side."

"Your
brothers were with me, Maggie. I'd be a fool to have another, with your
brothers right there."

"What
is she? Witch or confidant, to know your comings and goings better than anyone
else?"

Talorc's
frown deepened, but Maggie gave him no time to think.

"Did
you send word to her, of your return?"

Agitated,
he ran his hands through his hair. "Maggie, she's nothing to me but an old
friend. Or she was. She's not such a friend now that we're grown. More a
nuisance, sticky as tar that won't be shed."

"She'd
like to see us fail."

"Will
you give her that?"

The
letter was sent. Maggie would be back with the MacBedes for the winter. Would
the Bold come for her?

"You
push too fast, Bold. You don't give a lass time to think."

"You
only get yourself in trouble when you think."

Tangled
outrage tumbled into gibberish against his slur. He laughed, cheeky fool, aware
he stirred her ire. A deep breath steadied her thoughts.

"What
are you playing at man?" She slammed the great door behind her and stepped
fully into the barn. "You know I'm on a fence here, half in your hold,
half-way back to my ma and da. Yet you make fun of me. As if that will . . .
"

She
backed up, as he moved closer. "Oh, no. Don't you dare come near me."

"Why,
Maggie?"

"Because
I don't want you to touch me."

"Afraid?"
he challenged. "Afraid that you'll want me to touch you all the more? Afraid
that you'll find there's no better man? Afraid it will topple you over into my
hold?"

True,
she was afraid, but she was not fool enough to admit it. She quit her retreat,
stood firm, surprised to see him halt, mid-step.

"Will
you meet my challenge, Maggie MacBede? Will you stand the test of my
touch?"

He
reached out, close enough that she could take his hand, to be tugged into his
hold. Temptation urged, but she still had questions to be answered.

"Do
you love me?"

He
pulled his hand back. "What do you mean, do I love you?"

"Just
what I said, it's that simple."

"I've
traveled over half of Scotland to find you, promised my life to you, and you
ask if I love you."

"You're
doing that for your clan, for the safety of the Highlands."

"Och,
lassie," disgusted, he turned away, his fingers running through his hair. When
he finally turned back, there was a wary defeat in his eyes. "I want you
lass, with every ounce of my body, of my soul. You're full of trouble, but I
still want you. Is that not enough?"

Was
it? "I don't know, Bold. I’ve no ken of what I feel for you either. Don't
you see? There's a fire raging between us, but I've seen a fair number of
lasses and laddies get together because they couldn't keep their hands anywhere
else, and now, well, there's not much there between them but a babe and the
heat of anger."

"There's
more between us, I know there is."

She
took a deep breath. "You may be right, I won't be denying that. I just
don't want to jump straight in, without any thought."

"By
all that's Holy, lass, that's the way you do everything else."

She
spun in a circle, his words a physical thing sending her reeling. She didn't
know whether to counter him or stalk away. But she was not one to run from
conflict.

"Naught's
fair with that!” She marched straight-up to him and shoved. "You aren't
such a temporary thing, now, are you?"

He
grabbed her hands before she could pull them away, lowered his voice, as he
lowered his mouth. "No, lass, there's nothing temporary about me at all,
that's what I've been trying to tell you."

He
kissed her again, the cheeky man. Every time he did that, she forgot all else,
and let him wrap his arms around her, and pull her into him, and kiss her until
. . . she . . . . just  . . . couldna' . . . think . . .of anything but the
touch of his tongue to hers. His lips nibbling her lips. His breath, a
feather’s touch along her neck, in her ear, sending shivers coursing through
her, signaling her lowers to heat and pool.

She
wondered hazily if the two of them were possible, with this to bind them. Would
it be so bad?

"No
lass, not bad. Good, so good."

Had
she spoken aloud? Oh, grief. It was his kisses, if she had just one more, then
she would ask him to stop, but first, she’d let him kiss her neck . . .

"More
than your neck, lass, please, just a wee bit more?"

She
felt him ease her plaid away, free the tie at the neck of her dress. He had to
stop, because she couldn't stand properly on legs gone wobbly.

Without
a word, he hefted her up, touched her lips, a tickle of attention, her eyes,
the side of her neck. Then, there they were, pillowed in sweet hay, the
glorious weight of him pressing her into it. She didn't know how he got them
there, but she was glad of it, glad she could arch her breasts, tease him with
their presence. A sense of glory blossomed.

She
was a woman. The birth of that, deep within her, was heady and powerful. She
caught Talorc's attention by touching her own breasts.

“Let
me.” He ordered, as he held her bosom, lowered his mouth to suckle her through
the cloth of her dress.

"Oh,
Bold."

"Say
my name, lass, say my name, I want to hear it from your own lips."

"Talorc.”
She gave to him. "Hold me, hold me tight, and close."

He
did so, pressed their bodies together.

It
wasn't enough.

"I
want more, I don't . . . yes, please . . . Och, the way you touch me . . . you
stroke like a cat . . . “ Eyes closed she stretched, just like that feline,
despite the agitation, the hunger . . . .

He
slid his hands from hip to the pit of her arm, before allowing them to capture
her breasts,

 
. . . . . . . . . . . .and more

Through
fabric he had one nipple caught between his teeth, the other he teased with his
fingers.

                   .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . and more.

"What
else?" his words whispered across her skin. Lips brushed, body pressed and
his hands, the rough stroke of them, insistent, patient, rough calluses against
soft flesh, reminding again of a cat, the texture of its tongue.

Still,
it wasn't enough. Why would any two people allow such feelings to build when
peace demanded they be quenched?

He
lifted his hips away. She grabbed, urged him back to thrust against her. He
answered her urgency, but only for a moment before he rose to his knees to
straddle her.

Words
fought to rise against desire. "If this was all we had, would it be
enough?"

"We
have this, Maggie," He had his hands full of her breasts, kneading,
squeezing. Just the sight of him poised above her, his eyes hard, intent, made
the heat rise within her. She boiled with want, as she watched his thumbs
slowly draw the loosened neck of her gown down, lower and lower, until the
peaks of her nipples, tender from his teasing, stood firm,

"Oh,
my Maggie, we have this and so much more."

It
was maddening, so much, so very much, and yet, not enough.

"What
we have is as rich and full as your body.” Slow as a thirsty man who sees water
and fears it might not be real, Talorc lowered his mouth to those succulent
peaks. "Aye," he groaned, as he eased his weight onto her, greedy in
his hunger. He lavished her nipples, her breasts with hands and mouth, as his
hips rotated against her in sweet torment.