The Handfasting (21 page)

“Bold,”
William pulled him aside. “We’ve no’ much time, but no one locks anyone in the
caves.”

“Where
was the guard?”

William
shook his head. He didn’t know, not yet, but they would.

Maggie
had been alone when she had come to him. Where were the friends she had made? Where
was Deidre?

William
continued. “You need to put a guard on her. Put extra patrols on the comings
and goings of the keep.”

It
was worse than that. Talorc rubbed at his side, the injury that had only just
healed. “It’s not someone from the outside William. Do you not get that? It has
to be someone who’s close to us, calls the keep their home. It’s a friend,
William, it’s family.”

Bruce
joined them. “Bold, there’s something you should know. This morning, when she
looked for Eba, your handfasted tripped on the stairs from the castle.”

“The
outer stairs?”

“Aye,
only now I believe her, where before I couldn’t. It didn’t seem possible, but
she didn’t trip, she was pushed.”

CHAPTER 8 – A LAIRD’S WIFE

The
dark loomed, the fireplace banked to barely a glow and Brutus, that great beast
of a dog, made the most horrid of sounds. Maggie was not frightened. She had
her two protectors, Gerta and Caitrina. The whiskey man’s wife and daughter who
had come to the keep for safety. They had arrived as Talorc and his men were
setting out.

She
wished he hadn’t, but Talorc explained to the mother and daughter that Maggie
did not like the night. Not only had they insisted on sleeping with her, they
made sure she had the middle. Talorc would owe her for this, having her
squashed between an old woman who made noises Brutus could be proud of, and her
daughter, who continuously puffed the covers with hot wind.

There
would be no cabbage in tomorrow's dinner. Not that it wasn't too late already. The
bed would never be the same.

Maggie
scowled and rolled to face Gerta, only to be poked by straw coming through the
mattress. She shifted, fidgeted, and tried to focus on something other than her
sleeping companions.

There
certainly was enough on her mind for, thanks to the Bold’s belief in her, she
had found her calling. She hadn’t known, hadn’t realized what her mother had
always known. Maggie had been prepared for this moment from the day she had
been born.

Maggie
knew how to organize, dictate and turn ideas into reality, and she was doing
just that with all but one plan. Not that she had time to do any more than had
already been set in motion, but her one scheme was essential to the clan’s
benefit. It was a gift she could give to The Bold.

Unfortunately,
he banned anyone from leaving the castle and set a guard on Maggie herself; so,
her most important task would have to wait.

In
the meantime, she had an army of MacKays to accomplish an almost overwhelming
load of work. In that case, Talorc’s ban worked in her favor. Just as he
forbade anyone to leave the castle, he had ordered crofters to move inside the
grounds. There were some who would have preferred the risk of attack rather
than face Maggie’s demands.

The
first project was inspired by huge sacks of fleece confiscated in the last
raids.

“Whiskey
isn’t the only thing you can trade.” Maggie told the women, “But you’ll need
more spun wool than you can produce with hand spindles.”

She
rounded up the woodworkers and a few young lads to help, and set them to
building spinning wheels to be followed by enough looms to fill the long shed
behind the castle. “If you do several of each piece, as you go, then you don’t
have to stop and change tools as often.” She explained and left them with the
promise that the Bold would be well pleased if they had accomplished their work
before his return.

If
he returned. The fear haunted, but it was a familiar fear. She knew how to live
with the nag of it.

 While
the men were busy with sawing and sanding, she set the women to work in the
weaving sheds. Those best at spinning spent their days there. The dyers worked
in another out building, coloring the wool as quickly as those who had an eye
for design could come up with patterns, for they didn’t care to have others
wear the MacKay plaid.

She’d
set a batch of women to string what looms were available. Everyone took turns
between everyday chores and working in the weaving, spinning and dying sheds,
while the older children kept an eye on the younger babes.

The
castle bustled with happy excitement and purpose. But it was not enough.

Talorc
warned her the household had been without personal care for too long. He had
spoken true. One snap of a tapestry corner produced a cloud that had her
coughing for the rest of the day.

Fair
enough, the women were busy so she went to the men, surprising their wives and
mothers in her ability to get men to clear the floor of thrushes, gather more,
remove the tapestries from the walls. “Far too high for a lass,” one man
explained. And used their might to swat the dirt from them “Sturdy lasses as we
have in the MacKay’s, they’ve no arm for this.”

They
didn’t scrub the floors, but once Maggie was down on her knees, bucket and
scrub brush in hand, women came to join her.

With the help of dozens of children,
on a lone, hard fought for, adventure beyond the
walls of the castle, Maggie managed to gather of fresh flooring.

She
took account of the furniture, noted what needed fixing and made a list of new
pieces to be made. Once the woodworkers were done with the spinning wheels and
looms, they would get to that.

It
seemed as though the men were gone forever, as there was even time to brush out
the fireplaces and free the chimneys of soot. Outbuilding roofs were checked
for leaks and a passel of boys were hard at work mending what they could. It
was too late in the season to thatch, but they would be prepared for spring.

But
what, of the numerous tasks, should she attack next? Clearing out the kitchen
storage? She was determined to return to those caves, except Talorc had them
closed off. No one could enter without a guarded escort. Not that the area was
quiet. She had seen soldiers going in with torches. Searching, she figured,
looking to see if an attack could come from there.

He
prepared for a full attack, brought the crofters inside the walls, his men busy
searching for weak points.. So far, other than the attack in the woods, the enemy
had used stealth, setting one clan against each other. The Bold would be wise
to meet with the Gunns, to put aside their differences.

The
Gunns were not at fault. If Anabal hadn’t died, all the losses, all the
battles, could have been averted because the two clans would have communicated.

Anabal.
Talorc’s late wife, God rest her soul. Not a woman Maggie cared to think about,
hadn’t thought about her in days. Just the idea of her conjured images. Fragile
and fair, that's what she had been. Maggie knew this because she had asked. Beathag
thrilled to talk about 'her' Anabal, the perfect lady, who never dirtied
herself with chores.

Not
like Maggie did.

Anabal
had been beautiful, winsome, and petite. Gerta snorted that she was no more
than another useless Gunn, but then Gerta was proving to be fiercely loyal to
Maggie. The question rising was whether Talorc had adored the woman, loved her?
Their relations had been fruitful, produced a bairn. Bless his soul and all.

Anabal.

Talorc
would have kissed her, wrapped her in his arms, pressed their bodies together.

Maggie
froze. Couldn't breathe.

He
would have mated with the other woman. . . . in . . . . this . . . . bed!

Maggie
muffled a scream, kicked her way from under the covers, and scurried out and
down the mattress.

"What
. . . huh?” Both Gerta and Caitrina looked at Maggie, who had leapt off the end
of the bed, to land right next to Brutus' head. The dog jumped and barked, the
hair on the back of his neck bristling at the unknown danger. The door flew
open and a sleepy eyed guard ran into the room, his dagger out and ready to
defend.

A
guard at all times was a nuisance. Especially now. She blinked. Thankful she
wore a shift to bed.

She
cleared her throat. Everyone stared at her. "I . . . I just couldna’
sleep."

"Me
either," Gerta hefted a hearty sigh, "It's worrying about our men
folk."

It
was Maggie's turn to stare. Gray hair disheveled, lines from the pillow creased
Gerta’s cheek, her eyes heavy with sleep.

"It's
near enough to dawn." Caitrina offered. "We might as well get up
now."

"Aye,"
Maggie lied, "that's all I was doing. Rising for the day.” The guard
nodded, yawned broadly and backed out of the room, as Maggie added, "I
have a task for us to work on today."

Caitrina
sighed, "As you always do."

"Of
course," Maggie frowned, "There's much to do to run a keep."

"Then
I'll stick to my crofter's cottage, thank you very much." Gerta snorted. "What
is it this time?"

”The
beds.” She rushed out. "We need to freshen up the beds before winter.” The
kitchen could wait.

The
women looked at each other.

Maggie
moved up and ripped the covers from the mattress. "Empty the mattresses,
toss the old filling, and scrub the ticking. The beds will smell sweet with new
fill. We can wash the blankets as well. If it's as sunny today as it was
yesterday, they'll dry in no time."

"There
are plenty of beds and pallets in this keep."

"Aye,
and my guess is they haven't been cleaned and aired since Talorc's mother was
alive."

Gerta
humphed. "You would probably be right in that. They've probably just put
more straw and heather in, without changing what was there."

"Ooohhhh!”
Caitrina scooted away from the bed. "There must be a thousand bugs in that
thing!" she started to scratch, as if the mention of the critters caused
the bite.

"Aye,"
Gerta agreed.

"We'll
start with this one." Maggie didn't wait for their help before she
stripped the mattress from the frame.

CHAPTER 9 – DECISIONS MADE

The
Bold was back.

Unnerved
by his presence in the chamber, Maggie pulled a cover about her and rose to open
the shutters and look at the courtyard below. A feathery carpet covered the
ground that would soon turn to slush, melt in the warmth of an autumn day. Harmless
in itself, it signaled heavier snows to come.

Her
chance of leaving was slipping away and she so desperately needed to go, to see
her family, to follow a plan she was determined to see through.

Talorc
returned last night with a swooping kiss for Maggie, a dizzying spin in his
arms, and a tale that had kept the whole of the clan mesmerized. There had been
a battle, the sorrow of a man lost, but they had freed the whiskey maker and
the tools of his trade, at least those that hadn’t been destroyed.

And
he'd returned with two of her brothers.

James
and Douglas, the two who had no wives or families to leave behind, had come to
see how Maggie fared. They said their mother fretted for news of her. But, of
course, the fight had to come first.

They
were riding straight for Glen Toric when they found The Bold riding out to
fetch Old Micheil. They rode with him rather than go to the MacKay keep to see
their baby sister.

She
braced herself on the window sill, filled her lungs with the cool air.

They
cared little for Maggie's request to go home. Quiet requests, private, gained
when she cornered each, as they left the hall as men will do when they've been
drinking pots of ale.

"Och,
Maggie, give a man some peace.” Douglas had groused.

"But
I can't speak freely in there."

That
caught his attention.

"Why
not, Maggie? From what I see, you’re treated better here than at home. And
you've got the run of the place. Look what you’ve done.” He’d looked amazed.
“The Bold sees the changes you’ve made with more pride than he sees his own success.
You're a true Laird's wife, what you were raised to be."

"I'm
not his wife."

He
laughed, like all men do over shared secrets no woman would understand. "Not
yet, you're not. But it won't be long now.” And he walked away, as if any plea
she would make was worthless.

Everyone
believed Talorc would have his way, and he would. Not even she could deny that.
But she had to make him wait, until she was settled in herself. Then she would
become his wife. After she went home.

There
was only one option left. She would get a note to her mother. Her ma had been
fretting. If Maggie could make her fret enough, her ma would send for her.

She
had to.

Before
there were any more kisses or touches.

She
closed her eyes, willed herself to forget them. Even as she tried, memories
seeped through her body, her mind’s eye picturing his great broad hand roaming
over her flesh. She believed him when he said that, should they mate, she would
never be the same.

She
had to go. Frantic, she looked about, as if to find escape within the chamber,
then stilled. Time. That’s all she wanted. Time to say good-bye to her people. Time
for the Bold to realize he wanted her as she was, or he didn’t want her at all.

Travel
was still possible. The snow from the night was so light it didn't even hide
the charred remains of the bonfire that had been lit for Samhain. Samhain. The
night she missed. A night she had waited for from the moment she knew of young
Ian's death. There would have been costumes, laughter and a wee bit of fear. The
night would have been full of ghosts. She had counted on that, waited and
waited for it. She had promised Ian.

Ian
. . . Ian and a child. She blinked, as if to switch her mind to another time. She
had seen them, or dreamt of them. Ian had spoken to her of a child, a young
Ian, who was similar and yet, different, than the brother Maggie remembered.

“. . . time for those who have passed on, and time for those to be born
. . ."
Ian had promised to
take care of the babe.

"It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to you, Maggie,
but Ian?”

She
twisted around, to see where Talorc lay, deep in sleep. Once she was with child,
there would be no travel, no going home to see her own people. Between carrying
a child, nursing a child and conceiving another, it could be years before she
ever left Glen Toric.

She needed to go home, now.

Again,
she looked to the huge man, fast asleep upon the floor. The hound's great,
square head was up, eyes focused on Maggie. Lazily, Brutus shifted, rose from
the hearth, brushed up against her leg and stopped, to lean against her his
head high enough that she could run a hand over it without bending. She
scratched behind his ears, smiled as his back foot thumped in time with the
caress. He leaned so hard she had to brace herself. Somehow it managed to make
her feel better, enough that she scrunched down beside him, to hold that
massive noggin against her, stroke his long silky ears.

"You're
a great beast, just like your owner."

"I'm
not such a beast." Talorc argued. Both Maggie and the dog spun about to
see him still lying there, eyes closed.

"You
are to me.” She stood, let the dog abandon her for the man. It was just as
well.

Talorc
stretched and sputtered against the dog’s eager licks. When he'd brushed Brutus
aside, he opened his eyes to see Maggie, wrapped in an old blanket, the sunrise
to her back. She was tall and disheveled and utterly delectable.

"How
old are you now, Maggie?"

"Oh
Bold," she gave a mock sigh, "What kind of man are you, to take on a
lass before you even know her age?"

"Twenty."

"I
was."

"Twenty-one
then?"

"What's
the day?"

"You've
been with me for near on a month."

"November’s
nearly gone?"

"Aye."

"Then
I'm twenty-one."

He
thought about what she was saying. Just twenty-one. Twenty when they met. He'd
been so busy getting her to join him, taking her away from her home, that he'd
never thought of her age, or when it would change.

"You're
a woman, fully grown.” He couldn't think of much else to say. He certainly
wasn't about to make apologies. There was no stopping with those. "Time
you're married, with a family, Maggie."

She
looked down, then away and he realized he'd hit a tender spot. She'd have been
miserable with the tailor, or the bard. Talorc knew it, deep in his bones. The
good Lord hadn't saved her for him by mere accident. Any other lass, as special
as his Maggie, would have been married by the time she was nineteen. But not
this one. She was meant to be a MacKay, the Laird's wife. She was meant to be
his.

"What
makes you so sad, girl."

She
leaned out, over the window sill, her face to the freshness of the outdoors.

"Do
you think the child was yours, Talorc?"

He
stilled. Wondered which child she meant, and could only think of one. Someone
had told her about Seonaid's lad. Silence was not easily won within his keep.

"Child?"
he would let her clarify.

She
frowned, as though he had disappointed her by not knowing what she meant.

"The
one Ian held."

He
rose, wrapped his plaid around his waist slowly while the punch of her words
settled. Even the thought of the bairn and his body stirred for the making.

A
child.

Their
child.

"Aye.”
He told her and crossed to where she stood within the room, with him, yet so
terribly alone. "Give us a chance, Maggie. You will see.” He placed his
hands on her shoulders, his lips to her hair. She smelled of the outdoors and
woman. A combination that completed the rearing of his manhood and near buckled
his knees.

"Don't,
Talorc.” She tried to pull away, and, though he lightened his hold, he did not
release her. "You do not like my touch?” He rubbed his hands along her
arms, to soothe, but she stiffened. This was not like his Maggie. He tried
again, one last effort. "My lips against you?” He bent to her neck, where
he nuzzled her with warm breath, and butterfly kisses. She whimpered, he heard
it even as she tried to stifle the sound. She trembled. His head came up, to
see what was in her eyes.

Tears.
He released her.

"Is
my touch that bad that it brings you to tears?” Instead of answering she
reached up, wound her arms around his neck and, with a wobbly voice, ordered,
"Kiss me, Talorc. Just this once."

He
clasped her head, looked straight into eyes green as spring leaves, and just as
damp. He could barely breathe. "Are you sure, Maggie?"

She
sniffled, nodded. "Just this once. I need you  . . ."

He
didn’t understand the stricture, on last time, but there was no waiting for her
to explain. He wanted to go slow, to ease and woo, but her confession slayed
his intentions. He crushed her, his lips hungry and urgent on hers.

She
wanted him. She didna' want to, but she wanted him. Needed him. The proof was
in the way she matched his hunger, met the fever of his kisses. She did this
every time they came together, from inexperienced maiden, she flamed to
temptress. Without taking his lips from hers, he reached down and caught her
behind the knees, to lift her to his chest. She angled her body toward him, her
breast crushed to his.

As
he crossed to the bed, he released her lips, nudging the blanket from her
breast to greedily suckle her. She cried out, startled, stunned as he laid her
on the bed, careful not to put his full weight on her. She pulled at him
anyway, as though she welcomed it, as if she could not get enough of him. Her
back arched, her breast raised for better access.

Oh,
Lord, her impulses played havoc with his intentions. If she was hungry for his
suckle, he would give it to her. In age old rhythm, her hips moved against him,
he added his own measure, lifted enough to look at her eyes glazed with
passion, her body a ripe offering. He groaned.

"Why,
Talorc?" she breathed, more than spoke. "Why do ya' make me feel like
this?"

"Because
you're mine, and your body knows it, even if you don't."

"No,
I'm not yours. Not yet, anyhow.” Her eyes cleared. Desperate to distract, he
urged his hardness against that soft apex he craved and watched as her head
bowed back. A soft moan left her lips. "Oh Talorc, you make me . . ."

"I
make you mine."

He
should have kept his mouth shut. Even before the words were uttered, she was
fighting the haze of sensuality.

"Not
now,” she argued, “I’m not ready to be yours."

"You
can't fight it Maggie." She tried anyway, tried to push him off of her,
but he held her still, just long enough to say, "It's good for the clans. It's
what your body wants, I want. Accept it Maggie. We are meant to be."

"No,"
she rolled away, off the bed, to tug at the blanket, pinned beneath him.

He
let it go, watched as she wrapped it securely about herself. Her breasts now
flattened and hidden. He tried not to moan as he got off the bed.

Timing
was everything.

"Maggie,
you are fighting a losing battle. You want me as desperately. . "

She
didn't let him finish, didn't let him calm the way, before she turned on him,
shoved at his chest.

"All
fine and dandy for you!” She ranted, her passion turned to anger. "You’re
preparing for a war. What happens when you don't come home from the fight? What
happens when the likes of Seonaid make promises of sweetness to you, when you
have a wife as tart as sour apples? Will you be true to me, then? In your
heart?"

"Don't
bring Seonaid into this. She's naught to do with us!" He would have to
tell her about Seonaid, claims that her child was his, but not now, not yet. Maggie
was too upset to give him the chance.

"Seonaid,
battles, whatever. You have all manner of mistresses!  What happens if one of
those becomes spiteful? What happens if the battle turns against you? Sends you
to the otherworld?"

She
stopped, glared at him, as though her fears were already truth. "You'll be
fine and dandy in your celestial home, but what of me? Left all alone with no
chance to meet another that compares with you. Left to raise a small tyke who
will grow up to be just like his father? Another warrior to desert me.” She
took a breath, her hands at her blanket. "And don't go telling me that he
won't grow up to be just like you, because he will, just as my brothers grew up
to be like my da. Just like you grew up to be like the great warrior whose seed
you carry. He'll grow up to go out and fight and leave his mother broken with
pain."