Torn (The Handfasting) (15 page)

"If
you’re the man your clan thinks you are, if you're the Bold, then prove it. Have
the courage to take me as your wife. Have the courage to risk the planting of a
babe. Prove it to me by the morn, or I swear I will leave knowing you’re
nothing but a . . . a . . . trembling. . ."

"Don't
say it Maggie."  He warned.

"Are
you going to prove me wrong?"  She sassed.

His
jaw twitched. "Do not say that word again."

"Stop
me."

"Maggie,"
his threat rumbled through her, goaded her.

"Coward." 
She brazened, then spun on her toes, hefted her skirts and took off, three
steps.

Suddenly
she was airborne, flipped and hanging over his shoulder.

Her
head popped up, to see a crowd of faces, as stunned as she felt. And then they
started to grin. It was contagious. Old Gerta winked at her. Maggie had to duck
her head, from embarrassment.

She
meant to confront him, push him to take her back, but in doing so she'd made a
public spectacle out of their bedding.

He
didn't go to the keep, but headed straight to the stables, where they'd first
come together, as man and wife.

"Out,"
she heard him roar at the men tending the livestock.

There
were no empty stalls, but there was a soft mound of hay, where it was stored. He
set her down, on her back as the last man left the barn with a slam of the
latch.

"Coward?" 
He stood above her, hands on his hips.

She
swallowed, half exulted, half afraid. She wasn't at all certain he was above
throttling her. And deserve it she did. She had pushed harder than she meant
to, but couldn't back down now. "You could prove me wrong."

"You
want to be married to a coward?"

Even
her voice shook with nerves. "I want to be married to the Bold."

"We
never exchanged the gifts."

Excitement
surged. "We could now."

"Aye." 
He nodded slowly, reached up, removed the pin that held his plaid at his
shoulder. The fabric fell to the floor, to lie like a train behind him.

"Here."
He handed the broach to Maggie. "If you look, you will see wheat in the
design."

She
took it in her hand as tears came to her eyes. He cradled her face in his
hands, his thumbs brushing at the moisture as he spoke.

"May
this wheat be a symbol that I vow to provide for my home."

It
was her turn. She too, took the broach she had hastely clipped to a plaid she
wrapped around her.  There’d been no time to dress before confronting the
Bold.   It was the MacBede plaid. Her mother had removed MacKay plaids, despite
Maggie’s argument. Now it held good purpose. She unwrapped it, leaving herself
in naught but a kirtle.

It
took her a moment, for her hands trembled, but she managed to fold it while
Talorc waited. When she handed it to him, a symbol of weaving and sewing, she
said, "As I will provide for our home."

He
removed his dagger, placed it in her hands, held silent as the intensity of the
moment gathered around them. He looked to the beams of the old barn, as if
garnering the courage to go forward. With tender tears his gaze finally met
hers.

"I
vow to protect our home."  His hands cupped hers, "And I do Maggie. With
all my strength, and with your insight and . . . "  she stopped him, by
resting her head against his mouth, against his words.

If
they had been prepared, if they had known this moment was coming, she would
have had a Bible ready, to give to him with her own pledge of protection. But
there was no Bible, only their hearts.

She
trusted that God would be with her as she whispered. "You vow the protection
that comes from the blade. I vow the protection that comes from the hilt of the
dagger." She traced the line of it as she spoke, "A cross for the
strength of faith. But together," understanding where she was going, he
placed his hands on hers, again, so they could hold the hilt as one. "Together
we will face the crosses that life bears. We will be united in each other, in
our home, in our love."

"Together,"
Talorc promised, "We will fight our battles as one, and never let them
tear us apart."

Symbol
or no, the dagger was thrown aside as he pulled Maggie into his arms. "I
don't deserve you."

She
tilted her head so she could look up at him. He truly believed what he had just
said, as if she were someone precious and special. But she had been raised with
a team of brothers, who had wailed that they didn't deserve her either. Only
they didn't mean it in a good way. She couldn't help but tease. "Oh, trust
me. You deserve everything I have to give."

His
eyes sparkled, "Do I?" and she knew he thought of something else
entirely.

She
stepped back, "Like the sharp edge of my tongue."

He
advanced. "Twined with mine."

"I'll
go toe to toe with you."

"It
would be easier if you just wrapped your legs around my waist."

"We'll
butt heads."

He
laughed. "I've a head that would love to have you take it on."

"Talorc!" 
She shouted, hands on hips. "I mean it. I'm not nearly as good and
precious as you make me sound."

"And
delicious. Don't be forgetting that, now."

She
looked to the barn door, aware that the clan was out there waiting for results.

Just
as they had once before.

"Maggie,
we're married, because you insist. Are you now going to pretend we aren't doing
what's necessary to bear an heir?"

She
was stuck on 'insist.'  "Are you going to write the church and tell them
you were forced?"

His
smile was huge.

"Oh,
no you won't." she stormed for the door. His hand slammed against it,
trapping her with his body.

"I
love it when you get riled."

She
couldn't look at him. "Good thing."

"Come
here lass."

She
didn't have an option, not that she wanted one, for he had pulled her flush to
him.

"Do
you feel that lass?"  Aye, she could feel the heat of him, as well as the
hard hunger of him. He shifted his hips as if she could miss it otherwise. Maggie
rolled her eyes.

He
prodded. "Do you believe the church would let me claim that you forced me
to feel like this?"

"I
could have seduced you."

His
chuckle rustled her hair. "Maggie, every time your name floats through my
thoughts, I'm seduced."

She
moaned against her own desire.

"Do
you want me too, Maggie?"  The arrogance was gone from his voice.

"Aye." 
She wanted him.

"Why?"

"Don't,"
she grabbed at his head, pulled him down to kiss her.

"I
have to know, Maggie. I have to know why you want to be married, why you want
to stay."

The
arrogance had been traded for anguish. She pulled back, to search his eyes. "I
could ask you the same."

He
groaned. "Don't you know?  Don't you know how I've felt from the moment
you landed in my arms?"

"Your
hands."

It
was a sorry sort of chuckle. "My hands. From that moment I knew I had to
have you for myself. Selfishly. No care for you. I had to have you.

"And
then you came into my life, all soft yet strong. Vulnerable yet ready to jump
into the fray. You caught my heart Maggie. I love you, desperately. I'm
famished for you."  He buried his face in her neck, kissing, suckling,
shifting to her ear, the rise of her cheek, her eyes.

He
cupped her face in his hands, and stopped kissing her, though she sensed it
wasn't easy.

"Tell
me. Can you handle the depth of my love for you?  Does it make me weak in your
eyes?  Because if that's true, you might as well run now."

"No."
she shook her head. "No. Love takes courage. A man has to be Bold to admit
to it."  She traced the line of his cheek, "And I love you Bold, with
the same hunger, the same need, the same blush with the thought of your name.”

She
stood on her toes, to whisper to his lips, "In this we are equal."

He
lifted her into his arms. "Do you know what that means?"

"No,"
she shook her head.

"It
means we're both too desperate to make it any further than this barn."

And
they were.

THE
END

THE PROTECTOR

DUE FOR RELEASE WINTER OF 2013

The
Protector©2009Martha E Ferris

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction.  Any resemblance to actual events
or persons is coincidental.

Roland
looked about his bed chamber. Ten years ago, when he'd left for crusades, this
had been his father's room. That shouldn't have changed.

He
crossed to the bench by the fire, stretched his legs so Ulric could remove his
boots.

"There
were representatives of the king here, to welcome you home." Still naïve
enough to be impressed by royalty, even watered down versions of the King's
aide, Ulric reflected on the night.

Roland
didn't respond. Having spent the entire evening with emotions clamped tight, he
was not about to say what he thought now.

As
Ulric pulled Roland's tunic over his head, the young page murmured. "Your
sister Margaret was here."

Cowed
goose! The curse was silent, the only thing Ulric would have heard was a grunt
of agreement.

Yes,
Margaret was here, with her husband and family and their retinue of servants.
And yes, the King's men were here, as well, ready with invitations from court
for Sir Roland. Neighbors, friends, fellow knights all here for Roland's
homecoming after ten years absence.

But
his wife wasn't here, nor his father. Not even his best friend.

Two
of those three were dead and one was responsible for those death.

"Leave!"

Ulric's
head shot up.

"Just
go," Roland muttered wearily, embarrassed by his outburst, as if he cared,
truly believed, deep inside, that his wife would be the same sweet child he
left behind.

 "I
can certainly undress myself. Go."

Ulric
bowed and stepped back. "I'll be on the other side of the door, my lord.
In the ante-chamber, if you need me."

Roland
shooed him away with a flip of his hand. When the door closed, he stood and
paced against a volcano of emotion roiling to erupt and condemned his foolishness.
He learned, early on in his travels, never trust. Comrade in arms or the Pope’s
man, goodness was a commodity, only as thick as the benefit it offered.
Kindness was measured by a mercenary’s scale.  The reminder calmed to a bitter
smile.

Ulric,
so impressed with all who arrived at Oakland, to witness his the homecoming he
failed to notice that no one, other than town’s people, greeted him at the
port, not ten miles from his sister, Margaret's home, though they all knew he
was due to arrive. He had been welcomed to her home by servants. Banners and
waves and the wild shouts of welcome, that Ulric enjoyed, were supplied by
strangers, not his family or his peers.

Margaret
had already left for Oakland.

The
King had sent a guard of honor for Roland and his knights, but the King's men
were at Oakland.

It
seemed that the whole of the English country side knew of his exploits, knew of
his victories but word had only moved one way. No one deemed fit to forewarn
him of affairs at his demesne. Not even Margaret had the courage to face him
alone.

So
he returned to a horde of supposed well-wishers. A horde of greedy gossips full
of whispered stories and curious glances. All waiting hungrily to see him
react.

He
refused to give them that pleasure. Let them stew in their lost tittle-tattle.
They'd fed off his flesh for the past five years, he wasn't about to give them
more.

Caskets
full of precious herbs were stacked against the wall. With one sweep he sent
them crashing to the floor.

His
wife, Veri, the winsome lovely child who had tended to his wounds, pulled his
father away from the threshold of death; the wise young bride he had left
untouched and innocent, to ensure her protection while he sought the crusades,
had taken his best friend as lover and murdered his father.