Torn (The Handfasting) (3 page)

But
she wasn't here, and if his seed had not taken, he didn't know if he could get
her back.

Blade
scraped against stone, back, forth, back forth, rasped against Fiona's nerves. She
closed her eyes, took deep breaths as Feargus continued with his task. Resentment
simmered.

Men! 
Oblivious to a woman's moods, a woman's needs. Fiona opened her eyes to the
muted light of late afternoon. She crossed to the fire, to distance herself
from the rhythmic rasp and tried to swallow her ire toward a sound that soothed
so many times in the past.

Nothing
soothed today.  

"Feargus,"
his head popped, his wary glance proved he knew of her temper. "It's
almost time to light the torches, and Maggie's still in bed. She has been since
we cleared up from the mid-day meal."

"She's
not well. She needs rest."  Eyes narrowed, he ran his thumb over the blade
of his dirk. Fiona sighed.

Feargus
was a warrior. No nuances for a man of his sort. Guilt was cut and dry. He
imagined the Bold's neck under that honed edge, and found satisfaction in the
thought. A vengeful draw of blood to ease his own conscience. But it would
never erase it. Guilt was a gray thing with a wide spread shadow.

Fiona
crossed her arms, her foot tapping a swift metrical beat. She didn't want
vengeance, she wanted answers. "You're as worried as I am."

"I'll
admit she's never been sick before."

"You've
seen Glen Toric."

"What
has that to do with anything?"  His eyes shifted away, culpable. He should
have known the Bold well enough, vetted him more strongly. Just because the man
was a brilliant tactician and fearless warrior did not mean he was decent
husband material.

If
Feargus had misgivings, she would force him to face them. "You've been to
Glen Toric, you know what it is like, if it's full of disease. Should we be
looking to some strange illness Maggie brought home with her?"

Feargus
snorted. "It's clean enough."

"Fool
me for asking."  She rolled her eyes. "As if a man is any judge of
such a thing."

Fidgety
as Fiona, Feargus rose to pace between the chair and the fire. "I can tell
you, there weren't people puking their guts in the streets, woman."

She
clicked her teeth, "Impervious probably."

A
caustic rumble carried through the high window, voices raised in fight. Feargus
frowned, focused on the doorway as the sound grew with an alarming speed toward
the keep. Someone would be there soon, to report the uproar. Fiona shook her
head to Feargus, telling him to stay put. They had more important problems to
sort out.

She
rushed on as the outer door burst open, intent on gaining information before
anyone could get from the door to the Great Hall. "Were there signs that
the people were brutal?"

That
gained Feargus’ attention. She knew it would, had held off asking rather than
plant seeds in a mind fertile with anger. "What are you asking?"

"Are
they a brutal people?"

Color
raced up his neck, shading his face as he shouted, "Are you finally
telling me there were marks on our daughter?  If he put a hand on her, I'll
bloody kill him, I'll . . ." 

"I
never laid an ill hand upon her body!"

Fiona
spun around, as fast as her husband had, to see Talorc, bold as his name
implied, disheveled from a fight, surrounded by a hostile pack of MacBede sons
backed by a huge crowd of clansmen. He stood in the entrance to the hall tall
and defiant, as though Feargus the younger and Nigel did not have a grip of his
shoulders, captors delivering captive.

The
MacBede charged toward them. "What in God's name have you done to our
daughter?"  He bellowed.

Armed
with his own might, Talorc shook away his captors, stepped toward Feargus. The
two lairds faced off like raging bulls. Or, at the least, Feargus looked like a
raging bull. Fiona tilted her head, studied Talorc.

With
seven sons and a warrior of a husband, she was accustomed to fights, knew how
to read opponents, how to judge the intensity of the conflict. The Bold would
not back off, he stood large, shoulders back, chest forward, confrontational. Feargus'
head was forward, prepared for attack. The Bold would hold his own, but he
would not be the aggressor.

Good.
If Feargus wanted to fight a man half his age, when the other would fight
merely to defend himself, so be it. He was on his own.

A
sharp sideways nod to Jamie, the only one whose eye she could catch, and word
passed round the broad, barbaric circle of men. Anxious to fight, they did not
stand still, kicked at the floor as her instruction spread. Grumbles and
sideway glances to her, ensured they didn't like the message, but they would
not jump into the fray. That was as much satisfaction as she could hope for.

The
combatants circled, feigned charges until finally they met with an impact that
forced deep grunts from each. They shoved, neither gaining ground. Feargus
fought with punches, The MacKay blocked hits, parried each blow with a bark to
settle the conflict with reason. A fruitless effort against weeks of building
fury.

"Feargus." 
The Bold shouted above the roar of a hostile crowd. "I'm telling you I
never harmed her, would never want to."  He thrust The MacBede away.

Broken
apart, both men backed off, breathing deeply, to catcalls for violence. Feargus
dove in again, struggled. Talorc avoided a direct hit to his mouth, but caught
one in the gut.

"You
want to fight now, do you," the MacKay bashed into Feargus, caught him in
a headlock, "Tell me why you took my Maggie, old man." They twisted
and turned, fell to the floor. "She's mine," Talorc hissed.

"Forget
that," Feargus heaved.

 Talorc
pinned him. "She's pledged to me and then you steal her when my back is
turned. Give me a good reason for taking her out from under my
protection."

Feargus
snorted. "You call that protection?"

“Steal
her away?” The Younger dove onto the Bold, to pull him off his father. "You
want to take on someone your own age with that challenge?"

"That
would be me." Nigel pushed forward, followed by Alec who claimed, "Oh
no you don't, I'm more his size."

"Stop!" 
A good head shorter than her children, Fiona stood, arms akimbo, eyes narrowed
and waited until the entire hall silenced.

"Nora,"
she called out to the lass rooted by the door that led to the kitchens. "Bring
out some chicken and a dram. The man must be freezing from his travels."

"Fiona."

"Ma." 

"Mother."

Feargus
and the boys complained. She ignored the indignant cries, shooed the other
clansmen from the hall. Tone sharp as a pinched ear she ordered, "Let him
up, and leave him be. I want to hear what he has to say."

Wary,
reluctant, they followed her command. The Bold and Feargus stood, brushed
themselves off and refused eye contact. Talorc straightened, his attention on
the mistress of the keep. "I heard you had been taken deathly ill, Fiona
MacBede but you're looking fit enough now."

"Cheeky
boy," she admonished and wondered if she could shake his irreverence. "I'm
not the one who's ailing." 

He
stood, arrogant and angry, still heaving with the effort of defending himself. He
had already proved he had no intention of inflicting harm. He was not out to
make enemies. He was out to fetch his handfasted. Fair enough, if he deserved
her.

She
waited as his anger turned to impatience.

"I'm
sorry others are ill, but I'd like to see Maggie."

No
one moved. Talorc looked at the somber faces, the antagonism that came with
bereavement. His arrogance froze. He shook his head, to negate thoughts racing
into it. A flash of emotion shuttered through him. Emotion Fiona could not read.
Concern she expected, but not with an edge of caution.  

"Maggie's
not well?"

Only
his eyes shifted, his body frozen, feelings held tight.         

Angered
that the man wasn't more frantic with worry, Fiona snipped. "She's still
abed, and it's near dusk."

Crisdean
barreled forward. "I've seen animals go to ground when they've been poorly
treated."

"She's
not been poorly treated."  Talorc snapped, but gave little notice to
Crisdean, intent on Fiona instead, as if she held the answers. "Did she
say she'd been ill-treated?"

"There
was another woman at the keep for you."

Talorc
cursed. "Not to my mind and she knew that."

Thank
God, Fiona released her breath. The confrontation between the two lairds
confirmed Talorc could control his aggression. It was the worry of another
woman that had nagged.

The
Bold did not command his patience as well as his aggression. "I've come a
long way to fetch her. Where is she?"

Feargus
blocked him. "She's no' fit to travel."

Fiona
restrained Feargus, with a hand on his arm. "Settle yourself now, we need
to hear what the man has to say."

"We'll
hear it from Maggie."  Feargus argued.

"If
that were true, we'd have heard it by now."

"Has
she said nothing?"  Talorc asked.

Fiona
shook her head and looked to the men who surrounded her. They were all of a
size, powerfully built men who took up space in a hall the size of a practice
field. It was more than build, it was their presence. These were men of
authority, they carried it with them. Force sizzled in the air around them.

It
was not up to a ma or a da or great overbearing brothers to decide whether
Maggie left for Glen Toric. It would be up to Maggie and the Bold. Fiona
balanced just how to move forward, to protect her daughter without alienating the
man.  

Gentling
the truth, Fiona said, "Feargus is right, we're that worried about Maggie.
She has not been well, certainly not fit for travel."

"What
sort of illness does she have?"

Fiona
had taken his arm, to lead him to the fire, but stopped. "You're not
surprised, are you?  You've expected her to be ill?  You know what it is she's
suffering from?"  All her worries about sickness at Glen Toric flooded
back.

He
didn't answer her, but nodded toward the three maids putting food out by the
fire. "You offered me a bite to eat,"

Anger
billowed. "You expected her to be sick. What are you not telling me?  Are
others ailing at Glen Toric?"

"I'm
wanting to see Maggie."

"And
you will."  Fiona snapped,   "I'll go up and fetch her myself."

"Give
me your word you'll not hide her away."

"How
dare you."  Feargus snarled.

"How
dare you steal her?"  Talorc shouted right back.

"Stop
it, both of you."  Fiona glared,   "I promise that you will be seeing
Maggie within the hour. Though I make no pledge you will see her alone. Now
eat."  She waved toward the food, as she turned to fetch her daughter . .
. who stood upon the stairs.

Stronger
for the rest, Maggie watched Talorc with her family and felt a flood of relief.
She had missed him, wanted him to guide her through the change in her place
within her own home.

She
knew he could, knew he would understand and, when he didn't, she knew he would
hold her while she rode the waves. That is, if he were there for her.

He
might not be.

She
sat on the step, watched through the railings as her da charged into a fight,
and her brothers circled and growled, no better than a pack of dogs ready to
rip to shreds.

They
meant to send him away without seeing her. Without asking her what she wanted. She
did not want him to go, almost called out to stop them, until she realized if
he did not stand against them, for her, then he did not want her.

She
prayed he would make a stand.

Her
mother interceded, as she did so often with her brothers, her da. The voice of
reason in a volatile family, the hand of calm but firm control. Fiona wielded
her power with ease.

Maggie
stood, garnering her strength by watching a master.

Talorc's
voice rose to the ceiling.

"How
dare you steal her?"

That's
just fine, Maggie thought, stir up the hostilities. But it didn't. All her da
did was grunt. Her brothers followed his lead, their heads up, arms crossed
against chests puffed up with a lot of hot air.

Silly
posturing.

Her
mother turned toward her, saw her and stopped.

At
least Maggie was well enough to take a stand to settle things. She called out
to her handfasted. "You've come."

Talorc
toppled his bench in his rush to rise.

Good.
He was either that glad to see her, or that wary of seeing her. Either way
meant he was not glaring at her with accusation.