Torn (The Handfasting) (7 page)

"Aye,
but it’s not my place to be telling."

"He’s
married."  Again, it was not a question.

He
grunted again.

She
continued. "Could be trouble if he had a wife when the bairn was
conceived."

"If
a man seasoned the broth, he can drink it, bitter or no. But there’s more to it
than that. More that is owed to Seonaid than to reveal the father."

Now
was not the time to speak of Seonaid. Talorc set off again toward the keep.

"I
never didn't want you."  Maggie admitted.

"You
just didn't want to want me."

She
laid her head on his shoulder. "Something like that."

"It
could be a lass, you know."

He
spoke of the babe, wanted to ease her mind, for it was a certainty that any son
of his would be a warrior. But she couldn't forget Ian's words. "It will
be a boy. Just like his da."

"I'll
teach him to be safe."

"You
can't stop fate."

"That's
what we are, lass. Fate’s fruition."

Maggie
sighed. Fate’s fruition was her fear. It brought as much sorrow as joy. Would
the grief be far behind?  She wouldn't think on that, couldn't. Right now, all
she wanted were these precious moments of delight. Tomorrow could tell its own
tale.

Heads
turned as she rode into the courtyard.  Seonaid kept her head high, held back
from pulling Deian’s hood further up, to better hide his face.  No one knew, no
one would suspect she reminded herself.  Bold had promised her as much.
Explained away her fears. 

Still,
she couldn’t help but worry and so she challenged every eye turned her away
until none would look directly.  It was Paraig who broke the frost, walking out
of the stables just as she arrived at them.

“You’ve
returned?”

“I
have.” She nodded, coldly despite the warmth she always felt in Paraig’s
presence.  A big gruff man with his curly brown hair and blunt features, only
his eyes gave away his gentler side.  A kindness that led him to go out of his
way to check on her at the cottage, or find her in the fields tending sheep.

He
would get down on the floor to play with Deian, sparking a hunger deep inside
of her, a virulent desire to have him as her son’s father and as her husband.

Impossible. 
She was spoiled goods, a woman no man would want if they knew the truth of it. 
Nor could she ever conceive of ever wanting a man in the way she believed Paraig
wanted her.

Despite
that, she trusted him and Lord knew she trusted few. Few trusted her in
return.  Hers was a lonely world.

She
dismounted, reached up for Deian but not quick enough.  Paraig was already
there, lowering her son to the hard packed yard.  Unlike her, the lad didn’t need
time to adjust to standing despite being astride for two days, trying to find
Diedre and Ingrid in all the places Seonaid hoped to find them.  The safest
places, anyway.

“The
Bold has returned with his handfasted,” Paraig offered, as he encouraged Deian
to take one of the horse’s reins.  “Only she is no longer his handfasted. 
She’s wearing a kerchief.”

Seonaid
looked at him.  “She was forever pushing him away.” As if she was too good for
the man.

“She’s
with child.”

Anger
flourished she followed Paraig and Deian into the barn.  “He found one way to
keep her.”

Paraig
shook his head.  “No, I don’t think that’s the way of it.” He admitted. 
“There’s more to it than that, even when she tried to be free of him, there was
more to it than that.  Besides, she’s a woman.  She knows what’s best for her.”

Seonaid
stopped.  Paraig looked over his shoulder and frowned.  “Did you want to tend
the animal yourself?”

Seonaid
prayed for patience, though why she bothered was a mystery. “So you’re saying
because she’s a woman marriage is best for her?”

He
turned to face her squarely, her son following his example, standing by his
side. “She needs a husband and the Bold is a good man.”

“Aye,
he is a good man, one of the best and he deserves a woman who knows that.”

“Like
you?”  he challenged.

It
always came to this, for everyone, and no amount of denying ever made a
difference. 

“Do
you think I climbed into his bed?  Is that what you think.”

He
had the decency to flush then he bent down to Deian.  “There’s a lad in the
last stall.  His name is Jamie and his dog just had pups.”  He pointed to young
Jamie, the stable boy. 

Seonaid
blushed this time.  Her own son and, with the rise of her ire, she forgot he
was there, listening.  Little bodies had big ears.

Paraig
nudged him.  “Why don’t you go see if he wants to show you the animal.”

Deian
struggled with shyness for a moment, looked to her for support.  She smiled and
nodded.  “Go on then, mind stay within ear shout.”

“I
will!”  he garbled as he shot down the length of the stables.

She
felt the brush of Paraig’s arm as he came to stand beside her. 

“Thank
you for that.”  She offered, refusing to look at him.

“He’s
a good lad.”

“He
is that.  Better than I could have dreamed.”

“You
don’t usually bring him to the castle.”

So
he had dropped the question of her attraction to Bold for another question everyone
wanted to ask.

“He’s
too young.  I don’t want him under foot when there are so many people about.”

“Is
that why you rush home when the Bold charges out to fight.”

Stunned
she whipped around to study him while he studied the path her son had taken.  “Aye,
but that’s not what most think.”

“When
we ride off Bold shuts these gates up, tight orders.  Sometimes for days if not
weeks.” 

“I
can’t be away so long.” She whispered.

“Doesn’t
Ingrid watch him?”

Seonaid
snorted.  “Oh, aye, and she was watching him when I went home two days ago. 
Only she left just after dawn, making him wait alone until I returned near
dark.”  A shudder ran though her at the memory as Paraig turned to stare.

“She
left him alone?”

“Aye.
I finally tracked her down this morning.  She was with Deidre.”

“They
both left him?”

Seonaid
shook her head.  “No, I don’t believe so.  Deidre seemed as surprised as me.” 
She hesitated before adding, “I’m happy to have Deidre in my home but Ingrid
worries me.  She’s not right these days.”

“You
and Deian should move to the castle.”

“No,”
she moved further into the stable, stroked the neck of her horse, “no, there’s
more danger here than out where I live. Something’s not right here at Glen
Toric and I’d rather Deian not be close to that.”

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

Maggie
.

"Ian." 
Maggie sat up in bed. The whisper of her name rode across dreams on the cusp of
sleep.

Why
would he do that?  Why would he wait until she was at Glen Toric, before giving
her a sense of himself?  He had done that before.

She
reached out to lay her hand lightly on Talorc's shoulder and waited as the
comfort of his presence stilled her heart. If she'd known how it would feel to
have him close, she never would have fought the bond. Even the sound of
Brutus's now familiar snuffle reassured her against the phantoms of the dark.

Only,
Ian wasn't a phantom to be frightened of.

"Ian."
She whispered, fearful of waking Talorc, who wasn't happy with her attachment
to her twin. He treated it as a threat, as though Ian might try to take her
away. Ian would never do her harm.

But
they were a pair, bonded. Too hard to explain.

She
waited in the still of the night, her gaze piercing the shadows of the room,
her ears strained to hear what couldn't be heard. No figure separated from the
gloom. No sound broke through the quiet. Despite his call to her, she didn't
feel him near.

After
a few minutes, she lay back upon her pillow and wondered if snuggling would
wake her husband. If it did, he could take the blame. Hunger that lapped at the
core of her came from his teachings. She smiled, placed a hand upon his broad
chest, flexed her fingers, and sighed. Better to let him sleep rather than risk
Ian witnessing the wanton she had become.

If
Ian were close.

She
rolled to her side, shimmied her back against the curve of Talorc's front.  Deep
in sleep, his arms wrapped around her, one hand covering the slight swell of
her belly, and pulled her more securely into the nest of him.

The
gentle sounds of night lulled her to a doze, neither awake, nor fully asleep. Like
a warm breeze, the call caressed, woke her, wide eyed and worried.

"Ian,"
she whispered, caught between dream and a doze. More under illusion than
reality she grumbled, "Stop waking me. Talk to me in my sleep." And
fell back to slumber.

This
time, when Ian called, she did not bolt into wakefulness but stayed inside the
dream. She was in a small boat, on a quiet stream, asleep, but not quite. She
turned toward the shore, where she knew she would see them.

Ian
grinned broadly, the boy by his side, tugging to get free, to cross to Maggie. A
mere observer, she couldn't speak, could do no more than look down at her
lethargic self. One hand dangled in the water, the other laid protectively over
her belly. Her mind smiled. She felt good, content in her life. Young Ian was
safe in her brother's care, for now.

Then
she frowned. Looked to the swell of her tummy and wondered why, after six month’s
time, the babe was still separate from her.

A
breeze rippled, seductive, teased her neck. A warm, wet, enticing nudge of
breath. It had to be Talorc. She stretched, able to move to him when she had
been unable to move to Ian. She turned her head to give him access and saw the
goblet in her hand.

All
thought of Talorc, of the babe or Ian vanished, as she focused on that goblet. She
hadn't tasted it, but she knew it was a strange bitter brew.

Drink! 
Drink!  The command hissed and she did. She drank as Ian's voice, distorted
with the distance, called out, “Downed ringa. Down ringa”.

She
frowned.

Downed
ringa?  Donn it rinka. She gasped, as the dire warning rang clear.

"Don't
drink! Don't drink!" 

She
looked at Ian, confused by what he said as rain drops fell. She opened her
mouth to catch them and felt a vise upon her belly so powerful she jackknifed
with the pain.

The
idyllic moment vanished. The boat rocked, hard, the water a wild torment. It
kept lapping at the boy trying to suck him in to the depths of it. Frozen, she
could not move to help him, to go to him, all she could do was cry and wail,
"Nooooo!" which made the boat rock with greater ferocity. Then Ian
grabbed the boy, held him to his chest.

"Not
yet, Maggie, you can't have him yet."

Tears
streamed down her face as she was rocked to and fro and the cries of her name
mutated from Ian's voice to Talorc.

She
opened her eyes. The rocking stopped, though Talorc didn't let go of her
shoulders. Frantically, she grabbed him, pulled him in and hung on for the life
she so dearly needed. "The babe, Bold, I don't have the babe." And
then she scrambled, like a demented thing, to see, to look for witness of the
loss, but there was no sign of blood, of water, of a small, unformed life
between her legs.

Tenderly
she felt her belly. No pains.

"Tell
me," Talorc asked, with the wariness of a man who didn't know how to step
into women's business, but was desperate enough to try.

She
turned to him. "Hold me, Bold, just hold me." And he did, he held her
close, settled her trembling, waited for the fear to ease from her. He stroked
her back, her head, the length of her hair. He wiped tears from her cheeks, and
kissed the paths that he stroked. When, finally, the trembling stopped he
looked down at her.

"What
was it Maggie?"  But she couldn't tell him, she couldn't say that the babe
was not yet with them, and mayhap, would never be. She couldn't say that something
was wrong.

"Just
a dream. It frightened me."

"Frightened
you?"  He nuzzled her neck. "You, me, even Brutus, the mangy
wimp."  He chuckled and turned her cheek so she could see the great beast
of a dog quivering beside the bed.

Her
smile was meager. The dream had shaken her, more so for the two times Ian's
voice had woken her to catch her attention.