Bold (The Handfasting) (12 page)

“If
you let your heart rule what you do or do not do.”  Fiona hedged.

“Then
if I do not give my heart than I do not give myself?”

As
Fiona took a deep breath, Sibeal marched up to them.

“Maggie,
there’s no more time, lass.  Get over there and into that tub, or you’ll be
wearing a drying cloth to your Handfasting.”

She
straightened, looked to her mother, “If it’s as you say, then you can prepare
to have me back here in a year and a day from this moment.  For I’ll not give
my heart.”

Rather
than join the throng of women caring for her daughter, Fiona stood quietly and
watched as Maggie crossed to the bath.  The lass had regained her spirits,
‘twas in her step, in the way she let the others tease her.

Quietly,
Fiona touched three fingers to her forehead, her heart, to either shoulder. 
When the others cast glances her way, they thought she made the sign of the
cross in preparation of prayers for her daughter.  They could not be knowing
that Fiona was praying for forgiveness of the half-truth she’d been telling.

For
a half-truth, meant a half lie.

A
Handfasting was no more than a betrothal.  Oh, aye, the couple would live
together, may even share a bed but, despite bawdy innuendos to the contrary,
should they mate, should the relationship become more than a promise, married
they would be.  Priest or no priest.

The
whole of the Highlands knew this.  That Maggie didn’t came as a surprise. 
God’s will, Fiona prayed, for she had used Maggie’s naiveté mercilessly.  Aye,
it was for Maggie’s own good but still, it had not been with clear honesty.  It
was just that the girl didn’t understand what was in her best interest.  And if
Fiona judged things right, what was between Maggie and the Laird MacKay . . .
well . . . it was nothing, if not physical.

Heart
or no, they would be wed before the night was out, or Fiona didn’t know her
daughter.

She
was a stranger to herself.

From her seat on the
broad back of a placid gelding called Tairis, Maggie reached for those who
stretched to touch her, waved to those who stood high on their toes, necks
craned for a view of her as though they hadn't just talked yesterday.  

Somewhere
between the dark of night, and the sun’s glow, she had become someone else,
someone extraordinary, someone she didn’t recognize.  She had been perfectly
happy with the old Maggie MacBede, thank you very much.

How
many times had she resented her brothers’ stoic farewells?  Their restless need
to be gone when everyone wanted a fair share of good-byes.    Now she was the
one in the saddle, desperate to be away from the fawning praise, off to do what
must be done. 

If
she didn't leave at once, she may not leave at all.

Old
Maighread reached for her.  Maggie bent low, risked the woman’s sensitive
fingers.  The woman had a fey touch, her fingers seeing what her eyes could not. 

Old
Maighread nodded. “Don’t fear child.  The one who sings of crows will receive
its message.”

“Crows?" 
Crows meant death.

"Maghread!" 
Fiona snapped. 

"No,
mother,” Maggie shivered with the old woman’s warning, took her gnarled hand in
her own.  "Who?"

“They
will try, child," Maighread's cackle rose above the gathering, "they
will try.  But keep an ear to Ian.  He will keep you safe.  And your man there,
don't let him have fear.  You are stronger than anyone thinks, including
yourself.”

“Grandmother,"
Fiona pulled Maighread away, "don’t fret the lass.” 

Was
she strong?  Maggie wondered.  She didn't feel strong right now.  She felt
hapless, helpless, caught on everyone's whim but her own.  Tears threatened. 
Frantically, Maggie sought out the man to blame for her sorrow. 

The
man who had vowed his life to hers forever.

She
had only given him a year and a day.

He
was near enough to grab her reins, as though he half expected her to bolt. 
Silent though it was, he acknowledged her frantic appeal.  With a nod and a wry
smile, he raised his fist, let loose a warrior's bellow.  As one, with no more
warning, The MacKay Clansmen stormed through the bailey, out the gate, with
Maggie and Talorc in the center of their charge. 

Maggie
fought to keep her seat, clung to her mount, her head low upon its neck.  In
any other time, circumstance, she would have thrilled to the challenge, but not
today. 

Today
an old woman had warned of crows.  Too true.  Life, as Maggie knew it, was
dead.  Maggie who used to be, was no more.  That her body would follow suit
made perfect sense, for everything happened in threes, did it not?

Shouts
and calls rose, a raucous banner flying in their wake.  They rode hard across
the flats, just as her clansmen had done countless times.  Men on foot jogged
behind, the rear guard to the troupe of them.  At the base of the closest hill,
they slowed their mounts, traversed the steep rugged hillside, around to the
back, until they reached the top, out of sight below a ragged crest.

Her
clan, the entire lot of MacBedes, would be gathered below, as Maggie herself
had on so many leave takings before.  This was the first time, in the whole of
her life, she would not be with them, to shout out blessings and well wishes
for safe journey.  To wave a final farewell. 

Her
heart thundered in her chest.  She swallowed hard, kept her eyes away from that
crest.  She would not break.  Nor could she face the final goodbye.  They had
sent her off, against her own will.  She would not wave a last time.  She would
be back.

“Lass?” 
Talorc rode up beside her.

Anger
steadied her.  She held it close, acknowledged it by refusing to look at him. 
The shouts of his men, up on the ridge, could be heard. 

“Maggie,”
Talorc reached over, took her chin, forced her to face him.  She jerked away. 
“You have to show yourself, they’re waiting to send you off.”

She
looked down at the ground, the earth that had cradled her feet from her first
footstep to this day.  Drew in the scent of heather, of blue skies and loch. 
This was her home.  This was where she belonged, a MacBede, with the MacBedes. 
She blinked against the blur of tears, narrowed her eyes, willed resentment to
overplay sorrow.

Damn
him for being right.  Damn him for pushing her beyond her strength.

She
looked right at him then, straight into his eyes and felt a power there.  It
surged between them.  He took her fisted hand, lifted it to his lips.  With one
gentle kiss warmth spread through her body, melted the rigid barricade to
fear.  Thawed icy defense.

He
believed stories, thought her powerful.  Fool that he was.

So
be it.

She
would not show him her weakness.

With
a jerk, Maggie reined Tairis sharply to the left, kicked and he bolted.  Too
fast.  This was a docile animal, or so Talorc had claimed. Maggie never
expected it to stretch its legs at such speed.  Stunned, she gave him his
head. 

Wind
stung her eyes.  She swiped the tears away.  The ground was a blur, the crest,
she knew to be no more than a meager outcropping, came closer and closer. 
Tailis did not slow, showed no sign of halting. 

Maggie
pulled, hard, her eyes shut tight against disaster.  As sure as he bolted,
Tailis stopped, pitched Maggie forward.  Her cheek to his cheek, half over his
haunches she wrapped her arms tight about Tailis’ neck, and clung.  Eyes wide
with fear.  There was no mistaking the yawning distance below. 

This
creature, promised as gentle and sure, reared, stepped, as though a dancer,
right on to the edge of the precipice.  Rocks scattered and tumbled, sound
testament to a sheer drop.  He turned, in a circle, an acrobat of a horse, a
show man, leaving Maggie with nothing below her but air. 

It
was Talorc who gave her this bloody beast to ride.  Had he known the animal
would do this? 

They will try, child, they will try.
  Maighread's words came back to her.  Talk of crows, of death, and then
those fateful words.  What was the Bold trying to do, kill her?

She'd
not give him the satisfaction.

"Get
down, you bloody beast!"  Legs wrapped tightly along its belly, Maggie commanded
the animal back to secure footing.  It faced away from the ledge, toward the
valley beyond, full of restless energy.  It took little to encourage him to
head off again, past the MacKay men, past the Bold.  Down the hillside she
galloped, around a small copse of trees.  To a valley below, where a stream cut
through the land.

And
privacy.

Maggie
reined in her ride and realized, for the very first time since she'd sat to sup
the night before, she was alone, out of site of everyone. 

She
slid from the horse’s back, dropped to her knees, huddled on the ground.  All
her barbed emotions unraveled, the anger, the fury, the rigid fear.  It was his
fault, his kiss of her hand that had disarmed her brittleness, bared raw
pain.   Sobs, silent for no sound was strong enough to carry the weight of
them, rose from the depths of her, poured out, wave upon wave.  Her body
stretched toward the sky, a plea, to carry away the keen that came from the
darkest corner of her soul.

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

 Trained
warrior, a seasoned fighter who could act without thought, Talorc froze, unable
to move.  His heart plummeted to the bowels of hell.

He’d
thought she was going to ride straight off the rise.  He was certain of it, was
too far away to stop it.  His men thought it a trick, did not interfere.  They
had applauded and cheered.  And then her mount rose on its haunches danced a
dance, made a show.

Had
she heard the thundering cries from her clansmen?  Had she done it on purpose,
as his men thought?  If she had, he’d kill her with his own bare hands, after
he’d clung to her.

She
was more than he could handle.

“You’ve
got yourself one hell of a lassie, boy!”  Thomas shouted.

Talorc
was too shaken to respond.  She’d already charged off madly beyond sight, east
when they were headed north.  He was capable of no more than pointing toward
the proper route.  His men followed with alacrity, he set off to find his
mate. 

She
hadn't gone far, straight down into the valley below, no further.  The sight of
her, a crumpled heap upon the ground, racked with dry sobs, tore a brutal hole
in his anger.  He dismounted, crossed to her and lifted her into his arms.  She
fought him, fought to be free. 

Ignoring
her meager blows, he sat upon a large boulder, Maggie cradled in his lap.

“Don’t
you dare think to comfort me.”  She punched his chest.  “This is your
doing."  She pounded him again.  "What do you care that I have no
one?  What do you care?”

With
a fell grip. he captured her hands, “I care.”

“Hah!” 

She
strained against his hold, his handfasted, his partner, his helpmate.  Did she
not feel the invisible bond wrapped around them?

“Look!" 
He pressed their clasped hands against his chest, "You have me lass!  You
have me, here, for you." Frustrated anger rode high in his blood. 

"You?" 
She shouted back, "I have you?  What good is that?  You who create changes
so drastic, my own clan don't know me anymore."

“You
are changed.”

“Never!”

“No?” 
His smile mocked.  “You don’t think so?”  She stilled, guarded.  So she should
be.  He had waited a lifetime for this woman, hungered for her before he even
knew of her existence.   Now that he had found her, his loins ached, urged for
release, anything, even the simple taste of her lips.

Ravenous,
he would wait no more, could not bear to.  She was his, to love, honor and
take.  Past time she knew of it. 

“You,”
he stopped, to settle the race of blood that challenged his lungs.  “You,” he
started again, “changed the moment we touched.” 

He
tugged at her hair, pulled her head back, looked into her eyes.  Wary, aye, for
she saw the truth in his words. 

“From
the moment you landed in my hands, you knew, you sensed, you felt what you’ve
never had before.”

Unwittingly
she licked her lips, wetting his desire.  Still, he didn’t kiss her, though he
imagined doing so. 

Not
just yet.  She had relaxed.  He would use that, eased his hold, lifted a finger
to trace her mouth, felt her soft huff of breath.  Again, she moistened her
lips, only this time she found the tip of his finger.  He eased it inside.

“Taste
me.”  He ordered.  She hesitated then nipped, nearly undoing him.  “Do you know
what you’re about?”  He wondered out loud.

“No,”
she whimpered, and buried her head in his shoulder.  “I don’t.  You are right,
I am not who I was.  I am a stranger with strange thoughts, wants . . .”