Bold (The Handfasting) (8 page)

“Ah,
daughter mine,” once more, she gave a quick, hearty hug.  “A day will come when
you’ll be wishing for just that sort of feeling.”

“Never.”

“Oh,
aye,” her mother laughed again, as she pushed Maggie toward the kitchens to
oversee the last of the preparations.  “And I’ve a mind to sit him right beside
you, so you can find out what it is I’m speaking of.”

“You
wouldn’t, Ma!  You wouldn’t do that to me, would you now?”

“Oh,
aye, I would.”  Fiona chuckled.  “Just as soon as I speak to your da.”  She
shoved Maggie off as she turned back to the great room.

To
be disregarded, fresh on the heels of Hamish’s defection, was no aide to
Maggie’s temper.  Yet there she sat, her brother Nigel on her left, reaching
around her, grabbing the notice of the man to her right, as though Maggie were
no more than the chair she sat in.

That
man on her right, the man who claimed to be in her home because of her, the
self same man who riled her senses, was no better.  Recently returned from
battle, in high demand or not, the Bold could have tried to speak with her. 
That is, if she was his reason for being here and the taint of Hamish’s
rejection hadn’t put him off. 

 The
problem was, as much as she wanted to have nothing to do with the Bold, she
wanted to have everything to do with him.  He had awakened something inside of
her, something deep and dark and secret.  Her senses buzzed with his nearness.

He
even smelled good.

 Damn
the man anyway.  Coming here, catching her, saying she was just rrrrright and
making her ma believe he was there for Maggie, herself, when it most certainly
was not true.  Or, if it was, then he had changed his mind.  Men were, after
all, a fickle lot. 

 “You’re
scowling again, Maggie MacBede.”

She
dropped her knife, choked on a bite of meat.  Talorc slapped her on the back.

“Am
I?”   She was too flustered to be coy.  “And how would you be knowing when I do
or do not scowl?”

Before
Talorc could respond, Nigel reached past Maggie, to grab his arm.

“Hey
man, look at that will ya’?”  He gestured to a lower table where a MacBede and
a MacKay clenched fists, elbows set squarely on the table.

Maggie
shoved at her brother's beefy arm.

“What
are ya’ doin’ Maggie?”  Nigel scowled.  “I’m wanting to show the Bold how
Conegell is bettering Domnall at the arm!”

“And
I’ll be getting the better of your arm if you don’t stop shoving it in my
face.”

Talorc's
bark of laughter reminded her that she was not acting the lady.  It didn't help
when Nigel snorted. “You know Laird MacKay, if you take her, she’ll be a thorn
in your side.”

 “He’ll
not be taking me though, will he Nigel.  You’ll be stuck with me to plague you
forever more.”  Nigel slunk back on his bench.

Talorc
touched her chin, guided her around to face him.  Heat rushed up, passed the
place where his fingers lay, and scorched clear to the roots of her hair.  She
jerked away, angered that he could ignore her than take such a right.

 “You’ve
a becoming blush, lass.”

 “I
don’t blush.”  She lied, wishing it were true.  "It's the heat.”

“Ah.”

He
leaned back in his chair.  Unlike the small bench she sat on, his chair was a
grand piece of furniture with sides that blocked all but his fingers steepled
at his chin.  He raised an eyebrow when she leaned around to confront him.

"It’s
your fault you know?  You make it hot in here.  Like anger, you make the heat
rise in me.  Why do you do that?"

His
half smile coursed through her as his knuckle traced her jaw.  Again, she
jerked away.  "Don't." 

"I
can't help it.  My skin wants to feel yours."

How
could words touch her more surely than his fingers had moments ago?  Whatever
magic he used, she would fight it.  "You're not helpless, you can stop
yourself."

"No,"
he shook his head, "no, I don't think I can."

She
snorted.  Fought the flutter of flattery.  Warriors were notorious with the
ladies, not that she could blame them.  Too many lasses were foolish enough to
want one.  She might not be immune to this man, but she refused to be thrilled
by pretty words. 

Using
the only weapon she had on hand, she asked him what everyone wanted to know. 
“Why are you here, when you’ve never come before?"  Riding the tide of
surprise, so evident in the focus she had just gained, she continued. “You’ve
sent others to ask the MacBedes to fight your fights, to risk their lives. So
tell me Bold, what’s so important now?”

He
didn’t respond straight away.  For the first time that evening, he ignored the
jests and calls that had been demanding his attention throughout the meal. 
Even her da tried to gain his attention, but Talorc didn’t acknowledge anyone
but Maggie.  It was a heady feeling.

 “You’ve
a good question, Maggie." He bent close.  “But I want you to know that I’m
not here for trouble, at least not to my mind.”

 “I’d
not be knowing how your mind works, Bold.  But you’ve made people think you’re
here for me while I know better.”

A
young lad moved between them, a tray of roasted meat held out in offering,
reminding them both they were here for a feast.

“Maggie,”
Talorc explained as he served both of them from the tray, “When someone is sent
with a call to arms, I’m already deep in the fray.  There’s no time for me to
leave a fight.  Others, who are swift of foot, but not so handy with the sword,
are sent to call for help.  We all have our roles to play, don’t you see.”

 “Aye.” 
The word did not come easily, she didn’t want to understand, but honesty
demanded she do so.  Not that he had cleared himself of wrong doing, or that
she would let him get off so easily.  

“Earlier
I told you that Ian’s last words were of you, that his death would not sit well
with you.”  He touched her cheek.  This time she allowed it, welcomed the
warmth, needing the heat to balance the cold of her loss.  How quickly that
cold could come upon her, when she least expected it. 

“I
want you to know your brother lost his life in an honorable battle, Maggie.  He
fought bravely, he saved others.  The need to fight that fight will be proven
when you still have food for your belly on winter’s edge of spring."

"And
that’s why you came.  You believe you can convince me Ian needed to be there,
with you, when the Gunn's don't come on to our land."

He
tsked, like a teacher to a student.  "Don't fool yourself, Maggie, you
know they've been in your fields, taken what's yours."

She
looked away, bit at her lower lip, hesitant for the first time.  There was
truth in his words.  She was not so angry she would deny that.  But her Ian's
death was still a raw wound. 

“Aye,
but we never lost as we’ve been losing these few years past.”

Rather
than insult, her words gave him pause.  He nodded, admitting.  “We were losing
like the saints were against us.  Aye, that is true.  One ride out, the food
didn’t go with us.  Another, what we ate was tainted.  Small raiders, neither
Gunn nor clan, attacked when we least expected.”

“You’re
to expect everything.”

“Aye.” 
He reached for her then, as though it were true, that he had an uncontrollable
need to touch her.  Fingers spread, he cupped her cheek, stroked it with his
thumb.  She didn’t stop him.

 “Maggie,”
Talorc took her hands in his, “Do you know how you avenged Ian?  Do you know
the role you played in turning the tide, bringing abundance?”

She
pulled away, insulted.  “Don’t use your words with me.  That’s all they are, just
words.  I have done nothing. Nothing,” she snapped. 

 “Aye,
you have and the MacKays want to thank you.  Come to Glen Toric with me.”

She
sat up, turning fully to confront him. "You ignore me all evening, then suddenly,
quick as you please, you’re asking me to leave this place?  This is my home,
these are my people. I’ve no reason to leave.”  

“Ah,
but you do, Maggie girl, you do,” he murmured as he bent to the platter of
meat, cut-off a morsel, speared it.  “You gave us an idea that we’re growing
with.  You are changing the need to battle for all we have.”

Before
the tip of his knife could get the meat to her lips, Maggie took it with her
fingers.  Moist and succulent, the stewed juices ran down her hand.  She tried
to catch the rivulet with her tongue.

"Oh,
no, Maggie.  Let me."  He caught her hand, pulled it to his lips and took
the liberty of capturing the droplet with his mouth, licked the rivulet with a
slow tongue.

For
a breath, a long breath that she held, Maggie didn’t move.  The hall could have
been empty, the noise pure music, before she caught herself and tugged her hand
free.  Talorc was not ready to let it go. 

“Stop.”
She hissed.

He
looked into her eyes and with one bite, took the meat from her hand.  “You
taste better than the meat.” 

“Oh
Lord.”  She pulled free, stumbled, toppled her bench in a rush to be away from
him.  He reached to help her but she ignored his hand, scrambled to rise on her
own.

Nigel
laughed.  "You drunk already?  It's still early lass." 

“Laugh
all you wish, brother, for I’ll return the favor soon.” 

Quick
as that, his amusement ended. “Have a care, Laird MacKay, for when she sets out
for revenge, she could teach the lot of us a thing or two.”

Maggie brushed at her skirts.
“He’ll
not have need to worry, brother, for why would I be wanting revenge on the
likes of the Laird?”

“Why
indeed?”  Talorc asked, as he reminded her, “I’ll be leavin’ on the morrow.”

“Aye,”
she acknowledged, trying to catch Nigel’s eye as she reseated herself.  Nigel
refused to look her way.  

"I
want you to leave with me." 

She
laughed.  “Leave with you?”  Patted his arm.  The man had barely talked to her
all evening.  “I’ll think of it,” she lied, “and when next we see each other,
I’ll consider your request.”

“Not
later, Maggie,” he caught her hand upon his arm, held it tightly in place,
“tonight, this night.  When I tell my story, if you truthfully find you cannot
go with me, then I will accept your decision.”

“Tonight? 
You want to tell me a story tonight and then expect me to leave in the morn?”

“Aye. 
Tonight.”

She
laughed.  “Does my father know of this?” 

“Aye,
as does your mother.”  He moved so they could both look to her parents, who
watched with uncommon wariness. 

Their
wariness made no more sense than anything had this day.  Her parents knew that
nothing could induce Maggie to leave her home, not tonight, not ever.  And, as
far as she was concerned, not with a warrior; especially not with a warrior. 
Her parents knew that.  

Talorc
blocked them from Maggie’s sight.  “But they don’t know the story, have yet to
hear it.  When they do, when you do, they’ve agreed to go along with your
wishes.”

“Even
if I chose to go away with you?”

“Aye.”

Maggie
relaxed.  “You can save your breath.  This is my home, my friends and family. 
If I left, I’d be leaving young Ian behind.  I can’t be doing . . .” He stopped
her with a finger to her lips.

"Bold!"
a man yelled from the far end of a table.  "Tell us of the final victory! 
We want to hear the tale of the fight!"

A
chorus of agreement rang out.  Maggie tried to get away, to leave him to his
tales of battle but he wouldn't let her go.  “This is the story I'm going to
tell, Maggie," he said for her alone.  "Hear my story, then tell me
what you will or won't do.”

“I’ll
not go.”

“Hear
me out first.”

She’d
wanted to respond but there was no chance.  The meal had wound down, musicians
were playing.  Soon the bard would entertain with his own tales of war and love
and the strength of the clans. 

Talorc
freed her hand as he stood.  She thought he meant to excuse the two of them, so
he could address her in private, away from the prying ears of the family, the
clan and his warriors.

Like
a wave, solemn silence moved over the room.  If Talorc had sought attention his
timing was immaculate.  He acted as if that was just what he wanted. 

This
would be no private telling. 

The
realization hit with the impact of a horse.  Alarmed, Maggie tugged at his
arm.  Immediately he lent down, focused on her.

“You
know, I’ve no ken for large men?”  She whispered, “I’ve vowed never to promise
myself to a warrior.”

“A
solemn oath?”  An oath was a sacred thing to a highlander.

She
swallowed.  “Everyone's heard me say so.”