Tangled (Handfasting) (11 page)

Bringing
the crofters inside these walls, searching for any weak points, he was
preparing for full attack.  So far, other than the attack in the woods, the
enemy had used stealth. They had known how quick a highlander was to avenge and
so, they had set the clans against each other. It was time to meet with the
Gunns, to put aside their differences, for she truly believed the Gunns were
not at fault.

Maggie
hated to admit it but if Anabal hadn’t died, all the losses, all the battles
could have been averted

Anabal? 

Talorc’s
late wife, God rest her soul.  Maggie hadn’t thought about her in days. Now her
name conjured images. Fragile and fair, that's what she had been. Maggie knew
this because she had asked. Beathag thrilled to talk about 'her,' Anabal, the perfect
lady, who never dirtied herself with chores.

Not
like Maggie did.

Anabal
had been beautiful, winsome, and petite. Gerta snorted that she was no more
than another useless Gunn but then Gerta was proving to be fiercely loyal to
Maggie. The question rising was whether Talorc had adored the woman, loved
her?  Their relations had been fruit-full, produced a bairn. Bless his soul and
all.

Anabal.

Talorc
would have kissed her, wrapped her in his arms, pressed their bodies together.

Maggie
froze.  Couldn't breathe.

He
would have mated with the other woman. . . . in . . . . this . . . . bed!

Maggie
muffled a screamed, kicked her way from under the covers and scurried out and
down the mattress.

"What
. . . huh?"  Both Gerta and Caitrina looked at Maggie who had leapt off
the end of the bed, to land right next to Brutus' head. The dog jumped and
barked, the hair on the back of his neck bristling at the unknown danger. The
door flew open and a sleepy eyed guard ran into the room, his dagger out and
ready to defend.

A
guard at all times was a nuisance. Especially now. She blinked. Thankful she
wore a shift to bed.

She
cleared her throat. Everyone stared at her. "I . . . I just couldna’
sleep."

"Me
either," Gerta hefted a hearty sigh, "It's worrying about our men
folk."

It
was Maggie's turn to stare. Gray hair disheveled, lines from the pillow creased
Gerta’s cheek, her eyes heavy with sleep.

"It's
near enough to dawn." Caitrina offered. "We might as well get up
now."

"Aye,"
Maggie lied, "that's all I was doing. Rising for the day."  The guard
nodded, yawned broadly and backed out of the room as Maggie added, "I have
a task for us to work on today."

Caitrina
sighed, "As you always do."

"Of
course," Maggie frowned, "There's much to do to run a keep."

"Then
I'll stick to my crofter's cottage, thank you very much." Gerta snorted. "What
is it this time?"

”The
beds.”  She rushed out. "We need to freshen up the beds before
winter."  The kitchen could wait.

The
women looked at each other.

Maggie
moved up and ripped the covers from the mattress. "Empty the mattresses
toss the old filling and scrub the ticking. The beds will smell sweet with new
fill. We can wash the blankets as well. If it's as sunny today as it was
yesterday, they'll dry in no time."

"There
are plenty of beds and pallets in this keep."

"Aye,
and my guess is they haven't been cleaned and aired since Talorc's mother was
alive."

Gerta
humphed. "You would probably be right in that. They've probably just put
more straw and heather in, without changing what was there."

"Ooohhhh!" 
Caitrina scooted away from the bed. "There must be a thousand bugs in that
thing!" she started to scratch, as if the mention of the critters caused
the bite.

"Aye,"
Gerta agreed.

"We'll
start with this one." Maggie didn't wait for their help before she
stripped the mattress from the frame.

The
Bold was back.

Unnerved
by his presence in the chamber, Maggie pulled a cover about her and rose to open
the shutters and look at the courtyard below.  A feathery carpet covered the
ground that would soon turn to slush, melt in the warmth of an autumn day. Harmless
in itself, it signaled heavier snows to come.  

Her
chance of leaving was slipping away and she so desperately needed to go, to see
her family, to follow a plan she was determined to see through.

Talorc
returned last night with a swooping kiss for Maggie, a dizzying spin in his
arms, and a tale that had kept the whole of the clan mesmerized.  There had
been a battle, the sorrow of a man lost, but they had freed the whisky maker
and the tools of his trade, at least those that hadn’t been destroyed.

And
he'd returned with two of her brothers.

James
and Douglas, the two who had no wife or family to leave behind, had come to see
how Maggie fared. They said her mother fretted for news. But, of course, the
fight had to come first.

They
were riding straight for Glen Toric when they found The Bold riding out to
fetch Old Micheil. They rode with him rather than go to the MacKay keep to see
their baby sister.

She
braced herself on the window sill, filled her lungs with the cool air.

They
cared little for Maggie's request to go home. Quiet requests, private, gained
when she cornered each, as they left the hall as men will do when they've been
drinking pots of ale.

"Och,
Maggie, give a man some peace."  Douglas had groused.

"But
I can't speak freely in there."

That
caught his attention.

"Why
not, Maggie?  From what I see, you’re treated better here than at home. And
you've got the run of the place.  Look what you’ve done.”  He’d looked amazed. 
“The Bold sees the changes you’ve made with more pride than he sees his own
success. You're a true Laird's wife, what you were raised to be."

"I'm
not his wife."

He
laughed, like all men do over shared secrets no woman would understand. "Not
yet, you're not. But it won't be long now."  And he walked away, as if any
plea she would make was worthless.

Everyone
believed Talorc would have his way, and he would. Not even she could deny that.
But she had to make him wait, until she was settled in herself. Then she would
become his wife. After she went home.

There
was only one option left. She would get a note to her mother. Her ma had been
fretting. If Maggie could make her fret enough, her ma would send for her.

She
had to.

Before
there were any more kisses or touches.

She
closed her eyes, willed herself to forget them. Even as she tried, memories
seeped through her body, her mind’s eye picturing his great broad hand roaming
over her flesh. She believed him when he said, should they mate, she would
never be the same.

She
had to go. Frantic, she looked about, as if to find escape within the chamber,
then stilled. Time. That’s all she wanted. Time to say good-bye to her people. Time
for the Bold to realize he wanted her as she was, or he didn’t want her at all.

Travel
was still possible. The snow from the night was so light it didn't even hide
the charred remains of the bonfire that had been lit for Samhain. Samhain. The
night she missed. A night she had waited for from the moment she knew of young
Ian's death. There would have been costumes, laughter and a wee bit of fear. The
night would have been full of ghosts. She had counted on that, waited and
waited for it. She had promised Ian.

Ian
. . . Ian and a child. She blinked, as if to switch her mind to another time. She
had seen them, or dreamt of them. Ian had spoken to her of a child, a young
Ian, who was similar and yet, different, than the brother Maggie remembered.

“. . . time for those who have passed on, and time for those to be born
. . ."
Ian had promised to
take care of the babe.

"It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to you, Maggie,
but Ian?”
 

She
twisted around, to see where Talorc lay, deep in sleep. Once she was with child
there would be no travel, no going home to see her own people. Between carrying
a child, nursing a child and conceiving another, it could be years before she
ever left Glen Toric.

She needed to go home, now.

Again,
she looked to the huge man, fast asleep upon the floor. The hound's great,
square head was up, eyes focused on Maggie. Lazily, Brutus shifted, rose from
the hearth, brushed up against her leg and stopped, to lean against her his
head high enough that she could run a hand over it without bending. She
scratched behind his ears, smiled as his back foot thumped in time with the
caress. He leaned so hard she had to brace herself. Somehow it managed to make
her feel better, enough that she scrunched down beside him, to hold that
massive noggin against her, stroke his long silky ears.

"You're
a great beast, just like your owner."

"I'm
not such a beast." Talorc argued. Both Maggie and the dog spun about to
see him still lying there, eyes closed.

"You
are to me."  She stood, let the dog abandon her for the man. It was just
as well.

Talorc
stretched and sputtered against the dogs eager licks. When he'd brushed Brutus
aside, he opened his eyes to see Maggie, wrapped in an old blanket, the sunrise
to her back. She was tall and disheveled and utterly delectable.

"How
old are you now, Maggie?"

"Oh
Bold," she gave a mock sigh, "What kind of man are you, to take on a
lass before you even know her age?"

"Twenty."

"I
was."

"Twenty-one
then?"

"What's
the day?"

"You've
been with me for near on a month."

"It's
November then?"

"Aye."

"Then
I'm twenty-one."

He
thought about what she was saying. Just twenty-one. Twenty when they met. He'd
been so busy getting her to join him, taking her away from her home, that he'd
never thought of her age, or when it would change.

"You're
a woman fully grown."  He couldn't think of much else to say. He certainly
wasn't about to make apologies. There was no stopping with those. "Time
you're married, with a family, Maggie."

She
looked down, then away and he realized he'd hit a tender spot. She'd have been
miserable with the tailor, or the bard. Talorc knew it, deep in his bones. The
good Lord hadn't saved her for him by mere accident. Any other lass, as special
as his Maggie, would have been married by the time she was nineteen. But not
this one. She was meant to be a MacKay, the laird's wife. She was meant to be
his.

"What
makes you so sad, girl."

She
leaned out, over the window sill, her face to the freshness of the outdoors.

"Do
you think the child was yours, Talorc?"

He
stilled. Wondered which child she meant, and could only think of one. Someone
had told her about Seonaid's lad. Silence was not easily won within his keep.

"Child?"
he would let her clarify.

She
frowned, as though he had disappointed her by not knowing what she meant.

"The
one Ian held."

He
rose, wrapped his plaid around his waist slowly while the punch of her words
settled. Even the thought of the bairn and his body stirred for the making.

A
child.

Their
child.

"Aye." 
He told her and crossed to where she stood within the room, with him, yet so
terribly alone. "Give us a chance, Maggie. You will see."  He placed
his hands on her shoulders, his lips to her hair. She smelled of the outdoors
and woman. A combination that completed the rearing of his manhood and near
buckled his knees.

"Don't,
Talorc."  She tried to pull away, and, though he lightened his hold, he
did not release her.  "You do not like my touch?"  He rubbed his
hands along her arms, to soothe but she stiffened. This was not like his Maggie.
He tried again, one last effort. "My lips against you?"  He bent to
her neck, where he nuzzled her with warm breath, and butterfly kisses. She
whimpered, he heard it even as she tried to stifle the sound. She trembled. His
head came up, to see what was in her eyes.

Tears.
He released her.

"Is
my touch that bad that it brings you to tears?"  Instead of answering she
reached up, wound her arms around his neck and, with a wobbly voice, ordered,
"Kiss me, Talorc. Just this once."

He
clasped her head, looked straight into eyes green as spring leaves, and just as
damp. He could barely breathe. "Are you sure, Maggie?"

She
sniffled, nodded. "Just this once. I need you  . . ."

He
didn’t understand the stricture, on last time, but there was no waiting for her
to explain. He wanted to go slow, to ease and woo, but her confession slayed
his intentions. He crushed her, his lips hungry and urgent on hers.