Tangled (Handfasting) (5 page)

No
, she thought.
No,
no, no
. She was not like that, in either sense.  She was not one to skirt
what needed doing but this was not her land, her people.  Even more so, she was
not one to go finding lost lasses. “I’m not fey, have never done such a thing
before. There’s no promise it will happen again.”

“Once
was enough.”  He rose, Maggie still in his arms. “But questions can wait until
tomorrow. We’ll leave Ysenda to her parents for now and get you back to the
castle. You’re still mending, need your rest.

Maggie
pushed out of his arms and eyed the horse she’d been riding.

“Here,”
he lifted her again.

“Stop.”
She wrestled from his hold.

“Just
helping you mount.”

“I’ll
walk.”

“No,”
he caught her by the waist, “you’ll ride, one more time.”  He settled her on
the back of the animal.  “We don’t know what happened with Ysenda, or who
attacked us in the woods, but if they decide to come again, escape is easier on
a horse.” He handed her the reigns and looked toward the people coming back up
onto the rise.

“What
about you?”

“I’d
best see to Ysenda and her family.  If they want to go home they’ll need a
guard around their cottage.”

Maggie
looked to the people and saw the lad from the courtyard.  The one Bold had
spoken with.  The boy headed their way.  Talorc noticed him too, signaling for
the lad to wait where he was.

“Get
yourself back to the castle.”  He nodded to one of his men.  “Bryson will see
you stay safe.” 

She
watched him walk away, toward the lad, surprised when he took his arm and bent
his head so the two could speak closely, privately.

“Who
is that lad?”  Maggie asked Bryson.

“Lad?” 
He asked.

“Aye,
the one speaking with Bold.”

Bryson
took the reins from her and started walking away.  “That’s just Seonaid.”

“Seonaid?
That’s a girl’s name.” 

“Aye.”

Maggie
looked back over her shoulder at Talorc and the lad. Things were even more
different at Glen Toric than home if they gave girls names to boys.

Bold
listened to Seonaid as he watched Ysenda, her parents and half his clan, move
up to the high ground.

“She’s
worn to the bone, Bold, and badly bruised but she’s alive.”

“Has
she said anything?”

“No,
crying is all.”

“Not
lost.”  It wasn’t a question. This far from home, it wasn’t likely.  He thought
of Maggie’s dream.

“She
thinks she killed someone.  That much did come clear.”

“That
little thing?” He scowled, relieved she was safe even as fury, that she hadn’t
been, that she had needed to kill, raged.

 “.
. .
a mite of thing, weak and frightened and a dark cloud is pressing closer
and closer”
The threat was not gone.

“See
to them, Seonaid, Ysenda and her family. Convince them to come back to Glen
Toric.”  He ordered.

“They’ll
be wanting to go home.”

“That
they might, but we need to be sure they’re safe.  Their cottage is beyond
everything else.  I’ll send them with a guard.  That will take time to organize
and need time to do so.”

“Men
have gone looking for the bastard.”

“Glen,
Ian, and Ben.”

“You
knew there would be someone to blame.”

“And you’re going think I’m mad to be listening to dreams.”

He’d
not betray her.  “The highlands are not as safe as they should be.”  He looked
down at Seonaid.  “You be careful yourself.  I’ve a feeling your brother has a
hand in this.”

Seonaid’s
nostrils flared as her hand flexed around the dagger at her hip.  “I know how
to fight, Bold.  No one, not even my brother, can hurt me.”

“Aye.” 
He smiled and patted her head, as if she were still the wee lass who used to
follow him around. She pulled free of his touch.  Still he warned her. “You
know how to care for yourself, but you also know how to be rash, so watch
yourself.”

“Birk!” 
Maggie pushed through the crowd in the great hall, toward the Bard, surprised
by her own eagerness.  She had every reason to ignore the man, yet her she was
running to him, the lone familiar face in this far-away place.  

“Maggie
MacBede!”  The bard bent his tall gangly body into a bow so low his head nearly
scrapped the floor.  As he uncurled, Maggie halted.

“Birk?” 

Wide
and gentle, his smile did not reach his eyes.

She
had loved his eyes, so expressive and kind and now hinting at a sorrow she
couldn’t fathom.  Cautious, she reached out with both hands.  He took them
immediately, lifted them to his lips.

“You
look well, lass.”

 
A year ago she would have swooned.  But that was a year ago, when she thought
he loved her, thought he would marry her, dreamed of being the wife of a Bard
and traveling from keep to castle.  It had been an idyllic dream he fanned
until one evening, after filling her with beautiful, treasured, words of adoration,
he left.  Without a word of goodbye she faced an empty morning searching.

Babbling
Birk the Bard.

She
would not be taken in with his warm eyes and gentle smile again.  She pulled
her hands free.

“I
am honored you would have me here at Glen Toric to sing for you, to tell your
story, to spread word of your glorious triumph and . . .”

“Birk.”
She interrupted for, with all his attractions, the man could get carried away
with words. “Why are you here?”

Eyes
wide he stumbled to explain.  “You sent for me. Me.  I am humbled by your
request, came as quick as was possible to be here for you.”  He looked around
and she realized they were encircled by the MacKays, leaned in close to whisper
in her ear, “you did not want the handfast, you do not want a warrior.  I know
you Maggie.”  He stroked her arm.

“No,”
she shook her head.  I didna’ send for you. But I’m that glad you are here.”  Took
his hand from her arm to rest her hand on his, as she nudged him to walk. 

People
watched them, she felt it, caught it in sidelong glances.  She didn’t care. 
They could gossip all they wanted.  She did not ask to be here, surrounded by
strangers.  

“I’m
glad to see an old friend.” She squeezed his arm and, as they passed people,
she nodded to any who were the least bit familiar. 

There
were the men who had ridden with the MacKay when he had gone to her own home, Ealasaid
who tended to her, and Una the gossip. A few recognizable figures in a room of
nameless faces.  An intimidating thing for a lass who had never been beyond
site of her home. Where strangers were a rare thing to wonder about, whisper
about.

 Now
she was that stranger. 

Babbling
Birk the Bard may have abandoned her but at this moment he was the closest
thing to a friend she had.

He
lent down, to whisper in her ear again.  She scrunched her shoulder against the
tickle of it. 

“Are
you happy here, Maggie?  Are you happy with your handfast?”

Happy? 
She looked about, at the people around them.  Friendly, for the most part, even
anxious to please.  But they were not so simple as her own kind, dressed in their
fancy clothes of the finest weave, edges lined with fur from many pelts and the
jewels!  Part of her wanted to reach out and touch the sparkle of a gem or the
soft fabric of a gown.  Instead she clung to Birk’s side.

“They’re
fine people.” She acknowledged. 

“Oh,
aye.  But so are the MacBedes.”  He covered her hand with his and gazed down at
her.

Was
that longing in his eyes?  Maggie pulled free, unsettled by the hope in that
look, confused that she still had her breath, that her heart didn’t skitter
with pleasure.  “Aye, we are a fine people, even if our clothes are not so . . .”

He
put his fingers to her lips. “You are good people, Maggie MacBede, with many a
tale of strength and honor.”

It
was good to be with an old friend. She squeezed his arm. “Will you be singing
after the meal?

“That
I will.”  As he tilted his head she suddenly wondered how his skinny neck held his
head upright.  He really was a scrawny thing.

“I’m not scrawny enough for your tastes?  Is that it?  You won’t be able
to rule me as you might a lesser man.”

She
stepped back, as Bold’s words rippled through her. Words spoken when she
challenged him for forcing the handfasting on her.  Worse, the thought of him
flowed with the memory filling her with all the excitement she wanted to feel
for Birk.

She
looked away, not wanting the comparisons, not wanting to feel the foolish
reminder of infatuation, horrified to think she may have married this man.

He
was a friend.  That was all.

“I
will see you at dinner then,” she promised and turned back to the flock of
women who shadowed to her.  

“I
will sing of you.”  He crooned.

She
welcomed the women as they encircled her, moving her beyond the bard,
whispering over each other.

“Who
is he?”  Nora asked.

Another
woman slapped Nora’s arm.  “That’s the Bard, you fool.”

Maggie
smiled.

“Babbling
Birk the Bard,” the woman tittered.  “One of your puny men, aye?”  Her eyes lit
up, Maggie lost her smile.

These
women were not so different from the ones at home.

“Where
is Ealasaid?” She asked rather than feed their curiosity.

“Fretting
over that girl.” Diedre complained. 

“Ysenda?” 
But she didn’t need to ask.  Of course she would be tending to Ysenda.  That’s
what Ealasaid did, she cared for others.  Maggie frowned at Diedre’s lack of
compassion, but didn’t say anything.

They
had been friends of a sort. Diedre, the only woman to travel with Maggie to
Glen Toric. The first of the MacKay women Maggie met.  She had been full of
stories of the people and place; full of advice on how to enjoy this year and a
day without being trapped for the rest of her life. 

Maggie had not seen much of Diedre since they returned. Even
for the search for Ysenda.  Diedre didn’t appear until they reached the castle. 
Once she heard the news,
she’d not
stopped berating since.  “Whatever got into the girl?”  She snapped. “To
frighten her family, her people, like that.”

“Come
now, Diedre, you know what it’s like, living way out there in the hinterlands,
no young men about.” Young Ete, justified.

“But
to go off with a stranger?  With so many lasses going missing?” Nora MacKay
shook her head, confused by the idea.

“Too
easy to trust a charming man.”  Una fretted as she’d been doing ever since the
girl was found.

“Aye,
but now we know what’s about. Who the blackguard is.”  Diedre stated.

“But
we don’t know,” young Ingrid whispered, lifting her head to look at Diedre.

Something
passed between the two.  Maggie wasn’t sure what it was but the shy girl with
her long blonde hair seemed to challenge the boisterous Diedre.

“Give
her time.” Diedre murmured.

Maggie
shook her head against her imaginings, tired from too much of a day.  She
scanned the room for Talorc.

“Ach,
look at you,” one woman moved forward and brushed hair away from Maggie’s forehead.
“Two black eyes and a lump the size of a goose egg. Who would have thought
you’d be out looking for Ysenda with the rest of us.”

Nora
swatted at the woman. “Don’t be telling her about the eyes.”

Una
laughed. “She should be right proud of those eyes.”

Maggie
reached up, to feel, but there was no color in the touch. “Two black eyes?”

“Aye,”
someone else cooed. “You’re a grand lass.”

She
was not so grand, certainly didn’t feel grand.  If only they would sit at the
table but where was Talorc.  Voices floated past.  She didn’t listen, just
scanned the hall until she saw him, across the room with the lad from the
courtyard. 

The
one who had spoken to him when Ysenda was found. Senoiad.

Only
now, despite the clouding pain, she saw that Seonaid was not a lad with a
lasses name.  Seonaid was a willowy, windswept woman and so close to Bold the
curve of her breast touched his arm.

Stunned,
Maggie wondered how she figured it out for the woman’s kirtle was no kirtle at
all but a tunic that ended above the knee. She wore hose, like a man and a sword
hung from her hip, a dagger tucked into her belt and a knife was strapped to
her ankle.

There
was just enough curve of the breast and the angle of her cheek bone to make a
difference.