The Handfasting (15 page)

He
looked behind him. This time it was a small deer upon an altar, body dissected,
entrails removed. Someone read fortunes in the splay of its guts. It should
have been the MacBede lass's inners they were studying.

She
had power. She had broken the chain of loss he fought so hard to ensure.

The
MacKay woman had finished her supplications, to whatever she called God. He
felt her reach him, the warmth of her body, the scent of her.

“You
failed.” She sniped.

He
grunted, refused to respond.

“Despite
my invocations, she has survived. You know that?”

“One
loss,” he reminded her. “One loss.”

“Yes,
the only plan I was not a part of.”

He
turned on her then. “Careful.” He warned.

“I
was the one who saw to it their food was spoiled. I was the one who ensured
their supplies would not travel with them. I have been the one to undermine the
MacKay.”

“Using
my ideas. You know what is to come. We will not fail in this.”

The
woman nodded, wrapped her arm around his. She had been right. The MacKay’s
success was due to the MacBede lass. One, unanticipated woman.

"I need to
return. I need to be there, to see that she questions her place at Glen Toric,
his loyalty to her . . .”

He shared her
frustration. They had been so close. Patiently, with deliberate steps, they had
undermined the MacKay's confidence.
Just one
more sneaky little victory against the MacKay, and his glory would have turned
to rust. Insecurity would have destroyed his clan.

The
MacKays would have crumbled, blamed the Gunns, faulted their enemy. Pursued
nasty little revenges. The Gunns, pompous in victories not of their making,
would destroy themselves in arrogance.

All
the clan confidence they had worked so hard to destroy had flooded back because
of Maggie MacBede.

 But
they had one small victory, another fissure in the foundation of their
security. The Mackay warriors had found the altar in Dunegan's Woods. It scared
them. They didn't have the courage to destroy it. Fear was a grand weapon that
weakened. The weak made mistakes, left room for a new order.

Blood
lay in a pool below the altar. Soon, it would be her blood to bless them. For
now, the deer would do.

One
day.

Soon.

This
little band of outcasts would have their way.

CHAPTER 3 – INTRIGUE

Ealasaid
pulled at a sleeve too short for Maggie’s arm, gave up, and brushed lint
tangled in the intricate weave of the finest embroidery. “It fits well enough
for now. We’ll see that you have something finer by tomorrow.”

Finer
could not be possible. A better fit would be good though. One where she could
breathe, without fearing a split seam. Looser, as women wore in this day and
age. Surely, this had been from his mother, which meant these people were
extravagant enough not to reuse the material. Wasteful.

“All
my trunks were lost?” Her only link with home, her life, all gone. No matter
how many times she asked, the answer never changed.

“Aye,”
Ealasaid fussed about the room, tidying all the other garments Maggie had
tried. “Such a shame. No doubt you’ve a better hand with a needle, but there it
is, nowhere to be found.”

“Oh,
aye.” Maggie lied, as she looked down at delicate threads of gold and silver.
Threads her own people could ill afford. She didna’ have to leave the room to
know Glen Toric was filled with riches beyond the reach of her people. A fancy
carved bed, tapestries with enough detail to record an entire battle, not just
a simple hunt or some singular meeting.

She
did not belong here.

"You
stay put, young lady," Ealasaid pointed a finger at a chair, "I'll go
find the Laird."

"I
can manage the stairs without him." Maggie argued, half-heartedly. In
truth, she was happy to have Ealasaid leave, to give her time to herself.

With
a swipe of her hand, the older woman brushed Maggie’s argument aside and headed
out to the hall.

 Alone,
Maggie stepped to the window, set deep with a seat beneath it. Opened earlier,
the shutters allowed a cool breeze and bright sunlight, so often absent this
time of year.

It
was not the sun she sought.

Ian
had come to her in a dream. All these months she had been waiting and now he
chooses to appear, each time as a warning or promise.

This
was no promise.

What
was she to do? How could she convince anyone to help her with no way of knowing
if the dreamscape was real or if the girl she had seen, frightened and running,
was truly lost?

She
scanned the land beyond the castle wall, the vista no match to the image in her
mind. A vision too easily inspired by too many highland lasses gone missing.

Only
a dream, that’s all it was, a simple if not tragic, dream.

But
if it was more? If Ian truly came to warn her, prompt her?

Och! 
There was no hope but to sneak out of the castle, find the stables and steal a
horse long enough to look. Another horse journey, after she vowed never to get
on a horse again.

She
looked to the courtyard below, the steady stream of people heading toward the
keep. One more example of the wealth of the Bold’s home. His rooms weren’t even
in the tall, square fortress but in a separate wing altogether.

She
leaned out further and saw the stable along the wall, closer to the gates.
Talorc emerged with a tall lithe lad, deep in discussion, crossing the
courtyard quickly. He held the lad’s arm as they walked, bent in to listen.
Ealasaid’s voice rang cross the distance. The two looked toward the castle.

There
wouldn’t be much time.

Having
spotted the stables, but not the rise and fall of land she sought, Maggie
crossed the vast room. Another set of window enclosures framed the bed. This
chamber must be on a corner with an outlook in two directions.

Even
as she approached the outlook, she realized the sound and scent, with its promise
of views beyond anything she had ever seen, had been there all along, in the
background. An undefined constant, just another new noise, new thing to be
absorbed. She reached the window to witness a wild crash of waves, as a
powerful surf slammed against huge boulders, pulled back only to arch and rise
again, an angry spray of foamy white.

Further
out, the false calm of the water smoothed and sparkled blue, reaching to
forever.

The
ocean.

Her
brothers told stories of this salty water that guarded one side of Glen Toric.
Tugged to the view as fiercely as the draw of tide she’d heard tales about,
this was not the rise and sharp drop of heather and gorse she so desperately
sought. With a shake of her head, she looked away from the fascinating beauty.

What
direction could it be? Nothing looked like her dream, not the courtyard, nor
the hillsides beyond. Certainly not the ocean.

Hopeless,
Maggie stifled urgency with practicality. She would need a cape, something
warm. She turned back into the room and gasped.

A
small, bent woman with grizzled hair stood inside the doorway.

"She
left you alone, did she?" So very tiny, with a meager smile stunted by
timidity, disquiet etched the old woman’s face.

Maggie
crossed to the chair before the hearth, held on to the back of it. "Ealasaid
went to get the Laird."

The
small head popped up with interest. "She will be awhile then." With
surprising purpose, she came into the room, closed the door behind her.

"My
name's Beathag. I'll watch over you. Mustn't leave you alone. We don't want him
to lose another wife. Not so soon anyway.”

Maggie
stepped back.

"I've
frightened you?"

"No."
Keeping a distance did not mean fright. A chance to get her bearings was all.

The
woman scurried over, took Maggie's arms and led her to the chair by the fire,
pushed at her until she sat.

"Do
you want a drink? A blanket?” Without waiting for a response, the mouse of a
woman bustled about, pouring water, grabbing a lap blanket, handing the one
over as she plunked the other onto Maggie’s lap.

 Too
stunned to argue, or stop her, Maggie sat still, allowed the ministrations. She
did not drink the water.

"I'm
very good at taking care of the Laird's wife," Beathag peeked up, as she
pushed edges of the blanket around Maggie's legs. "I was his first wife's
maid, you see. I came here with her, was with her when he cut her open."
Tears pooled in the beady, obsidian eyes, "so sad, so very sad that he had
to do her in like that.”

"He
was married before?” But of course he had been. She knew that.

A
vague recollection of the women at the MacBede keep, and talk of Talorc being a
widower, came to her. Back then, the information had not prompted thoughts of a
wife. An actual woman, who he would have cared for, lived with. Maggie’s gaze shifted,
to look at the huge bed she had been sleeping in.

"Aye,"
Beathag's voice matched her movements, quick, furtive and done before anyone
noticed. "That was their bed. The bed my Anabal died in.” She paused, head
tilted, watching Maggie. "Some say it was murder, but our Laird wouldn't
do that, would he?"

Would
Talorc do that? A man like her father, her brother, determined to protect and
avenge, not to murder a woman with child, his child.

A
wife dead from her husband’s knife?

Her
dream of Ian came to mind. There was no time for this.

The
little woman kept speaking. “The Gunns just sent her off, traded her for peace.
She was such a sweet little thing. As delicate and . . ."

Maggie
didn’t doubt he swept the other woman from her home. This man was well versed
in that, but to kill her? She had been a Gunn, a sworn enemy, but the
ramifications to his soul, let alone the clan, would be foolish. The Bold was no
foolish man.

The
door opened with a whoosh and there he stood, filling the opening with strength
and steadiness. Her heart thumped wildly. Relief, she promised herself,
distraction from this odd woman and the thoughts she provoked.

"Beathag?
What are you doing here?”

The
old woman cringed.

Talorc
eased the sharpness of his question. "The people have gathered below
stairs. You should be with them." Words directed to Beathag, while his
eyes held Maggie's. Did he sense her distress?

Beathag
bobbed and curtsied and scuttled out of the room. He watched, ensured she left.

"She's
an odd one, Talorc."

He
turned to study Maggie, head to toe, as though searching for injury, beyond the
blow to her head.

"She
never hurt me."

"Good."
He nodded, as though he did not believe her but would let it pass.

"You
were married before." She stood, straightening the blanket, laying it over
the back of his chair, feeling the draw of him, dangerous as any undertow.

He
cursed the door Beathag had scuttled through and rubbed the back of his neck.
Maggie noted his wet hair and clothes, clean and tidy as though it were a feast
day. In no mood to celebrate, she remembered the cloak she needed and crossed
to the trunk Ealasaid had filled with clothes from earlier. A massive thing
carved with scenes of a boar hunt. She lifted the lid, determined to get out of
the castle.

"It
is no secret that I was married." He crossed to her. "Though, I don’t
remember Anabal much when I'm with you. Truth told, I was certain you knew,
didna’ question it.” He watched her rifling through the clothes. “What are you
looking for?”

Maggie's
cheeks burned. “A cloak, or a plaid.”

"Are
you cold? Perhaps you should be back in bed."

"I’m
well enough.”

He
frowned. "I'll carry you."

She
raised her eyebrows. "You can keep your hands to yourself. It was my head
that was hurt, not my feet."

He
dropped his hands, let them hang by his sides. She knew the look, useless as
any man faced with illness. She patted his shoulder. “I’m fine,” and thought of
a way to escape, “just need fresh air. The outdoors. Do you have a cloak for
me?” She hadn’t found one in the chest and time was short.

He
reached into a wardrobe, brought out a folded length of plaid. The colors a wee
bit different than at home. Grand as this place was, their plants did not offer
the same depth of color as the ones at home.

“You’ve
none of mine?” He could know things Ealasaid didn’t. She frowned and reached
for his offering.

“No,
your trunks were lost. But we’ll find them, we’ll keep looking.”

“All
of my clothing?” She tsked as she wrapped the folded length of plaid around her
shoulders. “All the hours I spent embroidering lost?” She hated needlework,
resented the time it took, and it showed. All those tedious hours for naught.
His chagrin did much to ease her loss, though she took little time to savor it.
Urgency nipped.

 “The
clan’s coming together, below stairs,” he explained. “If you go down, they’ll
want to greet you.”

“Bold,
I’m no’ ready for that. Been closed in for days. I’ve a need for some time
alone, some fresh air first.”

He
narrowed his eyes. “You’d not meet the people who cared for you, tended to
you?”

She
looked away.

He
bent down, met her eye to eye, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Her
cheeks warmed. The Bold was coming to know her too well, in too short a time.
“Why would I lie about such a thing?” She challenged. “It’s as I said. I need
some time to myself. There’s no disrespect in that.”

“Aye,
there is, which is not like you.”

Flustered,
she shook her hands, turned away to pace. “You’ve foisted change on me, Bold.
I’m needing to breathe, out where the breeze can hit my face, where I can look
at the land and see it’s not so different from my own, without being surrounded
by strangers.”

Stunned
by her own argument, she realized it was true.

“You
canna’ go alone.”

“I
could if I were home.”

He
shook his head. “You could at Glen Toric before now, but a lass has gone
missing. That’s why the clan is below, gathering to search.

 “A
lass is missing,” she blurted, “and you’ve wasted time? Washed, fresh clothes?”

He
snorted. “I’ve been sleeping in that chair, in the same clothes we traveled in.
You and I have had a rough few days. I needed to wash that time away. But this,
this is new, we only just heard. They’re preparing for a search.”

 “For
the lass hiding out,” she waved her hand toward the northeast, “out there.”

He
cocked his head. “I didna’ say she was hiding.”

Maggie
blushed. “She’s in trouble, afraid, but not near as afraid as she should be,
and there’s meager cover where she is.”

Talorc
took her shoulders. “How do you know this? What makes you think we should go a
certain way?”

She
shook her head. There was no hope, she had to say something. “It was a dream.
Ian lead me to a lass huddled in gorse and heather, trembling. Och, Bold, she’s
only a mite of a thing, weak and frightened, and a dark cloud is pressing
closer and closer . . .” Maggie shivered. “And you’re going to think I’m mad to
be listening to dreams.”