She tried to crawl to the water, but a fierce hold on her shoulders kept her close to the pain, too close to the pain.
“My namesake, Maggie. You’ll give him my name.”
“Ian, help me . . .” again, she wanted the relief of the stream but someone slapped her cheek hard. She cried out, not from the pain, but from a different hurt. Loss. The world of Ian vanished, naught but a huge hole in her heart.
“Maggie, wake-up, girl. Come on now, open your eyes.”
“Ian?”
**********************
Talorc closed his eyes in relief. She may have called to her brother, but this time she was awake, eyes wide and bewildered mayhap, but open.
"Ian?" Like thistle down, she touched Talorc's jaw, as though she were afraid he would dissolve.
Damn straight. That's exactly what should happen to a spirit. "Ian's dead, Maggie. You are here, at Glen Toric, with me, with the clan MacKay.”
She tried to jerk free of him only to wince with the pain. “You sent him away.”
He tightened his hold on her. “You’ve no place with him Maggie. He’s dead and gone.”
“Talorc,” she squirmed and whimpered with the movement, “You’re hurting my arms.”
Stunned, he looked, “Och, Maggie," he eased his bruising hold. "I’m sorry." And let go, though he could not pull away. Instead he slid one arm around her shoulders, to hold her upright and awake. "I was afraid you’d hurt yourself.” I was afraid, he didn’t tell her, that you would leave me for your brother, go to a land of no return.
Ealasaid reached behind Maggie, to fluff and arrange the pillows.
“Lay her back, Laird.” The older woman commanded as she filled a mug with water.
He was loath to release her, wanted her to feel him near, to sense his presence and let go of dangerous dreams.
"Go on now, lad," Ealasaid chided, "those pillows are softer than your arm."
As he eased her back, she whispered. “Ian was here. I saw him."
“Ian is dead, Maggie. You are not.”
"He was here." Her hands flew to her head.
"No Maggie."
“Dead or no, I saw him Talorc, talked to him and the boy, the wee one.”
“The wee one?” Talorc's sight jerked to her eyes. Eyes dulled by a sorrow that ran too deep.
“Ian wants me to take the babe . . .” her lashes feathered down.
“No, no, no, Maggie,” fear clutched at his inners. She’d already slept too long, “wake-up, think about what you said.”
“Talorc, stop . . .” she groaned, "let me sleep, let me go back to the boy."
“Oh no, Maggie,” harsh and loud, he insisted, “listen," her eyes opened, "listen to me. A wee one. It’s Samhain, time for those who have passed on, and time of those to be born." He shook her shoulders, jostled her to wake. "To be born, Maggie! It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to you, but Ian?” He could barely get his breath, as he moved in close so only she would hear as he begged her to listen. “The wee one, it has to be ours, girl. Our babe.”
The brush of her lashes, against his cheeks alerted him. She had heard. He pulled back to study her. Her dream told it all, she would live, have his child.
“He didna’ say it was yours, Talorc.”
He laughed, he couldn’t help it. Weak and aching, she could still tussle with him. “Are ya’ sure now, lass? Are you absolutely certain, he didna’ say the boy was mine?”
Her brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “Oh! Talorc.” Gingerly, she touched the bruise. “I do ache.”
Contrite, he leaned back, made room for Ealasaid to move closer.
“You just lie there, lass, leave the pain to me.” As the older woman turned to rinse the cloth, to cool it again, another, smaller woman, offered a steaming bowl.
“Beathag?” Talorc tried to frown away his late wife’s nursemaid.
Full of worried innocence, the small woman looked at him, offered the bowl. “I’ve a broth for her.” Talorc tipped back, horrified that she might try to pour the stuff down his throat. Not, bloody likely. Not from her.
Even his late wife had been leery of Beathag’s concoctions, and she was the one to bring the rodent of a woman to Glen Toric. She was a small thing who slipped nervously along the edges of a room. Slight, aye, timid, true, but as determined as a mouse to cheese. Talorc was never certain how to deal with her.
Thankfully, Ealasaid took over. “Beathag, what have you made here?” Ealasaid’s brusque, robust way managed to soothe with practicality.
“It’s a broth.”
“So I see. And what have you put in it, Beathag?” Ealasaid leaned in to sniff at it, “For you see, I’ve already been giving the lass a drop of tincture. We wouldn’t want to confuse her poor, hurt head, by mixing up the wrong mixes, now, would we?”
Beathag gave a sharp shake. “Oh no, Ealasaid. We wouldn’t want to do that.” And she slipped back into the crowd, a mouse to a crack in the wall.
Ealasaid shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes.
“Who was she?” Maggie was getting more alert. Talorc took her hands in his.
“Beathag, an old nurse maid,” Her hands were too cold. He rubbed warmth into them.
“Talorc?”
“Aye?”
“The rest?” She lifted her chin toward the foot of her pallet. "And where am I?"
He had forgotten that the others were there, that her bed was here, a pallet upon a table in the great room, before the fire. His clan, her clan now, formed a circle around them.
“It’s the Clan McKay, Maggie. But I wouldn’t be thinking you’d be ready to hear all the names.”
Her eyes closed as she shook her head gently. “No, not all, but some, I should know some . . . the one with the cool cloths.”
"Ealasaid, Maggie. She is as close to a ma as I have."
Ealasaid flustered with the notice. “You’ll be needing another.” Overly enthusiastic she replaced the warmed cloth with a fresh one.
“Aye, thank you Ealasaid.” Maggie adjusted the rag that hung drunkenly over her forehead. “And who whispered stories?”
Talorc had erred before, he may have done so again with Una. She had the breath for a tale, but it was gossip, aimed for drama, not reality. Talorc never thought Maggie would remember what was said, only be urged by the voices. He realized he should have listened, should have censured what the woman said.
Una scrambled up around to the fire side of Maggie's bed. “It was me. I could tell you heard every word. No one else believed that you would, but you did, did ya not? Oh, you were sooo . . .”
Una had been a mistake. Talorc nodded toward Conegell, Una's husband.
“Come on woman.” Conegell tugged at her arm. “Canna’ you see, she’s suffering from a sore noggin?” When his wife resisted, the calm man warned, “you’ll make it worse if you don’t stop that chatterin.’”
"I'm the one who woke her."
"No you're not," Deidre snorted, "It was her dreams of the boy. The Laird's son. She knew she had to come back from that."
Maggie had gone back to sleep. Talorc lifted one of her eye lids.
“Just resting, Bold,” she whispered, “just resting.”
Una ignored her husband. “Do you want me to keep talking to her?” Talorc shook his head. “No, Una, that’s enough.”
“Una?” Maggie whispered, “You remind me of a cousin.”
“I do? I remind her of her cousin.” She preened to the crowd.
Leaning down beside Maggie, Talorc murmured in her ear, “saucy wench. I’ve met your cousins and I know exactly which you were speaking of. ‘Twas no compliment you just paid Una.”
“Who's to know?” She whispered back.
“Aye. You warmed her, you made her feel proud," he tucked the covers around her as she fell back to sleep. He shot a look at Ealasaid, in question.
"Don't you fret now, laird, she's fine to sleep. It's just the pain."
"She'll wake again?"
"Oh, aye, she'll wake again, now." The older woman promised, as she shooed the others away.
The mighty Bold held onto his handfasted's hands, bowed his head to rest it next to hers.
"You gave me a scare girl. You gave me a good scare." A shudder racked him with the surge of fears he had kept at bay.
Maggie returned to her dreams. Talorc was not so fortunate. He could do no more than sit by her side and watch for the tussle of attraction. To see if she would struggle to return to her brother.
In the end, after she had been moved back to his bed chamber, after a night and a full day of Maggie rising and falling between slumber and wakefulness without a word of Ian, Talorc gave way to sleep.
* * * * * * * * * * *
The MacKay woman stood at the top of the hill, her arms wide, hair caught on the wind. He thought of her naked and willing on the slab of stone and grunted as the cold whipped about him. She had been furious. So had he.
"Yes, Cailleach Bheare,” She sang to the wind. “Fill me with your breath of life." She turned toward the setting sun, "I vow we will give you blood. May the day set on the MacKay. May he fall below the horizon, give rise to a new day, and an old way."
He watched her, his new plaid pulled tight, and smiled. They may not have succeeded capturing the MacBede woman, lost good men in the effort, men they couldn’t afford to lose. But they had a reward, the woman’s trunks. New clothes for his men, fancy embroidered dresses for the lasses.
He couldn’t wait to wear the MacBede plaid in an attack against the Gunns. Their retaliation would be a stunning blow that would go far to balance out their failure.
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 – INTRIQUE
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 woman 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 treads 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. The shutters were opened earlier bringing in a cool breeze and bright sunlight, so often absent this time of year. Although 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 what she had seen in her dream. A dream too easily inspired by too many highland lasses 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, which she could see from the window. 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. On either side of the bed was another set of window enclosures, which put this room on the corner of the building with an outlook in two directions.
Choosing the furthest window she knew, even before she reached it, this was a view beyond anything she had ever seen. The sound, always in the background, crescendoed, demanded recognition. Waves crashed against huge boulders, pulled back as new arches rose to fall in an angry splash of foamy white. Beyond, it smoothed into a sparkle of blue reaching to forever.
The ocean.
Her brothers told stories of this salty water that guarded one side of Glen Toric.
Pulled as fiercely as the draw of tide she’d heard tales about, this was not the r
ise 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, this woman’s meager smile, was stunted by timidity, disquiet etched in her 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. Alarm perhaps, 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 plonked 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.
Tangled (Handfasting) Page 2
