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.
She wanted him. She didna' want to, but she wanted him. Needed him. The proof was in the way she matched his hunger, met the fever of his kisses. She did this every time they came together, from inexperienced maiden, she flamed to temptress. Without taking his lips from hers, he reached down and caught her behind the knees, to lift her to his chest. She angled her body toward him, her breast crushed to his.
As he crossed to the bed, he released her lips, nudging the
blanket from her breast to greedily suckle her. She cried out, startled, stunned as he laid her on the bed, careful not to put his full weight on her. She pulled at him anyway, as though she welcomed it, as if she could not get enough of him. Her back arched, her breast raised for better access.
Oh, Lord, her impulses played havoc with his intentions. If she was hungry for his suckle, he would give it to her. In age old rhythm her hips moved against him, he added his own measure, lifted enough to look at her eyes glazed with passion, her body a ripe offering. He groaned.
"Why, Talorc?" she breathed, more than spoke. "Why do ya' make me feel like this?"
"Because you're mine, and your body knows it, even if you don't."
"No, I'm not yours. Not yet, anyhow." Her eyes cleared. Desperate to distract, he urged his hardness against that soft apex he craved and watched as her head bowed back. A soft moan left her lips. "Oh Talorc, you make me . . ."
"I make you mine."
He should have kept his mouth shut. Even before the words were uttered she was fighting the haze of sensuality.
"Not now,” she argued, “I’m not ready to be yours."
"You can't fight it Maggie," she tried anyway, tried to push him off of her but he held her still, just long enough to say, "It's good for the clans. It's what your body wants, I want. Accept it Maggie. We are meant to be."
"No," she rolled away, off the bed, to tug at the blanket, pinned beneath him.
He let it go, watched as she wrapped it securely about herself. Her breasts now flattened and hidden. He tried not to moan as he got off the bed.
Timing was everything.
"Maggie, you are fighting a losing battle. You want me as desperately. . "
She didn't let him finish, didn't let him calm the way before she turned on him, shoved at his chest.
"All fine and dandy for you!" She ranted, her passion turned to anger. "You’re preparing for a war. What happens when you don't come home from the fight? What happens when the likes of Seonaid make promises of sweetness to you, when you have a wife as tart as sour apples? Will you be true to me, then? In your heart?"
"Don't bring Seonaid into this. She's naught to do with us!" He would have to tell her about Seonaid, claims that her child was his, but not now, not yet. Maggie was too upset to give him the chance.
"Seonaid, battles, whatever. You have all manner of mistresses! What happens if one of those becomes spiteful? What happens if the battle turns against you? Sends you to the otherworld?"
She stopped, glared at him, as though her fears were already truth. "You'll be fine and dandy in your celestial home, but what of me? Left all alone with no chance to meet another that compares with you. Left to raise a small tyke who will grow up to be just like his father? Another warrior to desert me." She took a breath, her hands at her blanket. "And don't go telling me that he won't grow up to be just like you, because he will, just as my brothers grew up to be like my da. Just like you grew up to be like the great warriors whose seed you carry. He'll grow up to go out and fight and leave his mother broken with pain."
When she shoved past him he was too stunned to stop her. She stormed through the room, tossed down the blanket and whipped a kirtle over her head, settled it to all the curves he craved to caress. He watched as she wrapped a plaid about herself, a MacBede plaid no thanks to her brothers. That was all he needed now. A fine reminder that she was not his. Not yet.
She tossed one last glare his way before she stormed out the door. Where ever she thought to go, he hadna' clue but he'd leave her to it.
Aye, she'd lost one brother. One brother out of seven. Her da was still alive just as the father of their children would stay alive. Talorc would see to it.
But she needed to do her fuming. He understood that too. She needed to run around and around in her mind until she was worn weary of the thoughts. Then she would settle in with him, accept the inevitable.
He hoped it would happen quickly. He didn't know if he could stand the wait. He looked at the puddle of blankets on the floor. They'd come so close to being man and wife.
If only he'd kept his mouth closed.
* * * * * * * * * *
Mother, Maggie wrote, then stopped. She had to be very careful with the way she phrased her life at Glen Toric. If she told her mother that she was well, that Talorc treated her with respect and honor, she would be there for the rest of her life.
If she told her mother that the people of Glen Toric looked up to her, saw her as a great and wise women, her mother would never believe it.
But she would want to.
Mother . . . Maggie began again, the point of the quill on the parchment. She pressed, as though that would bring words to her mind. No cohesive thought came. She lifted the pen tip. A large drop of black ink marked her lack of inspiration.
Maggie dabbed the pen against the blotter, as she thought. She hated to waste a whole piece of parchment for one slight mistake. Unable to look at it, she turned aside, her eyes narrowed with thought. Nothing. All she could think about was the black mark and the pitcher of water beside the basin at the end of the table that was straight in her line of sight.
She shot a glance at the small dab of ink on her paper. It was still wet.
With an air of innocence, though who she tried to fool she couldna' tell, for no one else was in the room, she crossed to the pitcher of water, stuck her finger in and came out with a wetted tip. Carefully, she held her finger upright, with the drop of water on it, as she walked back to the parchment.
Paper held at an angle, one flick and her stain became a spilled tear.
Hah! She blew, sanded then waved the paper until it was good and dry and wouldn't run any more. She set to her task with fresh enthusiasm.
Mother,
May this find you strong and well. My brothers will tell you that I am up and about, no thanks to the rock to my head. It happened on the way to Glen Toric, after I mortally wounded one of the attacking Gunns. It was my first time in battle. While my soul does shudder from the memory, the Laird MacKay is quite proud. I think he means for me to join him in all future battles. To his mind, I am a strong and able soldier.
Strong warrior lass or no, I was felled, down for three days and four nights. The clan MacKay thought the Gunns had killed me. But my head can take a stronger bruising then that.
The worst of it was, young Ian came to me in my dreams but the MacKay would not let me go to him, so I have no message for you from that quarter.
She would not tell her ma about the wee boy. There was no guarantee that it was Talorc's. She would not encourage her mother to have such thoughts.
Maggie bent back to her writing.
My head is mending, the headaches are less severe. The women help to ease my work, so I don't suffer too terrible, especially a woman called Seonaid. They all say she had no reason to believe the Bold would marry her. The two are quite close, you see, but he is determined to sacrifice himself for his people just as he did with his first marriage. It saddens my heart to know that I keep the two of them apart. She is ever so full of emotion when she sees me.
There is talk that he murdered his late wife.
But I am fine. Give my love to our Laird, my father, and, to all the others. It was good to see the brothers. As you have taught me, I do not let on that my heart is broken with missing my own. Nor do I allow the brothers to witness the odd way the MacKays treat me. (Do you think it is because of this Seonaid woman?) I will keep my silence so our men will not fret. They do not have the strength in such things that we women have.
Please, if there is ever any problem at home, write. I will come to you as swift as a sparrow. If not, I fear Glen Toric is my judgment.
With all my heart,
Your Loving daughter
Maggie MacBede
It was a fair bending of the truth, but she was that desperate.
With quick movements she sanded, blotted and folded the letter, top to bottom and side to middle, then sealed it with the mark of h
er broach. The MacBede marking.
With a deep breath, she stood, stuffed the letter in the cross of her plaid and headed to the front of the keep where her brothers prepared to leave. With this missive, she would wish them God Speed and hope they returned quickly, before the snow.
She got to the top of the stairs and stopped. If she was writing letters, it meant her brothers were truly leaving. She would miss them, terribly. But they would be back soon. Jamie had, after all, taken a fancy to Lizbeth.
They would be back.
She hated goodbyes. Hated leave takings with all that standing about, watching, trying to find just the right parting words when none would do.
She dawdled, as if that would keep them there longer or give her the strength she needed not to cry with their departure. She went to the kitchen to ask Eilinor for something special to send with them.
Then she stopped in the great hall, to have a chat with Eba.
When she finally reached the great doors, she saw Mary move toward Douglas with yearning eyes. Too shy, she turned away, hurried up the steps, her head bowed. She had a piece of MacKay Plaid made into a small packet. She nearly ran into Maggie.
"Oh." She whispered.
Maggie nodded toward her hand.
"For your brothers. I thought they might want a parcel with MacKay soil and heather. They can keep the two together, MacKay and MacBede, for added strength."
Gently, Maggie took the packet, rubbed the weave of it. "They're very fine, so soft. Did you weave it yourself?" Mary was one of the girls assigned to the weaving room.
"Aye, spun the wool as well."
"It must be the wool from a kid. It's too soft for anything else."
Mary looked uncertain. "Is that not what you do?"
Maggie laughed, "I'm no dab hand at spinning and weaving. Mine were just scraps of cloth, not so fine as this. They will be honored, Mary. They will gladly carry this with them." She had to fight to get the words past her throat. She would have to have a word with Douglas. Tell him to look at the obvious. He could do worse than Mary, and probably no better.
When she finally made it down the keep steps, the MacBede men were already mounted. Her delay was meant to make them stay longer, perhaps another day. Instead, she realized they would have left without any good bye at all.
Tangled (Handfasting) Page 8
