by Aileen Adams
Though it would be better if she won.
Moira raised her arms, leveling the bow. She drew back the bolt and exhaled.
Margaret reached for Fergus’s arm, her heart in her throat.
Then, to her surprise and the surprise of nearly everyone around them, Moira took a step back. Then another. She did this until she was nearly double the distance from the target than the men had stood. The jostling crowd hushed in astonishment, including Margaret. That Fergus did not howl in pain at the way she clawed his arm was a surprise.
One… two…
Moira released the bolt, which sailed through the air and made its home in the center of the target.
The roar of the crowd was not to be believed, and Margaret cheered loudest of all. She cheered until her throat ached, then she cheered again.
Fergus lifted her in his arms, spinning her in a circle while the name MacDougal was chanted by those around them. Margaret joined them, clapping and laughing, as Fergus placed his wife on her feet and kissed her in front of everyone.
Something stung in the back of her eyes. She was unaware of any reason why she might cry. Her chest did feel a bit tight, but she assumed it had to do with the excitement which she was surprised had not killed her.
Padraig joined them, clapping Fergus on the back and kissing Moira’s cheek. “Well done!” he shouted, beaming. “You’ve done yourself proud, lass. I thought the men were going to soil themselves when ye stepped back as ye did!”
“I wanted to be certain they knew who they were competing with,” Moira laughed. “Now they know. So, Padraig Anderson, what of the feats of strength? Shall you compete?”
“Och, aye, ye must,” Fergus agreed, nudging him with an elbow. “I intend to.”
Padraig’s gaze met Margaret’s. She shrugged, raising a brow.
He took this as the challenge she’d intended. “Well enough, then. I had not planned it, but there is nothing to be lost.”
Margaret bit back a smile as Moira donned her bow and quiver, the two of them walking arm-in-arm behind the men.
“You truly were wonderful,” Margaret whispered. “You must teach me.”
“Only if you teach me your ways,” Moira winked.
Margaret nodded in agreement.
They reached the edge of the village, where people stood to the sides of a long stretch of ground cleared of grass. A group of men stood at one end of this stretch, which Fergus and Padraig joined.
Margaret told herself not to watch him too closely, as this would give him the notion that she cared more about him than she ought to. It mattered little whether he won—she’d only wished to know whether he would rise to the challenge, which he had.
“What will the men do?” she asked Moira.
Moira looked about. “I see a cart there. They might see which man can pull it the farthest while weighed down with rocks.”
“Ah. I see.” Padraig did not strike her as a man of great physical strength, though he did possess a fine build. Tall, broad, a man who’d spent much of his life in the saddle. But some of the men waiting their turn were far larger than he, men who reminded her of the giants of legend.
Caitlin appeared at her right, Alana to Moira’s left. “They’re going to begin!” Alana announced.
Margaret noticed Rodric and Brice joining the group, then Quinn.
“I suppose they all have to have a go,” Ysmaine laughed. “Heaven forbid one of the Anderson clan wins, and not all of them tried.”
“How do you live with their pride?” Margaret asked none of them in particular.
Caitlin laughed. “There are times when I ask the same question of myself.”
Margaret felt a tug at her skirts and looked down to find Fiona smiling up at her.
“Lift me?” she asked, holding her arms up.
Caitlin was carrying Gavina and thus could not lift Fiona to a better height by which to see.
“Of course,” Margaret agreed, flustered and deeply pleased that the child trusted her so. Just then, holding Fiona and surrounded by the women she had once thought foreign, unknowable, she felt as though she were part of the family.
This disturbed her deeply.
She pushed the feeling aside in favor of enjoyment.
One by one the men did their best to pull the cart, just as Moira had predicted. Inside was a pile of rocks, some quite large, and the men were tasked with standing between the shafts, taking hold of them and pulling the load behind them.
It was not an easy feat by any means. Some of the men only managed to make it a few paces before giving up, always to the good-hearted cheers of those watching.
One of the larger men stepped forward once the cart was again in place. Margaret swallowed over the lump in her throat. He would be the one to beat, she thought, chewing her lip.
“Is he a great giant?” Fiona whispered, eyes wide.
“No, wee one, though he does look it,” Margaret whispered in reply.
The man’s arms fairly bulged as he took hold of the shafts, the sun causing his golden hair to gleam. He was truly an impressive sight, and judging by the sighs and giggles of the girls around them Margaret was not the only one to notice. Though she could not imagine swooning over him as the others did.
He was not the type she would swoon over, if she were to swoon at all.
Even so, when he began moving the cart forward a bit at a time, taking one deliberate step after another, she understood how other women might be drawn to him. She, on the other hand, looked over the top of the cart to where the Anderson men waited their turn. Padraig looked unimpressed, as she had expected.
The giant pulled the cart nearly halfway down the stretch of ground, far and away the most anyone had done to that point. Margaret wanted to swear but held back for the sake of the child in her arms.
“Do not fear,” Fiona said with confidence. “Uncle Pad will do it.”
Caitlin laughed merrily along with the rest of them. “And what of your da?” she asked.
“Da is strong, but Uncle Pad is stronger. I know it.” There was no telling her otherwise.
Margaret secretly hoped she was correct.
It came time for Clan Anderson to show what it could do. She did not recognize some of the men who went first, but was pleased that all of them managed a respectable distance. Still, the mark left in the dirt which stood for the furthest distance remained unchallenged.
“Och, Brice,” Alana breathed, hands clasped between her breasts.
The women watched, holding their breath, as he moved the cart. The wheels turned steadily, with Brice starting at a much quicker pace than the others. Margaret’s heart fairly burst from her chest with the excitement of it all.
Alas, he did not make it more than half the way to the line.
Nor did Quinn, nor Fergus. Moira shrugged with a sigh. “I suppose there is only room for one victor in our bed,” she chuckled, which made Margaret laugh until tears rolled down her cheeks.
Rodric came next, with Padraig waiting until last. Caitlin held Margaret’s arm while Fiona’s arms clutched her neck. They held their breath until he started to pull, again starting strong as the others had.
It occurred to Margaret as she watched that he might pace himself better and pull a longer distance, rather than using up all of his strength at once. Even so, she whispered his name along with the other women, patting Fiona’s back as she all but climbed onto her shoulders with excitement.
Rodric made it furthest of all before giving up, slumping between the shafts, and Caitlin cheered loudest of all of them. It took some time for the cart to be rolled back to the start, which was when Margaret caught her breath and told herself she did not care how well Padraig did. It mattered not. In fact, if he did not manage to move the cart a hair’s breadth, it would be what he deserved.
Calling her hardheaded, indeed.
Moira squeezed her arm. “This is it,” she whispered. Margaret told herself it was not because Moira thought she cared about him, but because
they all cared. This was the pride of their clan at stake. For her sake, Margaret smiled and nodded.
“He will win,” Fiona predicted once again.
“I hope you are right,” Margaret confessed in a whisper.
When he started, turning the wheels a bit at a time, the excitement of the crowd grew. This was the last chance to beat the tall, imposing man who waited by the mark left after his turn.
“You can do it, Padraig,” Margaret whispered, staring at him as he took another slow step.
“He is moving so slowly,” Alana observed with a mournful whisper. “It is too much for him.”
Margaret gasped. “No! No, he is cleverest of all! Forgive me,” she was quick to add, realized she had just insulted the men. “He is taking his time and not tiring himself out too quickly. I know it!”
Slowly he moved, one step at a time, never stopping. He kept a steady pace, kept his eyes fixed ahead of him no matter how many called his name or cheered him on. “Come on, Padraig,” Margaret whispered, reminding herself not to squeeze Fiona too tightly.
It simply was not to be borne, the way her chest clenched tighter the closer he came to the line on the ground.
“I think he’s going to do it!” Moira gasped when he crossed the mark left after Rodric had finished. She was not the only one who held this belief, as a hum of excitement began to grow over the crowd. It grew louder with every step, every turn of the wheels.
Sweat ran down his face and yet he continued to pull, eyes never moving, his teeth gritted, muscles and tendons bulging in his arms. He planted one foot before him and pulled, then the other.
“Just a little more!” Caitlin squealed.
“You can do it!” Ysmaine cried out, which was met with cheers all around. Soon the entire crowd was cheering, clapping, stamping their feet. And still, he pulled.
“One more step, Uncle Pad!” Fiona shouted. “One more!”
He took one more step, pulling the cart behind him until the wheels were on the other side of the line. And it was as if a great flood was let loose as he was instantly surrounded by cheering witnesses.
Margaret screamed until she was hoarse, jumping up and down, nearly mad with joy and pride. The crowd began to chant for Clan Anderson as Padraig clasped arms with the tall man, the two of them laughing.
“Anderson! Anderson!” Margaret chanted along, certain she would have no voice in the morning and caring not a bit. Her heart was full to bursting at the sight of his broad smile as everyone near him offered congratulations. Rodric clapped him on the back and raised his arm in the air, bringing a fresh round of cheers and screams.
Padraig searched the crowd with his eyes, never stopping until they landed on Margaret. They shared a smile which she was certain would kill her on the spot.
They might well have been the only two people in the world.
13
The household still fairly buzzed like a hive full of bees in the days after the festival. Padraig became accustomed to the giggling of the lasses as they went about their daily tasks, especially when he was in the vicinity. He’d become something of a legend to them, it seemed.
So long as it did not interfere with their work, he minded not.
If anything, he enjoyed it somewhat. But only because their giggling and sidelong glances reminded him of the only woman whose opinion mattered to him, and of the way her eyes had shone when they’d met his. He’d never known such gratification until then.
He’d been her hero. Every man wished to be a hero in the eyes of the woman he favored.
He merely wished she were a woman he could favor openly, rather than keeping up the pretense that she mattered not at all.
At the very least, she was behaving more favorably toward him. He did not flatter himself by believing her change in demeanor had anything to do with the festival, though he would not have minded if it were so.
The fact was this—he had wished to take her in his arms and kiss her then and there, in front of dozens or perhaps hundreds of people. He had wished to show them she was his, and she was proud of him, the way Fergus had kissed Moira when he was so proud of her.
He’d been the only one of the Anderson men without a woman. While knowing he’d bested a man roughly the size of an ox was hardly anything to be ashamed of, he felt separate once again.
All he would have needed to do was take the woman in his arms.
She would have slapped his face, like as not.
A rap on the door stirred him from his daydreams—he’d had many of those as of late, when he’d once prided himself on discipline of mind. It was that discipline which had enabled him to pull the damned cart, after all.
Fergus looked abashed as he entered. “If this is a disturbance to ye, I can return at a later time.”
“Nay, please. Ye dinna need to speak to me as though ye were the lass who changes the bed linens,” Padraig chuckled, waving him inside.
Fergus smirked. “Aye, or else I would be batting my eyes at ye and pursing my lips.”
“Now, see here—”
“Not that I blame them,” Fergus continued as he sat, stretching out his legs near the fire. It was an unusually chill day, even for late September. “Ye made quite a hero of yourself at the festival.”
“They shall forget it, as women are wont to do,” Padraig predicted. Then, he grew serious. “Is there something ye wish to speak to me about?” It was unusual for Fergus to appear at the door to his study, unannounced and uninvited.
Fergus nodded, his deep sigh telling Padraig this was not good news. He’d almost hoped his friend was about to announce the arrival of a bairn, as the pair of them were wed not long after Gavina’s birth and the child was nearly a year old.
“Aye. I didna know if I ought to. I’ve been fighting myself on it ever since the night of the festival. I asked Moira, and she told me a thing or two which helped me to understand what I saw. Perhaps. I dinna know.”
“Ye dinna make sense, either,” Padraig pointed out with a chuckle he knew sounded anything but jovial. In reality, his heart seized, for he thought he knew who Fergus wished to speak to him about.
There was only one person who would inspire this hesitation from his long-time friend. They’d always been frank with each other, all of the men had, which made this quite a change.
Which meant it likely had to do with a change which had come to the household. Which had come over him.
Fergus sighed again. “Ye see, it happened this way—the festival was coming to an end, and we were preparing to be on our way. Moira rode in the wagon with Caitlin and the bairns. Rodric had already driven them away. I rode astride, on my own.”
“I remember.”
“As I was preparing to mount, I took notice of a mare standing on its own in front of one of the market stalls. The stall was empty, and there was almost no one around by then. I supposed the rider had ducked behind to relieve himself, something of that nature. But I recognized the saddle as one of yours.”
Padraig willed himself to remain calm. Was he not thinking about discipline of the mind only minutes earlier? “Go on.”
He’d seen men tended to after battle, having their wounds cleaned and sewn. He’d tended to Donnan himself only months earlier and remembered it well. Fergus reminded him in that moment of a man gritting his teeth through the discomfort of having a gash sewn with nothing to numb him first.
“I heard what sounded like a fight, and in my head, I tried to remember everyone I had seen taking their leave—and anyone I had not yet seen. I realized Margaret might still be about the place, and of course, my first concern was for her safety. I was about to throw myself into whatever might be taking place, but then, I heard her speaking.”
“What did she say?”
“She threatened someone. A man, I suppose, as what she threatened could only be threatened by a man. She told him she would cut off his manhood and feed it to him if she ever caught sight of him again, that she would always be watching for him and he would ne
ver know when she would strike. Only if he vowed to never bring harm to another woman would she allow him to leave with his manhood intact.”
Padraig sat back, stunned and perhaps a bit sore between his thighs. No man could hear such words spoken without imagining such trauma to his own manhood. “She would cut it off and feed it to him?” he whispered, trying in vain to imagine such vulgarity coming from her lovely mouth.
“Aye. I could hardly believe it myself. When he agreed—for why would he not?—I stepped back where she would not see me. I didna wish for her to know I’d heard it, and I cannot tell ye why. I suppose it was instinct. I knew she would not like my knowing. To be honest, I didna want her to threaten my manhood, either.”
Padraig snorted, though there was little humor in it. “I suppose there has to be a good explanation.”
“Either the bastard tried something on her, or she witnessed him trying it on another lass. Either way, he got what was coming to him. What I wish to know is, how did she learn to fight as she must have?”
“What makes ye think she must have fought?”
“As I said, there was a scuffle. And when she did come out from around the stall, her fingers from the backs of her knuckles to the tips were bloody. As though she’d used her fists on someone.”
It could not be. Not Margaret. Granted, she was an unusual lass; perhaps that was what drew him to her, the fact that she was somehow different. But to be so violent, and against a man who was like as not much larger than she?
“She found a barrel of water nearby and washed her hands before mounting up and riding out,” Fergus finished. “She looked… not the way I would expect a lass to look after such a thing.”
“How did she look?”
“Calm. Utterly calm. As though nothing at all had happened. Can ye make sense of it? For I certainly cannot.”
Padraig turned this over in his mind, but there would be no amount of turning it over that would make it make sense. It made no sense at all, and that was that. Margaret? Violent? Capable of using such vulgar threats to frighten a man?
“Ye said ye spoke to Moira?” he asked.
