Bold (The Handfasting)(16)

Maggie snorted in disgust, “You are right on that mother. This place is not quiet about such things, nor do the animals care to go into hiding when it comes to mating. But what does that have to do with giving myself? A husband has rights and he takes them. An animal has instincts and they follow them. So what of me?”

“You,” Fiona said with conviction, “have a heart to give or to withhold. You do according to your heart, you give to your husband, absolutely, or you withhold. Let your heart decide, not your husband. He cannot take what you do not give.”

“Is that it?” Maggie sagged upon the window ledge, and welcomed the freshness of the fall breeze as it brushed over her and rustled her hair. There was clarity in its coolness. “A matter of my heart?”

“If you let your heart rule what you do or do not do.” Fiona hedged.

“Then if I do not give my heart than I do not give myself?”

As Fiona took a deep breath, Sibeal marched up to them.

“Maggie, there’s no more time, lass. Get over there and into that tub, or you’ll be wearing a drying cloth to your Handfasting.”

She straightened, looked to her mother, “If it’s as you say, then you can prepare to have me back here in a year and a day from this moment. For I’ll not give my heart.”

Rather than join the throng of women caring for her daughter, Fiona stood quietly and watched as Maggie crossed to the bath. The lass had regained her spirits, ‘twas in her step, in the way she let the others tease her.

Quietly, Fiona touched three fingers to her forehead, her heart, to either shoulder. When the others cast glances her way, they thought she made the sign of the cross in preparation of prayers for her daughter. They could not be knowing that Fiona was praying for forgiveness of the half-truth she’d been telling.

For a half-truth, meant a half lie.

A Handfasting was no more than a betrothal. Oh, aye, the couple would live together, may even share a bed but, despite bawdy innuendos to the contrary, should they mate, should the relationship become more than a promise, married they would be. Priest or no priest.

The whole of the Highlands knew this. That Maggie didn’t came as a surprise. God’s will, Fiona prayed, for she had used Maggie’s naiveté mercilessly. Aye, it was for Maggie’s own good but still, it had not been with clear honesty. It was just that the girl didn’t understand what was in her best interest. And if Fiona judged things right, what was between Maggie and the Laird MacKay . . . well . . . it was nothing, if not physical.

Heart or no, they would be wed before the night was out, or Fiona didn’t know her daughter.





CHAPTER 9 - SACRIFICE



She was a stranger to herself.

From her seat on the broad back of a placid gelding called Tairis, Maggie reached for those who stretched to touch her, waved to those who stood high on their toes, necks craned for a view of her as though they hadn't just talked yesterday.

Somewhere between the dark of night, and the sun’s glow, she had become someone else, someone extraordinary, someone she didn’t recognize. She had been perfectly happy with the old Maggie MacBede, thank you very much.

How many times had she resented her brothers’ stoic farewells? Their restless need to be gone when everyone wanted a fair share of good-byes. Now she was the one in the saddle, desperate to be away from the fawning praise, off to do what must be done.

If she didn't leave at once, she may not leave at all.

Old Maighread reached for her. Maggie bent low, risked the woman’s sensitive fingers. The woman had a fey touch, her fingers seeing what her eyes could not.

Old Maighread nodded. “Don’t fear child. The one who sings of crows will receive its message.”

“Crows?" Crows meant death.

"Maghread!" Fiona snapped.

"No, mother,” Maggie shivered with the old woman’s warning, took her gnarled hand in her own. "Who?"

“They will try, child," Maighread's cackle rose above the gathering, "they will try. But keep an ear to Ian. He will keep you safe. And your man there, don't let him have fear. You are stronger than anyone thinks, including yourself.”

“Grandmother," Fiona pulled Maighread away, "don’t fret the lass.”

Was she strong? Maggie wondered. She didn't feel strong right now. She felt hapless, helpless, caught on everyone's whim but her own. Tears threatened. Frantically, Maggie sought out the man to blame for her sorrow.

The man who had vowed his life to hers forever.

She had only given him a year and a day.

He was near enough to grab her reins, as though he half expected her to bolt. Silent though it was, he acknowledged her frantic appeal. With a nod and a wry smile, he raised his fist, let loose a warrior's bellow. As one, with no more warning, The MacKay Clansmen stormed through the bailey, out the gate, with Maggie and Talorc in the center of their charge.

Maggie fought to keep her seat, clung to her mount, her head low upon its neck. In any other time, circumstance, she would have thrilled to the challenge, but not today.

Today an old woman had warned of crows. Too true. Life, as Maggie knew it, was dead. Maggie who used to be, was no more. That her body would follow suit made perfect sense, for everything happened in threes, did it not?

Shouts and calls rose, a raucous banner flying in their wake. They rode hard across the flats, just as her clansmen had done countless times. Men on foot jogged behind, the rear guard to the troupe of them. At the base of the closest hill, they slowed their mounts, traversed the steep rugged hillside, around to the back, until they reached the top, out of sight below a ragged crest.

Her clan, the entire lot of MacBedes, would be gathered below, as Maggie herself had on so many leave takings before. This was the first time, in the whole of her life, she would not be with them, to shout out blessings and well wishes for safe journey. To wave a final farewell.

Her heart thundered in her chest. She swallowed hard, kept her eyes away from that crest. She would not break. Nor could she face the final goodbye. They had sent her off, against her own will. She would not wave a last time. She would be back.

“Lass?” Talorc rode up beside her.

Anger steadied her. She held it close, acknowledged it by refusing to look at him. The shouts of his men, up on the ridge, could be heard.

“Maggie,” Talorc reached over, took her chin, forced her to face him. She jerked away. “You have to show yourself, they’re waiting to send you off.”

She looked down at the ground, the earth that had cradled her feet from her first footstep to this day. Drew in the scent of heather, of blue skies and loch. This was her home. This was where she belonged, a MacBede, with the MacBedes. She blinked against the blur of tears, narrowed her eyes, willed resentment to overplay sorrow.

Damn him for being right. Damn him for pushing her beyond her strength.

She looked right at him then, straight into his eyes and felt a power there. It surged between them. He took her fisted hand, lifted it to his lips. With one gentle kiss warmth spread through her body, melted the rigid barricade to fear. Thawed icy defense.

He believed stories, thought her powerful. Fool that he was.

So be it.

She would not show him her weakness.

With a jerk, Maggie reined Tairis sharply to the left, kicked and he bolted. Too fast. This was a docile animal, or so Talorc had claimed. Maggie never expected it to stretch its legs at such speed. Stunned, she gave him his head.

Wind stung her eyes. She swiped the tears away. The ground was a blur, the crest, she knew to be no more than a meager outcropping, came closer and closer. Tailis did not slow, showed no sign of halting.

Maggie pulled, hard, her eyes shut tight against disaster. As sure as he bolted, Tailis stopped, pitched Maggie forward. Her cheek to his cheek, half over his haunches she wrapped her arms tight about Tailis’ neck, and clung. Eyes wide with fear. There was no mistaking the yawning distance below.

This creature, promised as gentle and sure, reared, stepped, as though a dancer, right on to the edge of the precipice. Rocks scattered and tumbled, sound testament to a sheer drop. He turned, in a circle, an acrobat of a horse, a show man, leaving Maggie with nothing below her but air.

It was Talorc who gave her this bloody beast to ride. Had he known the animal would do this?

They will try, child, they will try. Maighread's words came back to her. Talk of crows, of death, and then those fateful words. What was the Bold trying to do, kill her?

She'd not give him the satisfaction.

"Get down, you bloody beast!" Legs wrapped tightly along its belly, Maggie commanded the animal back to secure footing. It faced away from the ledge, toward the valley beyond, full of restless energy. It took little to encourage him to head off again, past the MacKay men, past the Bold. Down the hillside she galloped, around a small copse of trees. To a valley below, where a stream cut through the land.

And privacy.

Maggie reined in her ride and realized, for the very first time since she'd sat to sup the night before, she was alone, out of site of everyone.