Bold (The Handfasting)(5)

You tell her, Leitis, Maggie thought sourly, only to feel guilty moments later when Muireall countered, “Say what you like but you can’t ken the loneliness of an evenin’ alone. You don’t know what it’s like to have your man taken in his prime, not even married a full year and no bairn to wake me in the night with cries. The loneliness, och, it’s a terrible thing.”

“Oh, aye, Muireall,” Leitis admitted, “it is a sad thing, I’m sure, but you know it’s a worrying thing as well. You have to watch yourself. Too many see, too many tell. And what that means is there’s just too many.”

The women burst into laughter, all but Muireall who looked about, her brow furrowed. “Too many what?” She asked.

Laughter descended to snorts as Leitis quipped. “Too many men in your bed.”

Both Sibeal and Caitlin offered, “That’s not being fair to cousin Muireall, now. She didn’t take on Puny Piers.”

“He had Maggie’s eye, then, didn't he?” Leitis chided.

“Well,” Muireall defended, “I’ve never warmed myself with Babbling Birk the bard.”

“For the same reason.”

“And now there’s Maggie’s Hamish the tailor,” Agnes tossed in, “Muireall hasn’t gone near him!”

Once again the room erupted with laughter as women called out, “Who else would notice those scrawny buggers but our Maggie?”

“There not fit for anyone.”

“'Tis Maggie and her love for the runts of the litter.”

“Stop it!” Maggie swirled about, anger as wild as her wind-tossed hair, “you know nothing about it. They are good men, each and every one of them. Just because they aren’t as big as a mountain and as thick in the head doesn’t mean there isn’t some goodness to them.”

“Oh, aye, Maggie, I’m certain you have the right of it.” Caitlin eased.

“Besides,” Maggie swallowed pride to loyally defend her men, “it was I who was not good enough for them.”

“Don’t be daft.” Sibeal snipped.

“Aye, it’s fact," back straight, chin up against the humiliation of reality Maggie admitted. "Not one of those men would have me now, would they?” The silence of the room told her what she already knew. It was the truth.

“Ach, lassie,” Muireall sighed, “you should be praising God that you weren’t landed with those boys.” Maggie kicked the fire's coals.

“Come on now Maggie girl,” Neili and Roz beckoned her, “Don’t be listening to them. We’ve need of your light hand with the pastry here.”

Fine ones to talk, those two. The same age as Maggie and they'd been married for years and before that they'd been courted by a number of good, decent men. Warring men. They could have them.

“Flattery now?” Maggie mumbled, but she went to help them as two men sidle in through the back doorway. Maggie snorted. If they wanted to be invisible, let them try, but with their size, their sex, and the fact that they were MacKay Clansmen, and therefore unfamiliar, they weren't likely to be overlooked in a roomful of women.

“Are you so lazy you want me to help you?” She asked the two pastry workers.

Neili and Roz took no notice of Maggie or her taunt. No one did. The only response to her words was the spit of the fat dripping into the fire. Unlike Maggie the others couldn't carry on once two strange men had walked into their spheres. Huge grins gleamed white against tanned faces, the only features discernible in the shadow where they stood.

Predictable as ever, Muireall preened. Maggie grunted and chuckled to herself with a quick glance to see what the men made of her cousin. Only, they didn't look at Muireall, didn't seem to notice her at all. They had their sights fixed firmly on Maggie. She swallowed her chuckle, grabbed a dollop of dough. The feel of it a familiar distraction, she bent her head to the task, worked the lump of dough smooth, turning it round and round in her hand. The men may as well stand right behind her, breathing down her neck for the way it prickled.

Fortunately, Muireall was not one to be ignored. She went into action, grabbed two mugs from the counter, splashed ale into them from the pitcher on the table. "Is there anything you'd be wanting?" she asked them, her voice husky with innuendo, as she moved about. "Drop of ale?" She lifted up the mugs. "Bannock cake, perhaps?" She swiped some off the cooling rack, and stood in front of the men mugs filled, a plate of steaming cakes on offer, before they could answer.

Maggie tried to watch from the side, her eyes cast down. Muireall stayed with the men, one hand at her waist, the other holding the pitcher of ale braced on her hip, her head tilted flirtatiously. She was a site, for certain. Men rarely ignored Muireall, but though the three talked in low murmurs, the men never dropped their sights from Maggie. She was trapped in a web that made no sense. They were the Bold's men. They were there in his interest.

Enemies, to her at least.

Muireall left them against the far wall and sashayed back to the table. The women resumed their work. The men whispered to themselves, bannock cakes gone in a bite, ales sipped slowly. Stilted silence hung over the room, testament to their presence.

Sibeal, who would not, could not, let a conversation drop broke the moment to lean over and pat Maggie's shoulder. Maggie jerked back in horror even though Sibeal managed to keep her voice lowered.

“Maggie," Sibeal whispered, "it wasn’t that those boys were better than you. They just knew what we already know.”

With a hard shake of her head Maggie tried to stop the conversation. "Leave it Sibeal, you don't understand." Propelled by the humiliation, Maggie worked the pastry flatter and flatter between her palms. People teased her, as if her choices were a joke, a bit of fun. No one understood the shame of it, of knowing what you want, who you want and knowing that they didn't want you in return.

“Maggie, don't you see?" Sibeal continued. "You’re just too much for them."

"Stop it." Maggie shot a quick glance to see if the strangers had heard.

"She's right," Neili countered. "There's nothing to those men, not in body, not in mind. You're just too much woman for them.”

“Oh, aye,” the others chorused in comforting whispers.

“Too much spirit.” Caitlin chimed in a bit louder. Maggie shot her a silencing frown.

Muireall, who loved to have an audience, ignored Maggie's distress. “Maggie lass," she boomed, "Take a look at yourself! Don't you know, you're just too much," she hefted her own bosom, "body.” The word exploded in the room, followed by a barrage of earthy squeals.

Maggie glared. Her curves were no more than God's way of balancing her height, keeping her in proper proportion. There was naught she could do about that.

“Oh aye.” Leitis trilled, discretion forgotten. “Can you not hear the gossip ‘Puny Hamish the tailor dies with a smile on his face? Drowns in the full bodied womaness of Maggie MacBede.’”

Hoots filled the air. Even the MacKay men, who tried so foolishly to blend with the wall, boomed their amusement. People would hear it across the loch. You’d think the kitchen was full of rough and rowdy men rather than a passel of women. And what did any of them know?

“They were a disgrace measured next to you.” Leitis offered as she fought to catch her breath.

Maggie pressed dough in her hands, thinner and thinner, her head bent to her task, anger building with each round of pastry.

These women knew nothing. Look at Muireall, who angled for a brute of a warrior having already lost one husband to the fight. Didn't they see what they were asking for? Did they all wish to feel the loneliness that Muireall suffered?

“You weren’t made to be the wife of a runt.”

Harder and harder she turned the dough until it was a circle so fine you could see through it. She placed her latest effort on the pile of finished tart shells and tried to break the flow of humor. “You know,” she tilted her head, the shrill crack of her voice the only sign of irritation, “I think it was not exaggerating you were up to, Neili! I’m thinking you spoke the truth! I do have a fine hand with the dough.”

“Oh do you?” Roz elbowed Neili.

“Aye, I’m thinking that my pastry shells are the best.”

“Well then, whatever you say, Mistress Margaret.” Neili winked at Roz. “And as you are the best,” Roz sidled away, “you should do them all!”

“You wouldn’t.” Maggie hurled the pastry at the giggling girls.

Like a spirit, appearing from nowhere, Fiona caught the dough in mid-air. The room stilled. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noted that the men stood straighter, their smiles wiped clean.

Fiona sighed at Maggie. “Enough of chattering and playing, daughter. You need to be getting yourself ready.”