Bold (The Handfasting)(6)

“Ready for what?” Nosy Muireall asked.

“For The MacKay, of course." Fiona answered. "He is to be our guest.”

"What does that have to do with me?" Maggie snapped, not that she wanted to know. Not that she wanted any one to know. But she had opened her mouth and the worst came out. Quiet settled on the room. Maggie sighed.

One of the MacKay's, so silent up until now, spoke. "Lady MacBede you speak as if you know what the Bold is here for?"

Fiona shook her head. “Nay.

The man accepted that as answer enough. This time Maggie's sigh was full of relief.

Fiona turned to Simon, "Have some lads send more hot water up to my chamber. I’m going to see to the men’s baths." She faced Maggie again, "And you, young lass,” she took Maggie’s shoulders, looked her up and down with a shake of her head. "Look at the state of you. Your hair is naught but a tangled mass. You need to be seeing to yourself.”

“But Ma.”

“No buts daughter. I'm not knowing the why of it, but the MacKay is here to see you." She turned to the men, "Is that much not so?"

Their stupid grins were back in place. "Aye, mistress, 'tis a fact."

"Well then, child," Fiona flipped a strand of Maggie's hair from her shoulder, "you’d best make yourself worth seeing?”

Nothing, absolutely nothing, moved within the room except Fiona. Oblivious to the reaction she’d created, she swept past the other women.

The frozen state lasted for as long as one woman could hold her breath then all manner of chaos erupted.

“The MacKay?”

“Oh, aye, isn’t that a ripe one.”

“Our Maggie?”

“You don’t say? Well, it’s about time.”

“And here she had us all thinking she was sweet on Hamish the tailor.”

“Och, wouldn’t the MacKay be just the one for our Maggie?" Letice looked to the MacKay men who nodded their agreement. Slyly she added. "He’d not die in her womaness.”

“He’d thrill to it.”

“Rise to it is more the way of things.” One of the men blurted out.

"Ohhhhh!" The stunned laughter swallowed Maggie as all the women gathered around, pushing her hair from her face, pinching her cheeks, taking as close a look as they did when she was a wee babe, barely born.

No one had looked at her that closely in as long.

It was better that way.

She was none too happy with the attention now.





CHAPTER 4 - A STORY PROMISED



Talorc moaned with pleasure as he eased into one of two bathing tubs set before the fire. “Ah man, ‘tis weeks since I’ve bathed in anything other than a frigid stream or a frozen loch.”

From the other tub, his host, Feargus MacBede, chuckled. “Keeps a man strong.”

“Aye, it does.” Heat curled around Talorc as he settled deep, knees bent until they poked out from the surface. Better cold knees than a cold neck.

He glanced around at the soft sound of a door opening, but couldn’t see beyond the bathing screen.

“It’s my wife.” Feargus explained. “She’s a great hand when it comes to washing hair and backs, don’t you wife?” Fiona moved within the light of the fire. “Can near put you to sleep she can.”

“Och, flattery, that’s what you’re doin’,” she teased as she ran her fingers through her husband’s thick head of white hair.

Talorc watched, curious. His own father had always said, look to the mother to see what the daughter would become. Fiona was tall and regal, her movements smooth as a gliding falcon. There was a hint of mischief in her smile.

Without warning she dunked her husband until his entire head was drenched.

More than a hint of mischief!

Feargus came up sputtering. “I hope you don’t treat our guest like that!” But his grumble was lost in a sparkling glance. The man had known it was coming.

It was good still to be playing games when you had eight grown children . . . correction, there were only seven now. He knew that well.

Talorc closed his eyes, his head against the rim of the tub. The couple’s companionable banter lulled as gently as the warm water within his bath.

“MacKay?” Feargus butted into his thoughts. “The Gunns grow more vicious of late. Foul as they are, they are not the sort to come at us like they’ve been.”

“Aye,” Talorc nodded. “There’s no understanding to it. They get angry with no ill treatment from us, burn our crofter’s homes, steal in a way that leaves a clan starving. Hunger we know how to live with.” He gripped the sides of the tub, “But now someone’s been thieving young lasses out from under their parents care.”

Feargus grunted. “Aye. One of our crofter’s daughters has gone missing. Young Alicia. No sign of her for months now, and we searched.”

“The same tale can be heard from the Raeys and the Bainses.”

The older man bent his head. “Many a loss, these years past. Young females, good fighting men.”

“The glory of the fight does not take away the sorrow of loss. It was a sad day when Ian fell to the sword.” Talorc reached for his soap as he searched for words not easily found. “These battle losses are mine to bear.” He admitted. “I call the men to fight. They trust me. But there have been too many problems, too many things gone wrong.”

He looked to the older man. “Feargus, you fought with my father, you’ve raised strong men who don’t shy from the fight. Our families have been united for generations. There’s no other man in the highlands I would trust more than you.”

“The MacBedes have always done their part.”

“Aye, more than their part. You’ve offered good counsel. So I am telling what I’ve told no other. I think we have a traitor in the clan.”

“Impossible!” Feargus barked. “It’s the Gunns, that black hearted Angus Gunn. You know, I know, it’s him.”

“Oh, aye, the Gunns play a part.” A traitor was unthinkable but not impossible. Clan loyalty was taught from the cradle, instilled in every highlander. Still it was possible.

He tried to explain. “There are those thrown out of the clans, the outlaws.” Feargus grunted acknowledgement as Talorc continued. “Some still have family inside our care. Loyalties can be divided.”

It cleared his mind to finally speak of this. “For the life of me, I can’t think of who would turn against us. There’s only one MacKay who has family with the outlaws and there was no love lost when he was banned.”

Soap in hand he lathered his chest, his arms, drawn to the smell of it, pine and bay with a touch of spice. A fine odor for a man to wear.

“Laird,” Feargus argued, “you have it wrong. We are not a people for turning on our own. And the Gunns have been there to fight when we go out. They’d not fight the renegade’s battles.”

The room quieted but for the crackle of the fire, the soft splash of water as Fiona scrubbed her husband’s back.

Feargus broke into the silence. “Your wife was a Gunn, rest her soul. I’ve heard they think you murdered her. Anger festers and grows. Do you think that’s what causing these problems?”

“Aye, they claimed I murdered her,” Talorc agreed, “but that was grief speaking and too long ago to still be fighting over.”

“She died in childbirth.” Fiona remembered. “That’s no uncommon thing.”

The weary rustle of his breath shuddered through the room. “She was a wee thing, my Anabel.” A petite lass who tended towards floral soap for man and woman alike. With her gone, the soap of his keep smelled of lye and fat. A man needed a wife for such things.

“If I failed to get her with child, the union would have been for naught. If I did get her with child, well then, what happened could happen. I lost Anabel to the birthing. It was that desperate, we were, that we didn’t want to lose the babe as well so I cut her open.”

“That’s not so strange. We’ve done the same.” Fiona encouraged.

“The Gunns claimed I tried to take it from the mother while she was fit and fine and waiting for the pains. But I don’t believe that’s the thorn that’s causing our problems. I think we have a canker of another sort. I just can’t fathom what it is.”

Both men sat, frowning as they held their own counsel. Fiona moved over to Talorc, eased him forward to wash his back, “Your late wife, Anabel, did you love her?” She asked, as she’d lulled him to peace.

“Loved her?” Talorc scowled.

Feargus sputtered and barked. “Don’t be ridiculous woman, everyone knows The MacKay married for his clan, not for foolish notions of love.”

“No,” Talorc argued, “women wish to know these things, although in truth, I don’t know.” He admitted, adding, “Holding my wife was like embracing a delicate flower. Your heart swells with the beauty, but you fear you’ll bruise it. No,” he shook his head against the memory. “It would take a stronger lass to win my heart, I’m thinking, one who could meet me on my terms.” He looked over his shoulder at Fiona. “Your Maggie is a strapping lass.”