Torn (The Handfasting) Page 2

  Lustful hunger turned to a nest of vipers deep in his gut. "She's my wife. Make no doubt about that. She should be wearing a kerchief."

  "Bold," Ealasaid bustled through the crowd with a grim look shot at Una. "You'd not expect her to face us on her own with such news now, would you? She would need you by her side."

  He acknowledged the truth of it with a grunt. “Is it true? Has she left?"

  "True."

  "How, with who?"

  Old Micheil barged forward, pushed his way in front of Ealasaid. "Her brothers came for her. Said her mother was ailing and she should go."

  Talorc nodded to Micheil. "Alright then, so she should." He would follow, snow or no, be by her side. Make certain they, Maggie included, all knew he was her mate.

  First things first. Talorc crossed to the fire, to warm the cold that ran to the bone. He would warm himself, have a bite to eat and a dram to burn out the cold that ran deeper yet.

  Beathag tugged at his arm. "The MacKays refused our hospitality."

  "What?" He looked to Micheil, to see the truth of it.

  The old man nodded. "Wouldn't even dismount."

  "Shite." Talorc grabbed the goblet Seonaid offered and downed the whole of it. The whisky hit as true as a campfire to his belly. He shook his head, like a dog shaking off water. "The MacBedes are strong allies. Did you not make them feel welcome?"

  "She offered it, herself, but they refused to dismount until she insisted."

  "Did they give reason?"

  "Blamed it on the snow to come."

  "Fair enough." Talorc took another swig of life then sat on the bench before the fire. He pushed for days, to return to her, just to face this reception. He should have waited.

  Fatigue hit with the weight of what was said, and what wasn't. It could be far better than it sounded. Or it could be far worse. "Their mother was ill and the weather had taken a nasty turn. Reason enough to be quick about things.”

  "They asked for you, insulted you weren't there to greet them yourself."

  "And did you tell them why I wasn't there?"

  "She did, herself."

  "Maggie?" In response, the men grunted. Talorc continued to reason it all out rather than succumb to panic. "She offered them hospitality, she explained my absence, she worried over her mother. Is there more to the telling?"

  "They'd not speak with us, and wouldn't go to the keep. Just watered and fed their horses, drank their own draft."

  It didn't make sense. Maggie may have been angry that Talorc was called away, but her family had no way of knowing. "They were here not six days since. They left with good heart. What do you think happened to turn their minds?"

  "Wasn't the same two brothers."

  "Ach, crikey! And you wait to tell me this? Which brothers came?"

  "Feargus and Nigel." Liam told him.

  "Feargus and Nigel? And they were cold?"

  "Aye."

  "Was there anything untoward that happened? Anything her brothers might report so the family would send the heavy arms?"

  "Laird?" It was a soft voice, buried deep in the throng of clansmen around him.

  "Speak up lass."

  Lizbeth moved forward, shy but determined. "Do you think it was something Mistress Maggie put in her letter?"

  Mule kicked. Maggie and her ways had that effect on him. "What letter?"

  "Before he left, Maggie gave Jamie a piece of parchment for her ma."

  "Here lad," Micheil shoved a flask of whisky into Talorc's face. He swiped it away.

  "Did any of you write it for her?" But he already knew the answer. If anyone around her knew how to read or write, Maggie would have hounded to be taught the same. She would have written it herself.

  "What do you think it means, laird?" Ealasaid worried.

  "Her mother's not sick, at least not in her body. She's probably soul sick, though, if Maggie had her way."

  "But she's your wife. You said so yourself, when you first arrived."

  How could he answer that? True, he had, had her body, but he didn't have her heart. Not if she would run like she did. Nor had they said the words that would bind them in marriage and Maggie had yet to learn that with a handfasting the binding of bodies was as good, if not better, than words.

  He halfway wondered at the Gunn's timing. It was just a little too true to their purpose, but how in heaven would they know that? If he had stayed, if he hadn't gone to fight the Gunns, she would have been here at Glen Toric and securely his.

  But there was no way the Gunns could know, on the heels of the event, that he had consummated his marriage.

  He wanted to believe that nothing would have taken her from Glen Toric, if he'd been there to confirm that she was his wife. But he doubted the honesty of that. He had tricked her into going to Glen Toric. He had used her against herself to keep her, then left at the turn in their relationship.

  I will take thee, Talorc MacKay she had said at the Handfasting. She had yet to say I take thee. One wee word, a teeny wee word and she was still free.

  "Laird," Ealasaid said, "She was not so happy to be going but she truly believed you'd broken a vow."

  "I've broken her maidenhead. My seed is in her belly. That's enough that she should be here to discuss her concerns with me."

  But she wasn't here, and if his seed had not taken, he didn't know if he could get her back.

  CHAPTER 2 - REVELATION

  Blade scraped against stone, back, forth, back forth, rasped against Fiona's nerves. She closed her eyes, took deep breaths as Feargus continued with his task. Resentment simmered.

  Men! Oblivious to a woman's moods, a woman's needs. Fiona opened her eyes to the muted light of late afternoon. She crossed to the fire, to distance herself from the rhythmic rasp and tried to swallow her ire toward a sound that soothed so many times in the past.

  Nothing soothed today.

  "Feargus," his head popped, his wary glance proved he knew of her temper. "It's almost time to light the torches, and Maggie's still in bed. She has been since we cleared up from the mid-day meal."

  "She's not well. She needs rest." Eyes narrowed, he ran his thumb over the blade of his dirk. Fiona sighed.

  Feargus was a warrior. No nuances for a man of his sort. Guilt was cut and dry. He imagined the Bold's neck under that honed edge, and found satisfaction in the thought. A vengeful draw of blood to ease his own conscience. But it would never erase it. Guilt was a gray thing with a wide spread shadow.

  Fiona crossed her arms, her foot tapping a swift metrical beat. She didn't want vengeance, she wanted answers. "You're as worried as I am."

  "I'll admit she's never been sick before."

  "You've seen Glen Toric."

  "What has that to do with anything?" His eyes shifted away, culpable. He should have known the Bold well enough, vetted him more strongly. Just because the man was a brilliant tactician and fearless warrior did not mean he was decent husband material.

  If Feargus had misgivings, she would force him to face them. "You've been to Glen Toric, you know what it is like, if it's full of disease. Should we be looking to some strange illness Maggie brought home with her?"

  Feargus snorted. "It's clean enough."

  "Fool me for asking." She rolled her eyes. "As if a man is any judge of such a thing."

  Fidgety as Fiona, Feargus rose to pace between the chair and the fire. "I can tell you, there weren't people puking their guts in the streets, woman."

  She clicked her teeth, "Impervious probably."

  A caustic rumble carried through the high window, voices raised in fight. Feargus frowned, focused on the doorway as the sound grew with an alarming speed toward the keep. Someone would be there soon, to report the uproar. Fiona shook her head to Feargus, telling him to stay put. They had more important problems to sort out.

  She rushed on as the outer door burst open, intent on gaining information before anyone could get from the door to the Great Hall. "Were there signs that the people were brutal?"


  That gained Feargus’ attention. She knew it would, had held off asking rather than plant seeds in a mind fertile with anger. "What are you asking?"

  "Are they a brutal people?"

  Color raced up his neck, shading his face as he shouted, "Are you finally telling me there were marks on our daughter? If he put a hand on her, I'll bloody kill him, I'll . . ."

  "I never laid an ill hand upon her body!"

  Fiona spun around, as fast as her husband had, to see Talorc, bold as his name implied, disheveled from a fight, surrounded by a hostile pack of MacBede sons backed by a huge crowd of clansmen. He stood in the entrance to the hall tall and defiant, as though Feargus the younger and Nigel did not have a grip of his shoulders, captors delivering captive.

  The MacBede charged toward them. "What in God's name have you done to our daughter?" He bellowed.

  Armed with his own might, Talorc shook away his captors, stepped toward Feargus. The two lairds faced off like raging bulls. Or, at the least, Feargus looked like a raging bull. Fiona tilted her head, studied Talorc.

  With seven sons and a warrior of a husband, she was accustomed to fights, knew how to read opponents, how to judge the intensity of the conflict. The Bold would not back off, he stood large, shoulders back, chest forward, confrontational. Feargus' head was forward, prepared for attack. The Bold would hold his own, but he would not be the aggressor.

  Good. If Feargus wanted to fight a man half his age, when the other would fight merely to defend himself, so be it. He was on his own.

  A sharp sideways nod to Jamie, the only one whose eye she could catch, and word passed round the broad, barbaric circle of men. Anxious to fight, they did not stand still, kicked at the floor as her instruction spread. Grumbles and sideway glances to her, ensured they didn't like the message, but they would not jump into the fray. That was as much satisfaction as she could hope for.

  The combatants circled, feigned charges until finally they met with an impact that forced deep grunts from each. They shoved, neither gaining ground. Feargus fought with punches, The MacKay blocked hits, parried each blow with a bark to settle the conflict with reason. A fruitless effort against weeks of building fury.

  "Feargus." The Bold shouted above the roar of a hostile crowd. "I'm telling you I never harmed her, would never want to." He thrust The MacBede away.

  Broken apart, both men backed off, breathing deeply, to catcalls for violence. Feargus dove in again, struggled. Talorc avoided a direct hit to his mouth, but caught one in the gut.

  "You want to fight now, do you," the MacKay bashed into Feargus, caught him in a headlock, "Tell me why you took my Maggie, old man." They twisted and turned, fell to the floor. "She's mine," Talorc hissed.

  "Forget that," Feargus heaved.

  Talorc pinned him. "She's pledged to me and then you steal her when my back is turned. Give me a good reason for taking her out from under my protection."

  Feargus snorted. "You call that protection?"

  “Steal her away?” The Younger dove onto the Bold, to pull him off his father. "You want to take on someone your own age with that challenge?"

  "That would be me." Nigel pushed forward, followed by Alec who claimed, "Oh no you don't, I'm more his size."

  "Stop!" A good head shorter than her children, Fiona stood, arms akimbo, eyes narrowed and waited until the entire hall silenced.

  "Nora," she called out to the lass rooted by the door that led to the kitchens. "Bring out some chicken and a dram. The man must be freezing from his travels."

  "Fiona."

  "Ma."

  "Mother."

  Feargus and the boys complained. She ignored the indignant cries, shooed the other clansmen from the hall. Tone sharp as a pinched ear she ordered, "Let him up, and leave him be. I want to hear what he has to say."

  Wary, reluctant, they followed her command. The Bold and Feargus stood, brushed themselves off and refused eye contact. Talorc straightened, his attention on the mistress of the keep. "I heard you had been taken deathly ill, Fiona MacBede but you're looking fit enough now."

  "Cheeky boy," she admonished and wondered if she could shake his irreverence. "I'm not the one who's ailing."

  He stood, arrogant and angry, still heaving with the effort of defending himself. He had already proved he had no intention of inflicting harm. He was not out to make enemies. He was out to fetch his handfasted. Fair enough, if he deserved her.

  She waited as his anger turned to impatience.

  "I'm sorry others are ill, but I'd like to see Maggie."

  No one moved. Talorc looked at the somber faces, the antagonism that came with bereavement. His arrogance froze. He shook his head, to negate thoughts racing into it. A flash of emotion shuttered through him. Emotion Fiona could not read. Concern she expected, but not with an edge of caution.

  "Maggie's not well?"

  Only his eyes shifted, his body frozen, feelings held tight.

  Angered that the man wasn't more frantic with worry, Fiona snipped. "She's still abed, and it's near dusk."

  Crisdean barreled forward. "I've seen animals go to ground when they've been poorly treated."

  "She's not been poorly treated." Talorc snapped, but gave little notice to Crisdean, intent on Fiona instead, as if she held the answers. "Did she say she'd been ill-treated?"

  "There was another woman at the keep for you."

  Talorc cursed. "Not to my mind and she knew that."

  Thank God, Fiona released her breath. The confrontation between the two lairds confirmed Talorc could control his aggression. It was the worry of another woman that had nagged.

  The Bold did not command his patience as well as his aggression. "I've come a long way to fetch her. Where is she?"

  Feargus blocked him. "She's no' fit to travel."

  Fiona restrained Feargus, with a hand on his arm. "Settle yourself now, we need to hear what the man has to say."

  "We'll hear it from Maggie." Feargus argued.

  "If that were true, we'd have heard it by now."

  "Has she said nothing?" Talorc asked.

  Fiona shook her head and looked to the men who surrounded her. They were all of a size, powerfully built men who took up space in a hall the size of a practice field. It was more than build, it was their presence. These were men of authority, they carried it with them. Force sizzled in the air around them.

  It was not up to a ma or a da or great overbearing brothers to decide whether Maggie left for Glen Toric. It would be up to Maggie and the Bold. Fiona balanced just how to move forward, to protect her daughter without alienating the man.

  Gentling the truth, Fiona said, "Feargus is right, we're that worried about Maggie. She has not been well, certainly not fit for travel."

  "What sort of illness does she have?"

  Fiona had taken his arm, to lead him to the fire, but stopped. "You're not surprised, are you? You've expected her to be ill? You know what it is she's suffering from?" All her worries about sickness at Glen Toric flooded back.

  He didn't answer her, but nodded toward the three maids putting food out by the fire. "You offered me a bite to eat,"

  Anger billowed. "You expected her to be sick. What are you not telling me? Are others ailing at Glen Toric?"

  "I'm wanting to see Maggie."

  "And you will." Fiona snapped, "I'll go up and fetch her myself."

  "Give me your word you'll not hide her away."

  "How dare you." Feargus snarled.

  "How dare you steal her?" Talorc shouted right back.

  "Stop it, both of you." Fiona glared, "I promise that you will be seeing Maggie within the hour. Though I make no pledge you will see her alone. Now eat." She waved toward the food, as she turned to fetch her daughter . . . who stood upon the stairs.

  Stronger for the rest, Maggie watched Talorc with her family and felt a flood of relief. She had missed him, wanted him to guide her through the change in her place within her own home.

  She knew he could, knew he would understand
and, when he didn't, she knew he would hold her while she rode the waves. That is, if he were there for her.

  He might not be.

  She sat on the step, watched through the railings as her da charged into a fight, and her brothers circled and growled, no better than a pack of dogs ready to rip to shreds.

  They meant to send him away without seeing her. Without asking her what she wanted. She did not want him to go, almost called out to stop them, until she realized if he did not stand against them, for her, then he did not want her.

  She prayed he would make a stand.

  Her mother interceded, as she did so often with her brothers, her da. The voice of reason in a volatile family, the hand of calm but firm control. Fiona wielded her power with ease.

  Maggie stood, garnering her strength by watching a master.

  Talorc's voice rose to the ceiling.

  "How dare you steal her?"

  That's just fine, Maggie thought, stir up the hostilities. But it didn't. All her da did was grunt. Her brothers followed his lead, their heads up, arms crossed against chests puffed up with a lot of hot air.

  Silly posturing.

  Her mother turned toward her, saw her and stopped.

  At least Maggie was well enough to take a stand to settle things. She called out to her handfasted. "You've come."

  Talorc toppled his bench in his rush to rise.

  Good. He was either that glad to see her, or that wary of seeing her. Either way meant he was not glaring at her with accusation.

  "You're ma says you've been ill." He called up to her.

  "Aye." She started down.

  The Bold crossed to meet her.

  "Are you better now? Can you travel?"

  She didn't know her answer, procrastinated with a touch to his shoulder, "You're wet."

  "Aye, it's snowing out there."

  "Well come with you, then." She stepped off the stairs, tugged at his arm, and led him toward the table. "You need the fire and food. I'll not have you thinking the MacBedes don't take care of travelers."

  He moved with her, like a docile pet. She bit back a grin, determined to fuss over him as she settled her own feelings. But as they neared his plate the stench of rotten meat soured Maggie's fragile stomach. She pulled back in horror. "Ma."