heart, 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 for 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
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 for 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
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