chapter 12 - LOVE LOST
Talorc looked to the sky. Clear and bright and cold enough to freeze the ground. A relief after the wet, muddy journey of neither snow nor rain but a muddled mix of both that slapped their faces and melted on the ground.
Soon, the sun would set. By mid-day tomorrow they would reach Glen Toric. He planned it that way, so the sun would be high in the sky, shining down on his home in its most magnificent glory just as they rode up to it.
Despite the chill they took time this afternoon to bathe in the loch below, wash away the long muddy ride before trekking up to this camp, an outcropping of stone off the edge of the woods.
From the higher vantage point, aided by a bright moon, the tall square keep of Glen Toric could be seen, the substantial wings flaring out and back from its sides. The long narrow climb up to it proof of the safety it offered. Not fancy but strong, and sturdy and easily defended. Large enough to hold all she needed. Much like him.
He nodded to Liam, the last of the guards he met on his round of the watch, and headed back toward the camp. Positioned in the woods, his best men would watch for trouble while the others slept free from attack. This close to home there was little fear of that.
Diedre passed him as he wove through the woods. She had a parcel. Food for Liam, her latest love. Fair enough, the man had to eat. He also had to keep his wits about him.
“You’re not to distract him.” Talorc warned.
“Perhaps you’re the one who needs distracting.” She offered. “You’ve got to be frustrated as a mad bull with her within reach but out of touch.”
Oh, aye, he was frustrated as hell. Had expected to be wed three nights ago, the night of the Handfasting, but a warrior's camp was no place to woo a wife. And he needed time. Time to decide if he should warn her of what their coupling would mean. That she would be his wife at the end of it. It was a fine line of trust he walked.
But Deiedre knew he’d not take the bait. Never had with her, never would. In the past, discretion stopped him. Diedre didna’ understand the concept, proved as much tonight when she offered her game with Maggie right there in the camp. Empty gesture or no it showed a poor sense of decency.
“You get my ken? Give him the food but get back to the others.”
“Aye, I get your ken.”
He nodded, left her, trusting she would follow his orders.
He stopped just outside the light from the fire, the first one lit on this journey. He risked it as they were tight within MacKay land.
As he looked over the men, as was his way, he assessed the mood, warm from the fire, high spirits as they were so close to home. He made certain he accounted for everyone, everything before he let his sights rest on Maggie.
She stood speaking with some of the men, oblivious to her own power as a woman. Every man seen as a brother or cousin of sorts, she was comfortable with them, all of them, except him.
He made her nervous, he knew that, understood what it meant. She didn’t. Soon, he would teach her.
So he gave her ground, distance, thought that would ease the way for him, but he thought wrong. Rather than earn her trust, she grew more wary by the day. He wasn’t quite sure how to breach that divide.
Aye, Diedre was right, he was frustrated as a mad bull. He’d nearly broken when she bathed in this very afternoon, with him not ten feet away, back turned. No easy thing to do. Sounds, the rustle of clothes as she undressed, the catch of her breath from the frigid water enticed. All it took was one splash and his mind reeled with images; rivulets caressing where his hands had, and hadn't been. Droplets taking a lazy journey between high firm breasts with nipples puckered from the cold. He knew the curve of that breast, the weight of it.
But the water would go further than he had advanced. It would trail down across her body to pool in her navel, just waiting for him to dip his head, lave and sip. Sparkling beads would be caught in curls at the apex of her thighs. His fingers would weave past them to dip into the heat of Maggie's own moistness.
Soon, they would dance that dance. When he had her to himself. Alone, so his hand could roam as free as the water. His lips would travel the same path and his heat would find the source of hers.
But not tonight. Not until they reached Glen Toric. Not until they had a place to bed without fifty men surrounding them. And not until she had learned that the love of her body was the love of her heart.
He had an idea, was waiting for just the right moment, needed her trust to move into action. That was why he stood back as fifty men, blustered and blushed with the sound of her voice.
It could not have been easy for her brothers to keep suitors away. To do so proved a disservice. Maggie saw all men as extensions of her family, like brothers. So much so, he was amazed she had not tied him with that same rope. Then again, he knew how singular their attraction was.
Thomas leaned over her, his smile as wide as his face could stretch, and said something. She chuckled, a tease of sound that rode the breeze and trailed across Talorc’s shoulders like a lover’s caress.
She swatted at Thomas and shooed him away, then swung her head, so her hair waved back and forth before the heat. There was no provocative intent in what she did. She was too busy prattling on about nonsense, totally unaware that as her neck arced, so did her back and with her back bowed the roundness of her figure stood out in stark relief. A rich, lush, virginal offering.
Blood rushed through his body. She was a heady temptation, blocking out the rest of the world, in the midst of a warrior’s camp.
They were not alone. He must not forget, they were not alone.
His gaze snapped to his men. Wide-eyed and slack jawed they stared, as unable to move as he had been. He cursed.
“Maggie.” As expected, she shot straight with the sound of his voice, her eyes wary, for she was coming to be cautious of him and of what they shared. As abruptly as she sat up, his men moved away, released from the spell she cast.
That was as alone as they would be tonight.
When he neither moved nor spoke, Maggie shrugged her shoulders, reached back to braid thick strands of auburn tresses. "How much further to Glen Toric?" She asked.
He stayed where he was, didn't move closer, though he couldn't have said why. "Another day, a short one. We should be there before dark."
Four days they’d been riding when the entire journey only took two. He slowed the pace for Maggie.
“You’ve had bad dreams?”
Every bit of her went still. “Why would you say that?”
Unable to sleep, he had watched her of a night, close to the fire. Only Maggie had not slept, not properly, she tossed and turned and called out.
“Ian. You asked for Ian.”
“Did I?” She studied the ground beneath her feet.
“My guess is he responds, for you settle.”
A blush crept up as she shook her head. “I don’t remember.” She looked about, as though to bring the dreams back, then looked at him. “Did I really?”
“You settled.” And was pleased to see her smile.
“Come,” he was close now. “There are fish in the stream, just beyond the trees, over there,” he pointed. “waiting for a tickle.”
“Are there?” Her smile turned playful. “You want me to show you how it’s done?”
She was teasing him. This was good. It proved her barrier was not a solid one.
“We’ll see. Why not a wager lass? I win, I get a kiss. You win and,” he reached out, hoping she would take his hand. “What, Maggie girl, what do you get?”
“To walk!”
“You ask the world, Maggie and all I want is a simple kiss.” But he was happy now for she had taken his hand, was letting him lead her to the stream.
He saw Bruce aiming for them and shook his head. This was the closest he had been to Maggie in days, he did not want to upset that.
Bruce ignored his scowl, sidled up beside him. "Bold."
"I'm busy now, Bruce."
"Not too busy for this.”
He squeezed her hand, looked to her, not willing to let her go when she pulled free. A reluctant withdrawal.
“You go, Bold.” Her wistful smile worried him for it spoke of a chance lost forever when there should be so many more in their future.
Damn his responsibilities.
“It’s important, Laird, or I’d not break in.”
“Wait for me?” He asked Maggie but she didn’t answer-- just waved a small wave as she backed away. The distance loomed far wider than feet.
“Bold,” Bruce pressed. “You’ll be wantin’ to hear this now, not later.”
“What?” He snapped.
“There's sign of riders coming toward us. They veered east just short of Dunegan's Woods."
That caught his attention. “Riders? Have you told the watch?"
"Aye. But that's not the worst of it."
Talorc watched Maggie head toward the bush for a bit of privacy and frowned. Diedre should be back by now, should go with her into the woods.
Unease burgeoned as he looked back at Bruce. "What is the worst of it?"
"Someone's playing with the old ways. They've built an altar, for sacrifice."
"In Donegan's wood?"
"Aye."
"Are you certain that's what it's for?"
Bruce shifted on his feet. "The markings are there, and it's been used. It's covered with blood stains. From the looks of the bones by the fire, more than animals have been on that stone."
"How old are the tracks?" Some of the dis-ease settled as Maggie stepped back into the clearing.
"Within a day, but Bold," Bruce looked away, as if he couldn't face his leader, "it looks like they were preparing for another sacrifice. There's fresh wood laid out, and . . ."
"This is our land," Talorc bellowed. "This is happening inside our borders!"
"I know, and I've doubled the guard."
"Did you not destroy that altar?"
Bruce stared at the Bold. "No, the men wouldna’ touch it."
Talorc dampened his fury, it would only cloud his thoughts. The first thing was to protect Maggie, guard her at all times.
“Ian, what?” She yelled as she backed toward the outcropping and turned to him, her eyes wide with fear. “Ian’s there, can you see him? Blocking my way . . .” She didn’t get time to finish for Deidre staggered from the woods on the other side, her clothes stained with blood. She shook, raised her hand, a bloody hand, knife still clasped in it.
“We were attacked.” The boisterous woman whimpered. “Liam’s dead!” With her wail the woods purged a flood of wild men, painted, armed ready for battle.
Warrior’s battle calls filled the night. Undulating cries rose from the woods, the heavy pounding of shields. They were cornered on that outcropping, no were to go but back and then down, a fifty foot drop.
Maggie. They must protect Maggie. “Surround her!” Talorc ordered, as he raced forward, no question that the men would form a protective body guard around her.
But she was only safe if the battle was won.
It was turning dark, the worst time for attack, to distinguish friend from foe. His claymore in hand, Talorc charged for the trees, toward the heat of the fray.
Arrows rained down upon them. Men wearing naught but painted symbols poured from the wood, heaved rocks, waved claymores and dirks. MacKays outnumbered the band but the attackers had targes to shield them from blows and the advantage of surprise. The MacKays barely had time to gather their wits let alone weapons and shields.
He wielded his blade, slashed and stabbed, swung from side to side, front to back to confront foe after foe. A fierce battle, a focused fight, pushing them further back toward the edge of the rocks.
Spurred with worry, he lunged in attack, swerved to see the circle of his men with Maggie in the middle. They had her safe, despite the onslaught of arrows and rocks still coming from the cowards in the woods. Damned if she wasn’t struggling to break free.
Mikey broke from the circle, charged a giant of a man who drew too near. Talorc leaped toward the open hole, as his men tried to close it, but Maggie pushed past them. A stone flew through the air where her head had been. She reached down, oblivious to the near miss, and grabbed it. With the strength of fury she heaved it at the nearest target. He went down.
Diedre grabbed her arm, pulled her toward the edge of the outcropping, a sliver of space where no one fought. Maggie pulled hard, brought Diedre around, revealing a wild man behind her. Maggie grabbed the knife still clutched in Diedre’s hand, aimed it so the two of them stabbed. As he fell Deidre twisted free, revealing the swing of the man’s club, already high to bring down on Deidre’s head. It crashed down on Maggie’s instead as he fell on top of her.
Talorc charged toward them, too far to catch her, close enough to hear the crack as her head hit the rocky ground. Talorc tore the man off her as if he was no more than a blanket. Dead, he was dead. The Bold spun around, blood pumped with violence, looking to lash out, finding only stillness.
One moment there were too many attackers.
Then, suddenly, there were none. The noise, the commotion ended as quickly as it started. The battle an illusion except the sight and smell of wounds, of death, of Maggie, a crumpled heap upon the ground, blood pouring down her face, the dead man’s club beside her head.
She had killed the man, avenged herself when Talorc should have kept her safe. Vowed to keep her safe.
Talorc fell to his knees, oblivious to the stunned silence surrounding them, the sudden halting of those returned from the chase. He lifted her lifeless form, curled her body into his heaving chest. He shut his eyes against the fear her body would stay that way forever.
Diedre approached. The only one with the courage to do so.
“Let me look.” She eased Talorc toward a boulder, to sit, as she gently pulled Maggie back from his shoulder. Blood streamed from the wound to her forehead, a wound that would soon grow large and dark with bruise.
“You should leave her here, Bold. Let the carrion get her, let those sods come back for her”
Talorc’s head snapped up. “Are you mad?” He hissed.
Diedre stood firm. “At best, she’ll die from that wound. Worse, she’ll be a half-wit. She’d not thank you for saving her for that. Leave her here, tell her kin she ran away, straight into this band of men. Tell them you tried to retrieve her, to save her.”
Douglas approached. “Laird,” his eyes focused on the wound. “You’ve seen it before, wounds to the head. This is a bad one and if anyone knows the consequences, it’s Diedre.”
“No.” Talorc stood, shaken from shock. “I’ll not tell the MacKay’s I left her dead on the road.”
Diedre leaned in, forced him to focus on her. “You wed her for life, Bold. You did not give her half a vow but the whole of it. She refused that. She refused you, has done her best to be free of you. Let her death be measured by that.”
“Aye,” Douglas argued, “you’ve not joined. You’re free to leave her.”
The woman nodded. “There’s another you could marry, Bold. You know it, we all know it. Give this one up before you return and the breach between the two of you can be crossed.”
Give this one up? When he’d just found her. For what? To appease gossip of the past? Gossip that held no truth? There was no other but Maggie. Never would be.
Tired of the old pressure, Talorc ignored it. “I’ll not leave her here for those heathens to dishonor.” He brushed at Maggie’s hair, locks coated in blood. Too much blood.
“And if she’s a half-wit?” Diedre challenged.
“Then she will be my half-wit.” He vowed for life. He would honor that vow.
Diedre tried to speak, Douglas stopped her with a shake of his head. Talorc understood their exchange. Maggie suffered a double crack to the head, worse than the blow that widowed Diedre.
No sense in fretting whether she’d be a half-wit or wife when she was sure to die.
“My half-wit.” Talorc echoed and strode off with Maggie in his arms.