the men with spirit and fire.
"The following day was dark with the omen of death, but it was not a fearful day for us, nor was it our deaths the day spoke of. Hearts full of tales of Maggie MacBede, we stood tall and bold, strong in the face of battle, and shouted our warrior’s cry,
“For the land . . .
"for the name . . .
"for the Wild Glory of each!"
The men started to stomp, in unison, a pounding of feet like a drum roll. Talorc's voice rose above it, clear to the rafters . . .
"And for Our Maggie MacBede!” His cry echoed through the keep, rained emotion strong enough to wring tears and shouts of triumph from all who listened.
Maggie could see the testament upon her mother’s cheeks and she wanted to weep herself. Not for the glory, but for the foolishness of it all. She was no saint to be worshiped. She was no grand person to be bowed to. She was just Maggie, daughter of Feargus and Fiona. Daughter of this home, this piece of land. As passions grew within the room, Maggie felt her own wither and die.
Talorc continued, though to Maggie his voice came from very far away. “With ease, we won that battle, and each one that followed. We went on to greater victory on the creagh’s, bringing food enough to feed our people for more than a winter. And we did all, fueled by the strength and loyalty of one wee woman. Maggie MacBede.”
She sat, waiting, knowing deep in her bones that she did not want what was to follow. Her strength, her loyalty was for the MacBedes and her home. She did not want to leave this place, her clan, to go off with a stranger no matter how peculiar he made her feel.
As though he sensed her need for thoughts Talorc waited, watching her, before he spoke again.
“And so I ask you, Maggie MacBede, come with me to my home.”
Her heart sank.
“Be my bride.”
Fear spiraled.
“Birth me daughters.”
Her stomach plummeted.
He continued, “wee lasses as loyal and stout of heart as their mother and valiant, brave sons to fight by my side.
"I need you, Maggie MacBede. The Clan MacKay needs you, and all of her septs. Come with me as my bride and together we will save the whole of the Highlands from the Norsemen and the Sassenachs.”
How could she deny him?
“Be my bride.”
He stood, his hand held out to her. She had no choice but to take it, to allow that tug that had her standing by his side, though her limbs quaked, her hands trembled.
“I’m not what you would think.” She whispered, for pride kept her from speaking to all those who listened eagerly.
“Aye, you are Maggie.” He told her softly, “you are everything I think. It is you who knows not what you are.”
Looking directly into his eyes, all too aware of his bold assurance, she allowed him to see her fear. With a gracious force she had never thought to conjure, she replied. “I will think on what you have said, Laird MacKay. By spring you will have your answer.”
He began to shake his head, before she had even finished her telling.
“Maggie, I knew you were the one by the first victory. It was then that I vowed to wed you for the clans. But today, when I saw you running through the courtyard, your plaid flapping like a flag, your auburn mane flying behind you. It was then that I knew I would be wedding you for myself.”
One tug and she was close enough for him to rest his hands upon her shoulders.
“What I hadna' expected was the feel of you, Maggie MacBede, when your brother tossed you into my hands. ‘Twas a brilliant jolt. A shock of lightning coursin’ through me. I knew right then, I would marry you for the grand power of our mating and the bonny bright bairnes that would bring.
“Marry me tonight, Maggie MacBede. Be my bride, for the strength of our clans and the future of our kinship. Do it for the land, for the name and for the wild glory of both!”
CHAPTER 8 - TRAPPED
She couldn’t say ‘no’ any more than she could dispel the wild thump of her heart. The wait for her response hung heavy as rain upon the room.
With perverse irony, the pounding of her chest carried her to childhood, and a memory. She had been no more than a wee thing when she found a frantic