Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,27
go, at the least he would have burned to his own death.
“So you see, Maggie, I trapped him to save him.”
He was a more agile opponent than she had expected.
“And you think to be saving me by trapping me?”
He didn’t respond, nor were there the telling little quips coming from their audience to boost her side of the quarrel. It was time to change tactics.
“How,” she asked practically, “do you plan on wedding me when there isn’t a Priest within the Highlands? It is nearly the Feast of Fleadh nan Mairbh, no decent man of the cloth would be found near folks who celebrate such things.”
“Does it matter, Maggie?” He asked her gently, “Do we need a church man to make vows? Are you not a Highlander? Is your word not strong enough without witness?”
Those were fighting words, they were. Maggie narrowed her eyes.
“I would like the blessing of a power greater than either of us, Laird. Surely you can understand that . . . wait for that.”
“There is no time, Maggie. We, the MacKay’s and all her septs, need our wedding,” he ran his finger along her cheek, caught her jaw in his palm when she tried to pull away. “Just as they need the presence of our son.”
“There’s no guarantee of that, Laird.” She defended.
He laughed, threw his head back and laughed. Maggie kicked him.
“Oh Maggie,” he grumbled good naturedly, rubbed his shins to the raucous laughter of the crowd. “Life never offers guarantees, but it can make promises. You’re a healthy lass, a surprise blessing to a ma and da that had already born seven sons. And should you bear me a daughter, you’d not see more delight, for there’s ne’er been a daughter in my line for three generations. Give me a son, or a daughter, and fail that-- we’ll raise those of our clansmen, and teach them our ways.”
He was more of an opponent than she’d ever faced before. She was fighting for all she knew, all she wanted in life, and yet he could come in and take it all from her with one fell swoop of words.
She admired him for it.
She hated him for it.
She willed the tears away, closed her eyes against them, as she fought for the only argument he had yet to slaughter. “And you cannot wait, one season, for a priest, a man of cloth to bind us?”
Talorc looked to the ground, muttered to himself, then looked up straight into Maggie’s eyes. He was well aware that he pressured her, she could see it, and she knew that he knew, with time she could break this thing.
If he’d give her time.
“Maggie,” he sighed, and she knew a concession was coming, “in the tradition of old, in the ways of the Highlanders, we will clasp hands, vow to each other. If you canna’ make vows for life, then promise yourself for a year and a day. Handfast me, Maggie.”
Och, Dear Lord, God in Heaven, Help me. She cried within, though no answering cry returned. Ian, if you’re there, help me, for no one else will.
Talorc reached out, took her hands in his, “Handfast me.”
Ian’s voice failed to ring in her heart.
“I couldna’” she tried to pull away, “it wouldna’ be right.”
“Why wouldn’t it be right? We are Highlanders Maggie, this is our way. Are you so different from the rest of us?”
The flutter of panic in that poor birds wings so long ago, was no match against the flutter of Maggie’s heart. She was trapped. She could feel it and the panic overwhelmed her.
She shoved the Bold straight aside, looked over at her parents, so she could confront them, but her da would not look at her. He looked to his plate in deep contemplation. Her ma, oh . . . Maggie’s shoulders slumped with what she saw there. Her ma’s heart was breaking. She had wanted Maggie to agree to the wedding but if not, then even her ma was willing to push her into a Handfast.
A union where, in a year and a day, the Bold could walk out just as easily as Maggie herself could.
“. . . should you still not be certain of the match,” he continued, “you can walk away. No holds, no binds, you’re as free as that horse was, once I steered him away from the fire.”
“We know nothing of each other but tales told by others.”
“Maggie, the Handfasting is for you, to give you the chance to walk away. ‘Tis not for