Tangled (Handfasting) Read Free

MacKay.”
     She
tried to jerk free of him only to wince with the pain. “You sent him away.” 
    He
tightened his hold on her. “You’ve no place with him Maggie. He’s dead and
gone.”
    “Talorc,”
she squirmed and whimpered with the movement, “You’re hurting my arms.”
    Stunned,
he looked, “Och, Maggie," he eased his bruising hold. "I’m
sorry."  And let go, though he could not pull away. Instead he slid one
arm around her shoulders, to hold her upright and awake. "I was afraid
you’d hurt yourself.”  I was afraid, he didn’t tell her, that you would leave
me for your brother, go to a land of no return.
    Ealasaid
reached behind Maggie, to fluff and arrange the pillows.
    “Lay
her back, Laird.”  The older woman commanded as she filled a mug with water.  
    He
was loath to release her, wanted her to feel him near, to sense his presence
and let go of dangerous dreams.
    "Go
on now, lad," Ealasaid chided, "those pillows are softer than your
arm." 
    As
he eased her back, she whispered. “Ian was here. I saw him."
     “Ian
is dead, Maggie. You are not.”
    "He
was here." Her hands flew to her head.
    "No
Maggie."
    “Dead
or no, I saw him Talorc, talked to him and the boy, the wee one.”
    “The
wee one?”  Talorc's sight jerked to her eyes. Eyes dulled by a sorrow that ran
too deep.
    “Ian
wants me to take the babe . . .” her lashes feathered down.
    “No,
no, no, Maggie,” fear clutched at his inners. She’d already slept too long,
“wake-up, think about what you said.”
    “Talorc,
stop . . .” she groaned, "let me sleep, let me go back to the boy."
     “Oh
no, Maggie,” harsh and loud, he insisted, “listen," her eyes opened,
"listen to me. A wee one. It’s Samhain, time for those who have passed on,
and time of those to be born." He shook her shoulders, jostled her to wake.
"To be born, Maggie! It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to
you, but Ian?”  He could barely get his breath, as he moved in close so only
she would hear as he begged her to listen. “The wee one, it has to be ours,
girl. Our babe.”
    The
brush of her lashes, against his cheeks alerted him. She had heard. He pulled
back to study her. Her dream told it all, she would live, have his child.
     “He
didna’ say it was yours, Talorc.”
    He
laughed, he couldn’t help it. Weak and aching, she could still tussle with him.
“Are ya’ sure now, lass?  Are you absolutely certain, he didna’ say the boy was
mine?”
    Her
brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “Oh!  Talorc.”  Gingerly, she touched the
bruise. “I do ache.” 
    Contrite,
he leaned back, made room for Ealasaid to move closer.
    “You
just lie there, lass, leave the pain to me.”  As the older woman turned to
rinse the cloth, to cool it again, another, smaller woman, offered a steaming
bowl.
    “Beathag?” 
Talorc tried to frown away his late wife’s nursemaid.
    Full
of worried innocence, the small woman looked at him, offered the bowl.  “I’ve a
broth for her.”  Talorc tipped back, horrified that she might try to pour the
stuff down his throat.  Not, bloody likely. Not from her.
    Even
his late wife had been leery of Beathag’s concoctions, and she was the one to
bring the rodent of a woman to Glen Toric. She was a small thing who slipped
nervously along the edges of a room. Slight, aye, timid, true, but as
determined as a mouse to cheese.  Talorc was never certain how to deal with
her.
    Thankfully,
Ealasaid took over. “Beathag, what have you made here?”  Ealasaid’s brusque,
robust way managed to soothe with practicality.
    “It’s
a broth.”
    “So
I see. And what have you put in it, Beathag?”  Ealasaid leaned in to sniff at
it, “For you see, I’ve already been giving the lass a drop of tincture. We
wouldn’t want to confuse her poor, hurt head, by mixing up the wrong mixes,
now, would we?”
    Beathag
gave a sharp shake. “Oh no, Ealasaid. We wouldn’t want to do that.”  And she
slipped back