Tangled (Handfasting) by Becca St. John

the caves?  And just how did that
happen?”
    “A
prank, that’s all. But I got out. That’s all that matters.”
    He
put a finger to her cheek and brushed off the dirt, meat cure. A prank, she’d
said. Locking her in the caves, in the dark which she hated. A prank. Fury rose
in his throat, capped by William’s hand on his arm and a quiet, “steady now.”
    That
stopped him from reacting too swiftly, except for pulling Maggie into him. She
was safe. That was the most important thing. He bent his head to hers, smelled sulfur
in her hair. She was safe.
    And
William was right. If this was not a prank, Maggie was in danger. It would be
better to convince the culprit that they had no worries.   
    Reluctantly,
Talorc let her go holding up a warning finger. “Don’t you move anywhere. Do you
hear?  You stay right there.”
    He
took William’s arm as they moved aside, where no one could overhear their
lowered voices.
    “No,
Bold,” Maggie argued, and reached out to stop him.
    “I’m
not leaving you Maggie. Just give us a moment.”
    “No,”
she shook her head, a bit frantic. She looked more frightened now than when
she’d spoken of the dark. “Here,” she thrust something at him. Startled he took
it as she said. “You have to go. It’s who you are, what you are. But I’m
wishing you a safe return.
    She
adjusted her skewed kirtle. “I just want to make sure you know what you go for.”
    That’s
when he looked down and realized what she had placed in his hand. “For the
land, for the name, and for the wild glory of both.”  It was a hoarse whisper. He
knew how much this little square of plaid meant to her. He had seen the tears
in her eyes when her people gave it to her. He saw how she pulled it out and
rubbed it when she fretted over something.
    By
the time he gathered himself together, to give her thanks, she was running to
the keep, away from him.
    Would
he ever understand this woman?
    “Bold,”
William pulled him aside. “We’ve no’ much time, but no one locks anyone in the
caves.” 
    “Where
was the guard?”
    William
shook his head.  Not yet, but they would.
    Maggie
had been alone when she had come to him. Where were the friends she had made? 
Where was Deidre?
    William
continued. “You need to put a guard on her. Put extra patrols on the comings
and goings of the keep.”
    It
was worse than that. Talorc rubbed at his side, the injury that had only just
healed. “It’s not someone from the outside William. Do you not get that?  It
has to be someone who’s close to us, calls the keep their home. It’s a friend,
William, it’s family.”
    Bruce
joined them. “Bold, there’s something you should know.  This morning, when she
looked for Eba, your handfasted tripped on the stairs from the castle.”
    “The
outer stairs?”
    “Aye,
only now I believe her, where before I couldn’t. It didn’t seem possible, but she
didn’t trip, she was pushed.” 

CHAPTER 8 – A LAIRD’S WIFE
     
     
    The
dark loomed, the fireplace banked to barely a glow and Brutus, that great beast
of a dog, made the most horrid of sounds. Maggie was not frightened. She had
her two protectors, Gerta and Caitrina. The whisky man’s wife and daughter who
had come to the keep for safety. They had arrived as Talorc and his men were
setting out.
    She
wished he hadn’t, but Talorc explained to the mother and daughter that Maggie
did not like the night. Not only had they insisted on sleeping with her, they
made sure she had the middle. Talorc would owe her for this, having her squashed
between an old woman who made noises Brutus could be proud of, and her
daughter, who continuously puffed the covers with hot wind.
    There
would be no cabbage in tomorrow's dinner. Not that it wasn't too late already. The
bed would never be the same.
    Maggie
scowled and rolled to face Gerta only to be poked by straw coming through the
mattress. She shifted, fidgeted and tried to focus on something other than her
sleeping