The Handfasting by Becca St. John

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 little
sparrow trapped within the stillroom, a dank dark place. How the bird managed
to find its way inside the room, heavy with the scent of malt and burning peat,
Maggie would never know.
    The
thick oak door, framed in the opening of what was no more than a cave within
the mountain, had been shut tight. The only light from a small window covered
with a thin oiled sheet, its ledge as deep as a child’s arm was long.
    Maggie’s
plan was to hide inside and hear how the whiskey was made. She’d come ahead of
the others, using all of her weight to get that monstrous door open a crack so
she could slip inside. It was then she’d sensed the creature, feared it was a
bat.
    But
it wasn’t. It was a poor, helpless sparrow, startled by the light that the door
offered. It dodged and darted, as frightened of Maggie as it was of its plight.
    She’d
caught it then, held it gently within the palms of her hands, as she tried to
soothe its trembling. The wild beat of its heart could be felt in her
fingertips, bringing prayers to Maggie’s lips. Over and over she begged God to
be merciful, to allow the creature to live long enough for the men to arrive,
for she daren’t let go of the sparrow in order to open the blasted door.
    She’d
received a telling measure of censor, for being within that cavern, for being
in a place that she never should have entered. But it dinna’ matter to her, the
bird was free, flying off without a care, without so much as a circling