The Handfasting by Becca St. John Page A

thank
you. It was free and that was gratitude enough.
    There
was no one now, to hold her, comfort her and wait for an open door.
    She
was trapped with no savior in sight.
    Her
brothers, ever so quick to stall suitors, were obviously part of this plan. Her
parents? Maggie knew, without even looking, the pride that would be shinning in
their eyes and the eager hope that Maggie would succumb to this odd manner of
courtship.
    And
it wasn’t just them, her parents and her brothers, who had been caught in this
man’s tales. The wretched beast had the whole of the clan in his hand. Maggie
could see, with one furious glance, the rapt anticipation, the delight that one
of theirs would become the Great Laird MacKay’s wife.
    Talorc
the Bold was just the sort they would all want for her, a man who was larger
than life itself. Larger even than the tales they told about Maggie. They all
knew her, knew the truth behind each of the stories, and yet they chose to
believe his words, believe the testament of cheers that had rung through the
hall but moments ago.
    They
were fools. They were all fools.
    Warriors
did this before a battle. They would stoke the fire of aggression with the fuel
of former battles that grew far beyond reality. With each telling the stories
became grander and bolder and more daring. A warrior who knew his way around
words could convince his men of anything in those moments, even that to die in
battle was a glorious thing.
    Pah! 
As if risking a life were not foolish in the extreme.
    Oh
aye, and the Bold knew what he was about. Hadn't he taught her that? His timing
was impeccable, waiting until the whiskey had filled the men to just the right
point, until they were puffed-up with a false bravado, a sense of largesse, yet
not so far gone as to be sloppy, or to forget the Bold’s words.
    Aye,
the men were seeing their world as a bigger and brighter and bolder place,
including one wee lass.
    Even
knowing this, Maggie could not say no.
    But
neither would she say yes.
    “You’ve
given me little time, MacKay.”
    “Aye.”
    “Some
would say you’re trying to trap me.” She could feel the tension in the room
ease with the anticipation of a spat. They were highlanders; a fight no less
than entertainment, especially when they were certain of the outcome. They’d
not have respected Maggie if she let him have his way without a battle.
    He
had wound them all in with his stories, but Maggie knew, just as well, how to
ease that coil, if not unwind it all together. Or so she hoped.
    “Aye,
perhaps.” He admitted, answering her accusation of entrapment, “just as I once
cornered a horse crazed with fear. We were in a burning wood. Had I let him 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, and 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, 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