The Handfasting Read Online Free PDF Page A

overlooked in a roomful of
women.
     “Are
you so lazy you want me to help you?”  She asked the two pastry workers.
    Neili
and Roz took no notice of Maggie or her taunt. No one did. The only response to
her words was the spit of the fat dripping into the fire. Unlike Maggie the
others couldn't carry on once two strange men had walked into their spheres.
Huge grins gleamed white against tanned faces, the only features discernible in
the shadow where they stood.
    Predictable
as ever, Muireall preened. Maggie grunted and chuckled to herself with a quick
glance to see what the men made of her cousin. Only they didn't look at
Muireall, didn't seem to notice her at all. They had their sights fixed firmly
on Maggie. She swallowed her chuckle, grabbed a dollop of dough. The feel of it
a familiar distraction, she bent her head to the task, worked the lump of dough
smooth, turning it round and round in her hand. The men may as well stand right
behind her, breathing down her neck, for the way it prickled.
    Fortunately,
Muireall was not one to be ignored. She went into action, grabbed two mugs from
the counter, splashed ale into them from the pitcher on the table. "Is
there anything you'd be wanting?" she asked them, her voice husky with
innuendo, as she moved about. "Drop of ale?" She lifted up the mugs.
"Bannock cake, perhaps?” She swiped some off the cooling rack, and stood
in front of the men, mugs filled, a plate of steaming cakes on offer, before
they could answer.
    Maggie
tried to watch from the side, her eyes cast down. Muireall stayed with the men,
one hand at her waist, the other holding the pitcher of ale braced on her hip,
her head tilted flirtatiously. She was a site, for certain. Men rarely ignored
Muireall, but though the three talked in low murmurs, the men never dropped their
sights from Maggie. She was trapped in a web that made no sense. They were the
Bold's men. They were there in his interest.
    Enemies,
to her at least.
    Muireall
left them against the far wall and sashayed back to the table. The women
resumed their work. The men whispered to themselves, bannock cakes gone in a
bite, ales sipped slowly. Stilted silence hung over the room, testament to
their presence.
    Sibeal,
who would not, could not, let a conversation drop, broke the moment to lean
over and pat Maggie's shoulder. Maggie jerked back in horror even though Sibeal
managed to keep her voice lowered.
    “Maggie,"
Sibeal whispered, "it wasn’t that those boys were better than you. They
just knew what we already know.”
    With
a hard shake of her head, Maggie tried to stop the conversation. "Leave it
Sibeal, you don't understand.”
    Propelled
by the humiliation, Maggie worked the pastry flatter and flatter between her
palms. People teased her, as if her choices were a joke, a bit of fun. No one
understood the shame of it, of knowing what you want, who you want and knowing
that they didn't want you in return.
     “Maggie,
don't you see?" Sibeal continued. "You’re just too much for
them."
    "Stop
it." Maggie shot a quick glance to see if the strangers had heard.
    "She's
right," Neili countered. "There's nothing to those men, not in body,
not in mind. You're just too much woman for them.”
    “Oh,
aye,” the others chorused in comforting whispers.
    “Too
much spirit.” Caitlin chimed in a bit louder. Maggie shot her a silencing
frown.
    Muireall,
who loved to have an audience, ignored Maggie's distress. “Maggie lass,"
she boomed, "Take a look at yourself!  Don't you know, you're just too
much," she hefted her own bosom, "body.” The word exploded in the
room, followed by a barrage of earthy squeals.
    Maggie
glared. Her curves were no more than God's way of balancing her height, keeping
her in proper proportion. There was naught she could do about that.
    “Oh
aye.” Leitis trilled, discretion forgotten. “Can you not hear the gossip ‘Puny
Hamish the tailor dies with a smile on his face. Drowns in the full- bodied
womaness of Maggie