Bold (The Handfasting) (2 page)

He
played with her senses.

She
batted at his arm.  He stilled, holding her aloft.  Eye to eye, she stared wary
and vulnerable, fearing he could see deep into her very soul, before he gave a
sharp nod of satisfaction with her none the wiser why. 

She
glowered at his smug audacity.  How dare he take liberties just because he
arrived with her kin. So what if looks like his could make a lesser women swoon. 
Maggie refused to be taken by looks.  There were plenty of handsome men to be
found in the highlands.  She would take that smirk from his face.   

Tossed
again, grandly high, Maggie was too confused and angry to thrill in it. 
Instead, mid-air, she glared at Douglas for being the traitor who passed her to
this man.

“Nay,
Douglas,” the man boomed, hearty voice for a hearty man.  Her head snapped
back, scowl intact.  “Feisty but not fat.”   He had the gall to squeeze her
waist with each landing bounce though his eyes were focused higher than her
waist, lower than her shoulders. 

Maggie
shifted her arms, crossed on her chest, to better hide her bosom.  He winked.

“Not
fat at all.” 

She
swiped at him again, toppled so he had to side step to catch her.  “Nor too
lean.”    His smile broadened, which she’d not thought possible.  “To my mind,
Douglas,” slowly he lowered Maggie, “Aye.”  He nodded thoughtfully.  “’Tis
true, to my mind she is just rrrright!”  His relished R’s tumbled through her
in a chaotic dance.

The
moment Maggie felt the purchase of land, she shoved away from the man, stepped
back on legs that wobbled, straightened her plaid with hands that trembled too
much to manage.  In defiance of any weakness, she lifted her chin.

He
towered over her, a massive brute of a man.  It was no surprise he could toss
her high.  His muscle-corded arms were the size of cabers themselves.  His
chest, och, he had naught covering it but a width of plaid.  Not that anything
would fit across that expanse.

He
was nothing of the sort that Maggie could appreciate.  She liked her men long
and lanky, with more brain than brawn.  This man was all brawn.  She doubted he
had a brain, not if he’d be playing with her while her brothers watched. 
They’d get him for that, just as they dealt with any man who looked at her
sideways. 

She
shot a glance toward each of them, and with every sighting her confidence fell.

Nigel,
James and Douglas all beamed at her.  Her oldest brother, Feargus the younger,
strode up to the man and slapped him on the back.  They both laughed at some
hidden story.  Feargus' friendly pats could send a man reeling.  Not this one,
which made her brothers even more genial.

All
right then, if her brothers would not stand against him, then Maggie would. 
She would stand strong and firm, just as she did with her brothers.  It was the
only way to win concessions with their lot. 

A
toss of her head shifted her hair off her shoulders.  She straightened her
back, showed her own strength, like mare to stallion.  His smile quirked,
displayed a mouth full of straight white teeth.  He sent a nod to her brothers,
Crisdean and Alec, who had just pushed their way into the crowd.  Both grinned
back.  Even her da looked ready to explode with mirth. 

The
man won them over.  Had everyone siding with him, rather than her.  The cheek
of the brute. 

He’d
be no easy opposition.  Aye, but she’d not been raised with brothers to forget
how to taunt them.  Hold your place and hold your tongue.  It was as good as
ignoring them, certain to drive them crazy. 

Maggie
silently stood her ground, confronted with his cocky grin and the glances he
threw at her family.  The yard, filled with a watchful hush, hinted that
everyone knew what she did not, and they all watched to see what she would do. 
Aye, she was that mare again.  Wild and corralled to be tamed, while spectators
stood at the fence.  The thought spooked her to step back.  A blush of
humiliation blazed up her neck. 

She
had never, ever backed away from confrontation.  She couldn’t with a family the
likes of hers.   She would never last a snap if she didn’t stand against
continual teasing and testing.  But she had, just now, with this . . . this . .
. great beast of a man.  One step back and her fortress crumbled, her fear
disarmed her, shattered a confidence she had never doubted. 

There
was no help for it.  Her mother was behind her, somewhere, and at this moment,
for the first time since leaving childhood, she needed her mother’s
protection.  To add to the mortification, when she bumped into her ma, she
grabbed her hand.   Hard.  The blush deepened to a scorch.

This
was the first time, in her entire life, she had given ground.  It was this man
and his laughing eyes.  She’d not forgive him.  She’d never forgive him.  He
made her feel peculiar.  She no more liked it than she understood it. 

With
as much dignity as she could summon Maggie slipped behind her mother, and felt
ease and reason in the united pose.  Mother and daughter, standing together to
greet guests.   Her retreat was no retreat.  No one could think differently.

Buoyed
by the thought, Maggie dipped her head, a regal bow to her subjects.  Still, no
one spoke.  They waited.  For her?  Even her parents held silent.  So be it. 

With
as much condescension as she could muster, which was difficult as she felt a
bit puny herself, words tumbled out with no sifting of thought.   “Who do you
think you are, to be touching my body and saying I’m just rrrright!”  

Touching
my body . . . She could swallow her tongue.  

The
courtyard exploded with raucous humor but it was one tremendous roar that
rocked her.  Him, that man. 

Brute.

Eyes
narrowed, she squeezed her mother’s shoulders as though that could shut-out the
sound.  Her mother tugged Maggie around to her side. 

“Settle
yourself, lass," Fiona fussed at the drape of Maggie's plaid, brushed at
her tangled curls.  "You must show some respect."

Maggie
gaped.  All was topsy turvy.  Her brothers, who never let a courting man near,
tossed her to this . . . this . . . mocker of women.  Instead of a bellow of
rage, her da choked on his pleasure.  And now, her mother tells her to be
respectful.

"Child,"
her ma whispered in her ear, "’Tis Talorc the Bold, the great Laird MacKay. 
You must greet him proper.”

A
shudder racked through her.  The Laird MacKay.  Two eyes full of merriment,
neither a grotesque pocket of twisted and puckered flesh.  He had scars, to be
sure, clear and visible but they enhanced rather than disfigured.  He was not
an ugly, hairy beast, but a man. 

Talorc
the Bold.  A legend.  A man who was whispered about in the deep of the night
with stories too grand to be true.   A warrior who instilled their part of the
Highlands with a sense of comfort and safety . . . unless you proved yourself
the enemy, then he’d have you for dinner.

He
was near to worshipped. 

He
could do no wrong.

Well,
he was doing wrong now and, as far as Maggie could tell, he wouldn’t stop.  It
was in that arrogant roar of laughter.  Her fiery blush turned to a flush of
anger.

This
self-same man called Ian out to a battle of no return.  This man was alive and
well.  Her twin brother dead.  There would be no respect from her.  Not that he
offered her any, treating her like some toy doll.  As if anyone noticed.

Her
family saw Ian's death as an honorable outcome to inevitable battles.  Maggie
was not so generous.  The Bold may have them all in his palm, but he’d not get
the best of her.  Och, no.  He’d never get the best of her.

The
chaff of fear blew away, her anger honed on the memory of her twin's body
draped over a horse.  Maggie moved away from her mother and approached The MacKay. 
She could see she startled him by doing so, that it pleased him.  Too full of
himself, he was, to think he could scare her off so easily that any return took
admirable strength.  She was not so puny.

"Bold,"
she addressed him without title, "Whatever business you have here, I hope
it ends quickly, and you can be on your way."  That raised an eyebrow. 
Maggie's smile was not pleasant.  "And while you are here, I hope you'll
be taking time to visit our Ian's grave, as you were so kind as to send him
there."

She
spun on a chorus of indrawn breaths; stalked away, grandly, on the wave of
shocked murmurs and apologies.  She did not get far before the Bold's voice
rolled over her.

"Aye,
Maggie MacBede, I will visit the grave of a brave warrior just as I will see my
task accomplished by morn."  Her face half turned, she offered a nod of
acknowledgement, anxious to be away.

"Maggie." 
He stopped her.  "Is it true, did you really take a Sassenach out with one
rock, when you were no more than a wee babe?"

How
dare he?

"Did
you run the walls during battle and give sustenance to your clansmen?"

He
couldna' know what he was saying, couldna' know what his words were about.  
"Don't you dare make fun of me, MacKay."   She challenged, for she
knew the depth of embarrassment, humiliation, his words provoked.

Brows
puckered in surprise, he moved closer. "I'm not funning with you, Maggie
MacBede." He touched her check, feathered a line to her chin.  "I'm
wondering if the tales are true."

She
wished him to stop touching her, distracting her, but his finger lingered, an
absent gesture, that meant nothing.  He continued to query her, his voice
soft.  "I'm wondering if it's true?  Before a MacBede warrior sets off on
his maiden battle, to face death for the first time, do you in fact give a
piece of plaid with soil and heather to remind him of what he fights
for?"  

Nothing
he had said, nothing he had done could have hurt her more than that question. 
She shoved his hand away.  His touch may slay her senses, but she would not be
felled by his words.  She had stood the test of those packets and she would
stand them still. 

"Once
you give to one, you give to all."  She held on to her pride, because that
much was true. 

A
fool, she had been, to hand them out, to think it a grand thing to do.  The
reality held meager thanks.  Parcels meant to be a prize, proved no more than a
worthless bundle that embarrassed giver and receiver both.    She didn't know
how to stop it, though she knew it would be up to her to do so. 

* * * * * * * * * *

Talorc
watched the straight line of her spine as the lass escaped, and chuckled.  He
would catch-up to her soon enough but first he would ease the chaos left behind
her.  The MacBedes were caught between loyalty to one of their own and the
realities of life.  War came to them, they had to meet it or be run over.  Men
died, honorable lives lost to keep their clans safe.

He
had not killed Ian, but the Gunns had.  Though she wouldn't know of it, it was
thanks to her that the guilty had paid for their sins. 

Her
brother, Ceadric, jostled his arm, "I told you she was spirited."

Talorc
nodded, "You did that.  But you didna' say she blames me for your
brother's death."

"Aye,
she does that," James answered him, "and she can be a stubborn one,
but she's not stupid.  She'll be civil, soon enough, or she'll have us to
contend with." He gestured to all of the MacBede men.

Talorc
didn't doubt that she was as stubborn as she was feisty.  His task would be
more difficult for it, but a lass easily come by was no great winning. 
Maggie's appeal was all the more powerful for her reluctance. 

The
truth of it was, fight it or no, she would soon come to learn that he was the
right man for her.  He knew it as a certainty when he saw her run through the
courtyard, straight for him, her lush body shifting with every stride.  Before
that moment she had been a heady dream, built on stories others told.  Innocent
stories about a beautiful lass with courage and honor.  No one could know how
those stories had turned into erotic dreams, filling him with a passion for a
faceless goddess.

He
had expected to be disappointed when they met in the flesh; had not expected
the site of her to fill his blood enough to explode.  Ample bodied Maggie
MacBede, bursting with life, saturated every thought, every feeling. 

She
failed to sense his presence. The lass had been totally unaware that he stood a
mere breath away.  With nary a glance, she jumped, not into his arms, but
straight into her brother's. 

One
shake of his head cleared the haze of fantasy.  He had anticipated this meeting
for weeks.  She stepped blindly into it.  If she had known of it, there's no
doubt, she would have been as prepared for battle as he had prepared for a
union.

Time. 
He could give her that, once he had her at Glen Toric.  He would engulf her
with his presence, with the fire that burned between them.  Until then, there
was no time.  They had to leave on the morrow. 

Together.

He
lifted his head, searched out the surrounding people, to catch William's eye. 
The slight nod told him what he needed to know.  If he could not use his
Scottish tongue to good advantage, and woo her with words by the end of the
night, his plan would be enforced.  In the meantime, his men would keep a close
watch on his lass.