The Handfasting (2 page)

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 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 cheek, 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. 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 been  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.

By
morning, through gentle persuasion or abduction, she would be his.

Talorc
headed toward the door Maggie had taken. It was time to start his assault.    

CHAPTER 2 - THE
CHALLENGE

In
the quiet sanctuary of the keep, Maggie sank against the hard stone wall and
let the tremors have their way. She could barely stand, even braced as she was.
Conflicts whipped through her; what she imagined of the Bold versus the reality
of him: big and handsome, not battle beaten and ugly. Laugh lines in place of
frowns or scowling furrows.

A
draw that sucked her in without revulsion.

But
she could still hate; hate the hands that held her, the ripple of confusion
provoked.

She
touched her
cheek,
the lingering caress of a sworn enemy
.

He
was not the kind of man she sought, too big, overpowering. No malleability in
him, none at all. He had drawn her twin to his death.

She
had challenged him.

"Oh
God," she moaned. You never challenge a man like the MacKay, who lived for
the fight, thrived on it.

Why
did he have to come here, himself, after years of sending messengers? Why did
he choose now to appear, and churn-up her life, overwhelm her with the chaos of
sensation?

The
sound of the keep door opening, nudged her away from the wall, to shift around
the corner, into the tower square.

"Maggie
MacBede?” The call tickled through her like water in a gurgling brook. Her traitorous
body recognized the deep rumble of the MacKay's shout, tempted a response.

She
closed her eyes, willed herself not to react.

"Where
are you lass?" His boom reverberated through the hall.

The
shift of feet, the crunch of soles on the rough stone floor moved toward her. Resigned,
she opened her eyes to find him in the doorway of the tower, watching her.

"What
do you want?" She snapped, wishing he would step away.

He
moved closer.

"Maggie,
I promised Ian I would come to you."

"Promised
Ian?" her heart racketed against her breast. Of all she expected from this
man, this was not it.

Nor
did she expect the tenderness in his eyes, the softening of his voice as he
explained, "It was in my arms that your brother died. I promised him that
I would come to you. It's taken me too long, but I am here now."

Tears
welled. The Bold cupped her face with one large palm, his thumb soothing the
side of her cheek.

"He
knew you would take it badly. He told me to tell you he was proud, and he would
not desert you."

"Well,
he did desert me.” She bit her lip against a tremble.

"No,
he's here," one finger tapped at her temple, "in your memories. And
he's here." He laid his hand between her breasts, over her heart, "in
your love. Like salt to water, he is everywhere."

Silent,
they stood there, his eyes meeting hers, one hand holding her shoulder, the
other over her heart. She was certain he felt the beat of it, pounding,
flooding her world by his mere presence. An innocent touch offered, yet it turned
her thoughts from Ian, stole her mind, gave her body rule so it asked questions
never questioned, created temptations when she had never been tempted. Again,
the image of a mare came to mind. How she would nip and bite, buck at a
stallion, yet allow him to mount her. She wanted to let this man, this huge
stranger, overpower her senses.

Attraction
beyond reason.

"I
promised your brother," he stood even closer. Her breath caught in her
throat, “to give you this," he leaned in, kissed her, a butterfly’s touch
to her cheek and she whimpered. Not because it was from Ian. Ian had never sent
lightning bolts through her with a mere kiss. No one had.

She
fought to tame her reaction, but the bewildering whirl of confusion proved too
wild to cage.

The
Bold whispered, "and I want to give you this," his lips touched hers,
a light, airy, brush along her mouth. She pushed him away.

“Just
a kiss, Maggie girl.”

Innocent,
perhaps, but she was not stupid. His idea of a kiss would never be a mere
‘just.’ 

“When
do you leave?”

“In
the morning.” A simple answer, but his eyes shifted away. So there was more to
his leaving than that.

She
pressed for clarification. “You will be gone then?” If he was to go, could she
allow herself this liberty? One kiss, knowing she would never have to face him
again? May never face this enticement again?

“In
the morning I will be gone.” Still, his eyes did not meet hers, but followed
the arc of his finger as it traced the side her cheek. The light touch
ricocheted through her body.

She
shivered and nodded despite a twinge of uncertainty. Surely there was no room
for falsehood in such a straight reply.

“Just
a kiss.” She pushed.

“Aye,
just a kiss.” He murmured, as he lowered his head.

She
had been right. There was no ‘just’ about it, no feathery caress of lips but a
journey begun with the press of lips, the taste of her mouth. He tickled the
seal of her lips before moving on along her jaw to nibble his way to her ear.

A
kiss turned to whispered words, sweet and soothing, of a language she did not
know. It rippled, danced clear to her toes. Dormant senses blossomed.

The
carnal trail shifted down her neck

 Maggie
clutched his shoulders. He pulled her close, surrounded her, captured her.

A
mere kiss.

To
him perhaps.

Reason
reared, for one valiant fight. She fought herself, fought him, pushed against
that broad chest. Only half a battle as half still clung to the kiss. He lifted
his head, eased his hold.

Her
father and brothers had warned about men, her mother issued cautions against
unwedded desire. Everyone spoke of young Alicia, who disappeared one day, drawn
by desire to an evil stranger she spoke of but no one ever saw.

The
Bold would leave in the morning.

She
would not be so foolish as to leave with him.

What
harm to steal this moment, this one time, to allow desire free reign in a
stairwell where it could not go further, with a man she would never have to see
again?

"Meet
me in this." The whisper brushed her lips.

Always
impetuous, she charged heedless in to frays more dangerous than this.

"You
will not best me at this, Bold." She pulled his head down to hers.

The
Bold seized her opening, lifted her against him. She refused to hang, toes
dangling above the floor. Hands gripping his hair, her mouth as hungry as his,
she lifted her legs, wrapped them tight around his waist, reveled in his
shocked stillness.

He
pulled away long enough to chuckle, or was it a groan? She didn't know, didn't
care, too focused on his mouth as it suckled a line from the tender skin behind
her ear, down her neck. Thrilled, as he pressed her against the wall, against
the core of her. Shocked tremors ricocheted through her.

It
was not enough.

Wild,
untamed, raised among a people who spoke of earthy pleasures, instinct led her
game. No demure lass but a woman with a new found appetite for the battle of
desire, to be desired. To take.

He
stilled, pushed her legs down, set her to the ground, eased away. She grabbed
his arms, to pull his attention back.

"Shhh."

Laughter,
orders, whispers sounded in the hall. The clan moved back to the duties of
life. Everyone but Maggie. She drew in a deep breath, tried to settle aroused
uncertainties.

He
pulled her deeper into the shadows under the winding tower stairs and leaned
his head against hers. "Maggie mine," a hoarse croak, “with the heat
in you, it's a wonder you don't have a dozen children by now."

"You
miserable swine.” She batted at his hold. Voices in the hall reminded, she
lowered her voice, "You shouldn't be teaching me such things."

"Did
I teach you, Maggie? I wonder if you're not teaching me."

Stunned,
Maggie stammered for words to fling, only to find she had lost him to something
over his shoulder.

She
peeked around the side of him.

Her
brothers stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. Grand, great men. A wall of them. Her
protectors. Pride swelled at the sight of them. She had met him in the battle
of senses and now her brothers would kill him for taking her to that
battleground.

The
Bold turned to face them, his arm still wrapped around Maggie, forcing her
around as well. "She's mine," was all he said. No request, no rights
to others, just pure possession.

"Aye,"
Douglas nodded, "I'd say she better be."

Rage
soared. "You say nothing, Douglas!" she fought for breath, “He took
advantage, as you've warned a man might. He pushed beyond manners!"

Her
brothers did not rise to her anger but smiled. James answered for them. "We
think you've met your match, Maggie MacBede. Time a man took charge of
you."

The
Bold squeezed her closer, she shoved away, furious with him, with her kin, with
herself. "I am no one’s!  Do you hear?" she stalked past her brothers,
but not without ordering, "You are to protect my honor." She reminded
them. "So you best take care of him. He's nothing but a boastful braggart
of a scoundrel!"

They
all laughed. Laughed!  She refused to listen. Refused to think of what her body
had tried to tell her. She was a woman of intelligence. She would not let her
flesh dictate what she would do, who she would do it with. All it took was
keeping that man away from her.