Bold (The Handfasting)

  The Handfasting Series

  Bold

  A Novel in Three Parts

  By Becca St. John

  Bold©2013Martha E Ferris

  All rights reserved

  Cover Art © 2012 Kelli Ann Morgan / Inspire Creative Services

  www.inspiredcreativeservcies.com

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, persons or clans is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  For the generosity and insightfulness of Judy Kehoe, Sue Weeks and Kathy Long who labored through my first novels.

  And to all my family – by birth, by marriage, by choice – you are the reason I write about Love.

  Table of Contents

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1 - THE MEETING

  CHAPTER 2 - THE CHALLENGE

  CHAPTER 3 – BAWDY WOMEN

  CHAPTER 4 - A STORY PROMISED

  CHAPTER 5 - BETRAYAL

  CHAPTER 6 - THE PLEA

  CHAPTER 7 - A STORY TOLD

  CHAPTER 8 - TRAPPED

  CHAPTER 9 - SACRIFICE

  CHAPTER 10 - THE WICKED

  CHAPTER 11 - A MEANS OF ESCAPE

  CHAPTER 12 - LOVE LOST

  CHAPTER 1 - THE MEETING

  1224 Scottish Highlands

  They could all be dead.

  Their bodies strewn across battlefields, lifeless.

  Like her twin, like Ian.

  Maggie MacBede pressed fist to eyes, spun away from her friend and the empty view they shared. She would not cry. It was Cailleach Bheare, bitter old crone of a north wind, who stirred up the tears. There was naught to fear. Her brothers would return.

  They would.

  Then she would kill them herself.

  Seven brothers born, six still alive, and all she could feel was the pain of the loosing. Not that her surviving brothers cared. Och no, not by half. Ian barely in his grave and off the great hulking oafs go to battle. Not once, not twice, but three times in the six months since Ian's death, they leave her to fret and worry; would they return by foot or bier?

  Caitlin moved up beside her, slid an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t fuss now.” She crooned.

  Not fuss? “We’ve been here since daylight, it’s nearly evening now. They should be here. The messenger said so.”

  “They will be,” Caitlin soothed. “I promise, and the thrill of it will be worth the wait.”

  Maggie snorted, wrapped her plaid close as she turned back to a bleak view of dark heather and a black ribbon of river threading its way through a valley shadowed by ragged hillsides.

  No hint of warriors.

  “Maggie,” Caitlin sidled up beside her. “Don’t you think you’d be knowing if they weren’t coming? Just like with young Ian.”

  Young Ian? Maggie looked to the gloomy valley, too tired to find the words she needed, though she knew she had to. “Ian was different. He was my twin. We shared dreams. I never had that with my other brothers.”

  “Never once with the others?” Caitlin frowned. Her husband Alec, one of the men they watched for, was Maggie’s older brother.

  “No.” Maggie raised her hand to shield her eyes from a last streak of sun as she studied the horizon.

  Caitlin followed her gaze. “You knew when Ian wasn’t coming back, Maggie. I was there. You crumbled as if that sword had pierced your own belly. I’ve no doubt you would do the same for Alec or any of your other brothers.”

  “Enough!” Maggie faced her squarely. “Ian and I were the youngest in a family of strong men. We needed that closeness or the others would run right over our wants. It’s you, Caitlin, who will know when Alec goes. Not me.”

  “He won’t go though.” Caitlin argued.

  “Don’t be foolish.” Maggie snapped. “Alec is a warrior and warriors die.” She slapped at her chest, where her heart should be. “And all you feel is the pain of the loosing. That’s all Caitlin.” She eased away. “Just sorrow hovering over a pit of numbness.”

  “Ah, Maggie.”

  They both fell silent as the autumn chill seeped through layers of dress and plaid, through the soles of boots clear into the heart. Finally, Caitlin shook Maggie’s shoulder. “We’ve been here too long for naught,” she said, “Let’s go back to the keep.”

  “Aye. No sense waitin’ and freezin’ when the Bold has no care for the kin of his men.” She grumbled as she brushed at her plaid.

  “Now Maggie, you shouldn’t be talking about the Laird that way.” Caitlin started to sign the cross. Maggie grabbed her hands, stilled them.

  “Stop it. He’s not a bloody saint, Caitlin. He was the one who called Ian to his death, for a battle that was not even ours to fight.”

  “He’s a great, grand warrior, he is.” Caitlin countered.

  Plaid pulled tight over her head, Maggie closed out the cold. “If he’s so mighty and great, why does he send messengers to ask our clan to fight? Why can’t he come himself?”

  As there was no answer to that, Maggie argued on. “Coward outside of battle, that’s what he is, to send others to call men to death!” Warmth of conviction coursed through her. “I know his kind, Caitlin.” She shook a finger at Caitlin’s back, raised her voice as the girl headed up the hill. “He’ll be a great scarred and ugly man who feasts on wee bairnes for breakfast. He’ll only have one eye, the other a grotesque pocket of twisted and puckered flesh from some ancient spear wound.

  “Life means nothing to a man like that. Not without conflict.” Anger spurred her up the steep climb. “I would love to give him conflict, I would.”

  Surprised by the lack of reprimand, for no one disparaged the Great, Grand Laird MacKay, Maggie looked up to see Caitlin at the crest of the hill, still as a statue. She turned, face aglow with tears. “They’re here.” She whispered. “They’ve come from the other way.”

  “No! Oh goodness, no.” Maggie reached the top, grabbed hold of Caitlin’s arm as she took in the scene before them.

  Below, a train of men and carts crossed under the archway into the courtyard of the keep.

  All that commotion and they had been too far to hear it.

  “I wanted to greet them, and do so properly.” Maggie moaned and set off down the hill, Caitlin running along beside her.

  “They’re here!" Her throat stung with the cry as she charged for the keep. Despite twenty years and strapping body, Margaret MacBede sailed like a child over the rough land until she could hear the laughter and voices and shouts of welcome ahead of her.

  Caitlin, struggling to keep stride, stopped her at the keep entrance. “Will you look at that?” She asked, breathing heavily. And Maggie did.

  So many men, not all MacBedes, and a slew of animals. Boisterous hurrahs could be heard from the courtyard vying with the bawl and bleat of livestock. Wagons piled with pillaged harvest pushed through the mélange.

  Her brothers returned with more goods than had been stolen from the MacBedes in three seasons past. Her kin had championed their clan. Thank the skies. These highlanders would eat this winter.

  The reward was to more than their bellies. It had been a long wait since they'd heard the victor's song. Too much stolen from them with no successful recourse. Too many lives sacrificed to no gain.

  “Come on!” She shouted to Caitlin.

  Skirts held high and out of the way, heedless of others, Maggie hurtled forward, straight into the huddle of her brothers and leapt, without warning, into the arms of her brother, Jamie.

  “What have we here?” Jamie held her straight out from him as though she weighed no more than a straw doll. She dangled in midair, her grasp firm on his arms. No small lass, she towered over other women and quite a few of the men folk, but she thrilled to the knowing she would never outsi
ze her brothers.

  Just in time, Maggie tensed, held her body straight and true, arms crossed at her chest, legs twined about her skirts to hold them secure. As she knew he would, Jamie tossed her in the air, parallel to the ground, tested the weight of her, same as he would test the weight of a caber.

  “I think I’ve found the biggest faerie in the land,” Jamie mused.

  “Biggest faerie?” Nigel shouted. “Here, toss it here. It looks naught but a mass of hair and plaid to me.”

  Maggie gasped at the outrageous slur, as she sailed through the air to be caught again. Her childish cry sounded the delight, for she loved the game, loved to fly as though nothing could pull her to earth.

  Nigel caught her neatly, added a spin, as he tossed her high again. Maggie pulled in tighter, lest a flailing limb strike out at her brother.

  “Aye, ‘tis naught but a mass of rusty red fur and rags.”

  She rethought the striking out business, but there was no time for action. Airborne and twirling, Maggie shut her eyes against the dizziness of it.

  “Umph!” It was Douglas this time. “Can’t be our Maggie.” He groaned, “Too heavy for our light, little Maggie. Here.” Maggie pulled in, prepared for the toss. “You see if she’s not too fat!”

  She should have hit while she could.

  Douglas hurled her with an ease that belied his goading. This twirl she landed face to the skies, eyes wide.

  Good Lord! She’d not landed in the hands of another brother, and well she knew it. Nay, these hands were even greater in size. They nearly spanned her waist and it was no small waist. But it was not the size that felt so different. It was . . . oh goodness, she didn't really know what it was other than to know she had never felt it before.

  Bounced, a test of weight, like the jostle of a bag of coins to guess their worth. With each landing, shivers quivered through her, his touch an arrow that found its mark, candle to flame. A horrible, strange thing.

  She cried out, when the man spun her to face the ground. To face him. A stranger as rugged and beautiful as the mountains surrounding them. He had the high cheekbones so common among their clan, yet they did not look common. Dark eyebrows raised in humor, as the lines of his face fitted easily to his smile.

  She recognized him, in the way a moment or a thing can be familiar even though it is not. She knew just how wavy his hair would be if it weren’t pulled back and tied by a bit of leather. That it was not really black, as it looked now pulled tight against his head, but more the color of cinnamon when moist. The slash of eyebrows, emphasizing his pleasure, could as easily pull into a frown just as eyes, sparkling with merriment right now, could be as blue and cold as ice in winter.

  She knew it, knew it all though he was a stranger with no right to be holding her at all. No right to laughter when she was a riot of confusion.

  No right for him to look as though he knew her as well.

  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 tumble
d 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.