Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,26

little sparrow trapped within the stillroom, a dank dark place. How the bird managed to find its way inside the room heavy with the scent of malt and burning peat Maggie would never know.

The thick oak door, framed in the opening of what was no more than a cave within the mountain, had been shut tight. The only light from a small window covered with a thin oiled sheet, its ledge as deep as a child’s arm was long.

Maggie’s plan was to hide inside and hear how the whisky was made. She’d come ahead of the others, using all of her weight to get that monstrous door open a crack so she could slip inside. It was then she’d sensed the bird, feared it was a bat.

But it wasn’t. It was a poor, helpless sparrow, startled by the light that the door offered. It dodged and darted, as frightened of Maggie as it was of its plight.

She’d caught it then, held it gently within the palms of her hands, as she tried to sooth it’s trembling. The wild beat of its heart could be felt in her fingertips bringing prayers to Maggie’s lips. Over and over she begged God to be merciful, to allow the creature to live long enough for the men to arrive, for she daren’t let go of the sparrow in order to open the blasted door.

She’d received a telling measure of censor, for being within that cavern, for being in a place that she never should have entered. But it dinna’ matter to her, the bird was free, flying off without a care, without so much as a circling 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 it, 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 whisky 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; to them a fight was 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