Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,3

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