Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,39

price?"

"The MacKay," She inched back, away from the edge of the altar. "I've helped you weaken the MacKay," voice sultry as a promise she lifted, leaned back on her hands, breasts tantalizing mounds in the moonlight. "You've set the Gunns toward failure. But all could be lost."

"I will not lose."

She scrambled onto her knees. "There is one who has turned the tide away from us." Her finger trailed a path from his lips to his chest. "You must kill her," she leaned closer, "kill her," she licked his lips, "kill her!" swung her legs around, encircling his waist.

He was swollen and greedy, more than ready to finish this. "Who is this woman?" He grunted as he ground against her softness bringing a moan for his efforts.

Still, she did not leave her plea. "Maggie MacBede." Another moan. “We cannot risk a child born to her.”

"You want her blood?" He spread her cloak, lowered it so all could see as his touch roamed mounds and valleys, squeezed and soothed in turn. Her buttocks were cradled in his arms, her legs wrapped about his waist, her breasts a breath away from his lips as he strode the perimeters of the circle. A boastful male.

"She wants me to destroy the MacBede girl, daughter of a Chief." He shouted.

Brushing her chest against his mouth, she pleaded. "Promise me The MacKay will have no heir."

Ah, so that was it.

"I want to kill him." He grabbed her bottom, raised her up, to slide her down along his rigid need before placing her, once again, on the altar. "Torture him.”

"Her, kill her." She scrambled on the blood slick stone to kneel before him.

He shoved her down, onto her back, her hair tangled in blood, and leaned over her, master of what he beheld. She griped his arms, as though she knew he would soon leave this subject. "He must live to be humiliated, to see his own destruction. She is in the way. She can die. Must die."

"Devil’s harlot." His chuckle was lost as he teased her nipple. "Perfect.”

"You promise."

"Oh, my lusty earth bride. I promise, with pleasure. Here, on this altar, we will slice her slowly, little by little. Her screams will make my blood rise. I will want to take you for days afterward. But now, tonight, all bargaining is done. We will think of nothing else, but my plundering you."

Arching his neck he shouted, "Take your wenches men! Seed their bellies!"

He was too late. Two lines had become one thick writhing cord as bodies sank to the ground, chants turned to moans of pleasure mingled with screams and cries. Cloaks opened, flesh meshed, male to female, a time old chain of fertility.

CHAPTER 11 - A MEANS OF ESCAPE

Days filled with the land opening up to forever. They skirted the mountain, rode at the base of foothills, across open stretches that dipped and fell. Rugged terrain at a rugged pace, on horseback when Maggie had never ridden as much as a morning before.

Many of their group walked. Talorc refused to let Maggie join them. She wouldn’t forgive him for the pain of it, riding, when she was not accustomed to such things.

Strong boned and buxom, Diedre, rode up and reached over, giving Maggie’s arm a comforting pat. “Don’t fret now lass, the time will fly.”

Diedre, a MacKay companion for Maggie. A woman who convinced the Bold that Maggie would need one for the ride. Female companionship in the likes of the MacBede’s Muireall, the widow. Proof the women at Glen Toric would not be so different to back home. Thoughtful of the Bold. Generous of Diedre, for they were in a troop of men. She rather suspected that was Diedre’s reason for joining the adventure.

As for Maggie? She was more than used to the company of men, especially warriors. Probably more comfortable with them than women.

Still, she appreciated the gesture especially as the woman did not hover but left Maggie to herself often enough.

Open and friendly one minute, too close another before Deidre would go off, flirting with the men as widows were wont to do, sneaking off with one or another. Plenty of men on this ride and only two women. Muireall would have liked those odds herself.

“The Bold may be a great man, but he’s also a man. Can’t be around one without some ill feeling festering,” Diedre claimed, an old mother hen even thought they were of an age. “Best to get bad thoughts out of a body or they sour the soul.”

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