Bold (The Handfasting) - By Becca St. John Page 0,5

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 prepared 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 traitoress 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.

Questions never questioned, 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