Bold (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  Had she heard the thundering cries from her clansmen? Had she done it on purpose, as his men thought? If she had, he’d kill her with his own bare hands, after he’d clung to her.

  She was more than he could handle.

  “You’ve got yourself one hell of a lassie, boy!” Thomas shouted.

  Talorc was too shaken to respond. She’d already charged off madly beyond sight, east when they were headed north. He was capable of no more than pointing toward the proper route. His men followed with alacrity, he set off to find his mate.

  She hadn't gone far, straight down into the valley below, no further. The sight of her, a crumpled heap upon the ground, racked with dry sobs, tore a brutal hole in his anger. He dismounted, crossed to her and lifted her into his arms. She fought him, fought to be free.

  Ignoring her meager blows, he sat upon a large boulder, Maggie cradled in his lap.

  “Don’t you dare think to comfort me.” She punched his chest. “This is your doing." She pounded him again. "What do you care that I have no one? What do you care?”

  With a fell grip. he captured her hands, “I care.”

  “Hah!”

  She strained against his hold, his handfasted, his partner, his helpmate. Did she not feel the invisible bond wrapped around them?

  “Look!" He pressed their clasped hands against his chest, "You have me lass! You have me, here, for you." Frustrated anger rode high in his blood.

  "You?" She shouted back, "I have you? What good is that? You who create changes so drastic, my own clan don't know me anymore."

  “You are changed.”

  “Never!”

  “No?” His smile mocked. “You don’t think so?” She stilled, guarded. So she should be. He had waited a lifetime for this woman, hungered for her before he even knew of her existence. Now that he had found her, his loins ached, urged for release, anything, even the simple taste of her lips.

  Ravenous, he would wait no more, could not bear to. She was his, to love, honor and take. Past time she knew of it.

  “You,” he stopped, to settle the race of blood that challenged his lungs. “You,” he started again, “changed the moment we touched.”

  He tugged at her hair, pulled her head back, looked into her eyes. Wary, aye, for she saw the truth in his words.

  “From the moment you landed in my hands, you knew, you sensed, you felt what you’ve never had before.”

  Unwittingly she licked her lips, wetting his desire. Still, he didn’t kiss her, though he imagined doing so.

  Not just yet. She had relaxed. He would use that, eased his hold, lifted a finger to trace her mouth, felt her soft huff of breath. Again, she moistened her lips, only this time she found the tip of his finger. He eased it inside.

  “Taste me.” He ordered. She hesitated then nipped, nearly undoing him. “Do you know what you’re about?” He wondered out loud.

  “No,” she whimpered, and buried her head in his shoulder. “I don’t. You are right, I am not who I was. I am a stranger with strange thoughts, wants . . .”

  “You've nothing to fear with me.”

  "It's not the fear that frets me."

  Gentling himself, Talorc stroked her back, fought his need to have her closer. "We're handfasted, no need to feel shame."

  Face still pressed to his collar, she shook her head.

  He cupped her chin, tilted her face to his, to see the thoughts written there. “Maggie, what do you know of what's between us?” Before the words could be asked, Maggie jerked from his hold, indignant, proud. She looked straight at him and he had his answer.

  She would not shy from what she felt, but she'd never felt it before. “Ah, lass,” his words a smile, “You have old knowledge, but it’s all too new to you. Confuses a body. We need to catch-up your learning to your knowing.”

  “Old knowledge?” She frowned, the haze lifting from her eyes before Talorc wanted it to.

  “Maggie,” he distracted her with a caress to her ear. She sucked in a breath as the soft roundness of her breast lifted.

  “Don’t.” She ordered, but there was no weight to her words.

  “Because you don’t like it, or because you want more?” She turned away, and he knew it was better that than to lie. “You love my touch Maggie. That’s what has changed you.”

  “But I hate you.”

  “No you don’t Maggie. You wouldn’t crave this if you truly hated me.”

  Finally, their lips met, though it was not much of a kiss, more a gentle brushing of lips. A tease, soft enough to ease her fears. She allowed it, allowed the gentle pressure that grew from that first touch, accepted the gentle brush of his tongue along the seam of her mouth.

  As if she knew what he wanted, her lips parted, provoking him to take more. He eased his tongue between her lips, which, in turn, created more hunger. She returned his desire, participated in the tasting. It was the hunger of a powerful man, met by his equal. No matter the turmoil it caused, she was honest in her response. The thrill coursed through his veins. He devoured her, she demanded of him and fire raged.

  He wanted her here, now, in this field, below where his men on foot marched, near enough to the keep that any could come upon them. Rather than tame, the thought incited. To show-off her abundant softness, the wild passion focused on him, had him rolling her to the ground, pinning her beneath him, her hands held tight above their heads.

  "You are mine!" he pressed against her, widened his leg to urge hers apart until she cradled him.

  "Oh aye," she allowed, "For a year and a day." She pulled his head to hers.

  He allowed it, long enough to know she was saturated with wanting. He risked lifting up to look down on her, at the lush rise of her breast, at lips swollen from his kisses, cheeks flushed from desire. "You don't shy from this, yet still expect to leave me?"

  "Imprisoned by handfast, I will reap whatever rewards I can." Hands bound by his, she arched her back.

  He didn't understand her willingness. The hunger, aye, for it was that strong between them. But that she would risk, even incite, mating, he could not comprehend. Not when she wanted her freedom so fiercely. But the Bold was not named so for missed opportunities.

  One hand still holding hers, he used the other to tease with a gentle stroking, along the side of her body, barely brushing the side swell of her breast.

  "You are so bloody luscious," he gave in, filled his hand with her, molded, squeezed as he lowered his head to suckle. He couldn't resist any more, freed her hands to fill both his with her softness. "You make me hurt, ache with wanting you. Since the first moment I saw you, my blood has risen so high I fear I’ll burst. Ease me, Maggie girl, ease my pain."

  She made it more insistent, urging the heat in him to rise even higher. She pulled his head to hers, kissing him with a full mouth. Her hips rose to his, circled impatiently as he thrust against her.

  Too much cloth between them, Talorc thought of his knife, to slice it away, to give him access to her breasts as he wadded her skirt in his hand, lifting it higher, higher. He wanted to see her legs, her hips, raised himself to do so but stopped.

  "I'll not have you caught like this," he thought out loud. "We've barely made our pledge, left your home and already I'm ravishing you. Your clansmen will certainly see the change in you then."

  Her eyes met his, so fierce, so wanton he was surprised by her words. “This is not how they see me as different, Laird MacKay.”

  She was battling him with words when he was still battling his body. Trying to calm it.

  She continued. “What they think is that I am more than I am.”

  “Aren’t you proving that as we speak?” He asked, fighting for breath, fighting to tame the wildness in his veins. It didn’t help that she arched her back, squiggled her hips trying to pull from beneath him. He wasn’t ready to let her go. "They know you, Maggie. They’ve always known you, they just didn’t recognize you as I do."

  She snorted. “Know me or no, you dinna' get my kin last night.”<
br />
  “You said you would handfast, you gave your word.”

  She lashed out. “Oh, aye, I had no choice. You wouldn’t listen, would you? You had to keep going.” She shoved him aside, freed herself of his hold. “Like a boulder down a mountain, you are. But I told you, over and over. Know me or no, I don’t want you.”

  “You don’t know what you want.”

  "Ach!" Maggie rose, twitched her plaid straight with trembling hand. “I do know what I want!” She railed. “That's how little you know me because I have always known what I wanted. I want my home, I want my family, I want a simple life without all the complications of a man like you.

  "I don’t want to fight to be heard, fight to be listened to, fight to be believed or to have my way.”

  “You want to be in control.” Talorc nodded, he understood the desire, not that he was going to let her have her own way.

  He stood, towered over her.

  “Aye, I want control of my life, no one else’s, just mine.” She dragged her hair from her face. “Is that so much to ask for?”

  Talorc shook his head, caught a stray lock of her hair with his finger and tried to push it behind her ear. She slapped his hand away.

  Her sigh was weary and old as the mountains. “Lord knows, you're a fine enough looking man, and you have an uncanny way with a woman's body," she granted, "There are plenty of women who would want you. Why does it have to be me? Why, when you are nothing like what I want?"

  Frustrated, and knowing there was no hope for it, Talorc snorted, “I’m not scrawny enough for your tastes? Is that it? You won’t be able to rule me as you might a lesser man.”

  “Hah.” She snuffed, rose to his bait. “Of course you would think that just because a man is of lesser build he would be a lesser man.”

  “He’d not be able to protect you as I would.”

  “I have brothers enough for that. And I know how they are, how they try to bombard my wishes for their own. I've known you less than a day and already you ignore my wants, my cares.”

  Talorc smiled, “Every man will try to have his way, in his own kind. Don’t underestimate a male’s hunger for control, just because he’s closer in height to you.”

  She looked as sorrowful as a wee lamb tangled in the bracken. He had torn her from her home, her family, but he had a home and family to offer her. With time, she would understand that. “It is a brave thing you do lass, leaving everything that's familiar to you. I mean to make it up to you, to prove that it will be worth the pain you are feeling now.”

  She turned to him, trails of tears long since dried, lined the length of her face. "The only comfort I have to that pain is knowing I will be home this time next year. My ma promised me, if I don’t give you my heart, then we would not be wed. And that, you can be sure, will be easy.”

  Startled, he moved, to better see her. She was a lusty lass for one who wanted to walk away from a handfast. This explained that. “Is this what she told you?”

  “Aye,” her eyes narrowed, “is that not the truth of it?”

  "Oh, aye," he mumbled, certain her heart would rule her body. She just didn't know that. But he was coming to understand her openness to his touches. She didn't fear their passion because she didn't consider it a threat to her singleness.

  Now that he had her attention, Talorc wasn’t certain he wanted it. She didn’t know that should she share her body with him, should they mate, they’d be wed. The chance of a child was enough to bind the least likely of couples.

  The attraction was strong. The past moments were proof of that. It wouldn't be long before he slid between her thighs, no cloth to bar him, and slid into the core of her, toppling their handfasting into marriage.

  They belonged together. Their passion was his strongest weapon against her denial of their bond. Her mother would know that. She had played his hand for him.

  Intriguing.

  “Do you not think you could give me your heart?”

  Maggie was still fighting to right her plaid, the MacBede cloth. Not so different from his own. Not really, but the colors were off, dyed by plants grown in a different soil and the MacBedes had a thin orange line that couldn't be found on the MacKay cloth. Talorc frowned, he’d not noticed, others would. It would make her a stranger, a visitor, to them until the day she wore his colors. He wanted that change soon.

  “My heart was ripped apart with my brother's death. You know well enough that a scar can cause lasting damage.”

  “I’ve patience enough.”

  She snorted. “Patience? Is that why you said your vows as you did? Is that why you bound yourself to me, this day? ‘I take thee, Maggie . . .’” she mimicked. “Not ‘I will take thee,' at a future date. No, you say, 'I take thee.’ You commit yourself to now. Why would you do that MacKay, why would you pledge yourself for life when you knew I would not match those words? Why would you put that upon me, if you have the patience you speak of?”

  “I trust in what the future will bring.”

  “You think you know me better than I know myself?”

  “Aye, I do.” He stalled her sputtering denial with a gentle finger to her lips. “I’ve seen more of the world than you, Maggie. I know what is out there, I’ve been married before. Between us, there is more than the best of marriages have. You just need to learn of it.”

  She stood, courageous and straight. It reminded him of their vows, their handfasting. She had been brave then, yet so vulnerable at the same time. She had kept her head high, her sight on whatever wall was before her. She didn't look to the people, would not look at him. If she had, would the joy in all the smiles have softened her heart?

  He had watched her then, from where he spoke with her father. Dowry, land and furnishings, handed over with a pledge, simple transactions.

  She had not come so willingly.

  The ladies had to surround her, one lamb to be shepherded to his side. He had lifted her hand, placed it upon his arm. She barely allowed it to rest there, barely touched him. By the time he had led Maggie to the top of the entrance stairs, every available MacBede had been below, in the courtyard, to witness the joining.

  She had not wanted to be there, continued to refuse to look at him, or the people below. He was the one to take her right hand in his right hand, her left in his, their hands bound in an unbreakable pattern of forever. His had been sure and warm, hers trembling and cold.

  When he married Anabel, she had trembled as well, though there’d been a shy smile upon her lips. Not so with Maggie. Stoic, brave Maggie. He’d have to bring that smile to her lips and when he did, he doubted it would be shy.

  “I suppose ‘tis time we were off.” Maggie sighed, bringing him back to the present.

  “You spoke your vows loud and true, Maggie, I’m thanking you for that.”

  “I said I’d handfast with you. I’d not go back on my word.”

  “The whole of the courtyard heard you.”

  “’Tis what they were there for.”

  “They’re dreaming of happy endings.”

  “They’re allowed their dreams. It’s reality that I must face.”

  “I’ll give you a dream, if you’ll let me.” He’d caught her wary attention again.

  “And what do you mean by that.”

  “We can have a happy ending.”

  Her hair shifted, a silken mass upon her shoulders, as she shook her head. “Nay, life is not a happy thing. Don’t be making promises you can’t keep.”

  “Trust me, Maggie. Trust me to do what's right for you.”

  She looked at him then, keenly.

  “I would like to Talorc, I would like to, but you’ve not given me much ground for trusting you, if you ken my meaning.”

  “Aye,” he nodded, frowning. It was true, he had cornered her into handfasting. He had skirted truths and played games to get her where he wanted her, but in the end, it would all work out. He said as much.

  “We’ll see,” she acknowledged with a touch too much defeat for his Ma
ggie.

  That weary wariness troubled Talorc, but there was no time to fret. The men had ridden on. It was time Maggie and Talorc join them. As safe as his lands could be, bordering the MacBedes, there was no telling what the Gunns were willing to risk for retribution. She was his to protect now. He’d not come this far to lose her to his enemy.

  CHAPTER 10 - THE WICKED

  Chants rumbled on the breeze. Shadows, from the flicker of torch flames, writhed against monstrous standing stones, much as he expected the women would writhe this night.

  His blood throbbed in anticipation. The steady stomp of his men’s feet, the thumping of their wooden staffs, ensured they felt the same.

  Amid the acrid scent of a burning carcass, leftovers from a feast, women moved with solemn grace, circled a stone altar stained with the blood of sacrifice. A lamb led to slaughter, much like the youngest of the lasses this night, too naïve and trusting to understand the trap set for them.

  They desired rituals of old, the promise of magic. It was not the season of Beltane, or dances of fertility, but they wanted celebrations. He was not at fault for turning their desires to his.

  An owl passed over low, a sign: the wisdom of the ages looked down upon them. Fanciful superstition over no more than a predator looking for prey.

  He withheld laughter. There would be time enough for that, once he broke through the circling, the twined lines of men in capes green of the forest, women wrapped in the brown of earth. The shades of their cloaks were faded, the hems ragged, for they were outlaws, with no warm home and hearth full of spinning and weaving. All they had was wickedness and the power it gave them.

  Through deeds so perverse there was no forgiving, clans banished them. Sent them to live in the wilderness, as if that diminished their threat. As if they would not find each other, these renegades. As if they would not bond in their despicable ways, and grow as any family would grow.

  This very night, they would dance a devils dance and prove the lassies of the highlands no safer from outlaws banished than with them nestled in the bosom of their kin.

  Nor were the clans themselves safe, which was his doing. He played mischief with them, pitted one against another, never risked his own hide or that of his people. It was a deliciously devious plan. He had used their own might, their own vengeful selves, to create their demise.