Bold (The Handfasting)(2)

She knew it, knew it all though he was a stranger with no right to be holding her at all. No right to laughter when she was a riot of confusion.

No right for him to look as though he knew her as well.

He played with her senses.

She batted at his arm. He stilled, holding her aloft. Eye to eye, she stared wary and vulnerable, fearing he could see deep into her very soul, before he gave a sharp nod of satisfaction with her none the wiser why.

She glowered at his smug audacity. How dare he take liberties just because he arrived with her kin. So what if looks like his could make a lesser women swoon. Maggie refused to be taken by looks. There were plenty of handsome men to be found in the highlands. She would take that smirk from his face.

Tossed again, grandly high, Maggie was too confused and angry to thrill in it. Instead, mid-air, she glared at Douglas for being the traitor who passed her to this man.

“Nay, Douglas,” the man boomed, hearty voice for a hearty man. Her head snapped back, scowl intact. “Feisty but not fat.” He had the gall to squeeze her waist with each landing bounce though his eyes were focused higher than her waist, lower than her shoulders.

Maggie shifted her arms, crossed on her chest, to better hide her bosom. He winked.

“Not fat at all.”

She swiped at him again, toppled so he had to side step to catch her. “Nor too lean.” His smile broadened, which she’d not thought possible. “To my mind, Douglas,” slowly he lowered Maggie, “Aye.” He nodded thoughtfully. “’Tis true, to my mind she is just rrrright!” His relished R’s tumbled through her in a chaotic dance.

The moment Maggie felt the purchase of land, she shoved away from the man, stepped back on legs that wobbled, straightened her plaid with hands that trembled too much to manage. In defiance of any weakness, she lifted her chin.

He towered over her, a massive brute of a man. It was no surprise he could toss her high. His muscle-corded arms were the size of cabers themselves. His chest, och, he had naught covering it but a width of plaid. Not that anything would fit across that expanse.

He was nothing of the sort that Maggie could appreciate. She liked her men long and lanky, with more brain than brawn. This man was all brawn. She doubted he had a brain, not if he’d be playing with her while her brothers watched. They’d get him for that, just as they dealt with any man who looked at her sideways.

She shot a glance toward each of them, and with every sighting her confidence fell.

Nigel, James and Douglas all beamed at her. Her oldest brother, Feargus the younger, strode up to the man and slapped him on the back. They both laughed at some hidden story. Feargus' friendly pats could send a man reeling. Not this one, which made her brothers even more genial.

All right then, if her brothers would not stand against him, then Maggie would. She would stand strong and firm, just as she did with her brothers. It was the only way to win concessions with their lot.

A toss of her head shifted her hair off her shoulders. She straightened her back, showed her own strength, like mare to stallion. His smile quirked, displayed a mouth full of straight white teeth. He sent a nod to her brothers, Crisdean and Alec, who had just pushed their way into the crowd. Both grinned back. Even her da looked ready to explode with mirth.

The man won them over. Had everyone siding with him, rather than her. The cheek of the brute.

He’d be no easy opposition. Aye, but she’d not been raised with brothers to forget how to taunt them. Hold your place and hold your tongue. It was as good as ignoring them, certain to drive them crazy.

Maggie silently stood her ground, confronted with his 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 scare her off so easily that any return took admirable strength. She was not so puny.

"Bold," she addressed him without title, "Whatever business you have here, I hope it ends quickly, and you can be on your way." That raised an eyebrow. Maggie's smile was not pleasant. "And while you are here, I hope you'll be taking time to visit our Ian's grave, as you were so kind as to send him there."

She spun on a chorus of indrawn breaths; stalked away, grandly, on the wave of shocked murmurs and apologies. She did not get far before the Bold's voice rolled over her.

"Aye, Maggie MacBede, I will visit the grave of a brave warrior just as I will see my task accomplished by morn." Her face half turned, she offered a nod of acknowledgement, anxious to be away.

"Maggie." He stopped her. "Is it true, did you really take a Sassenach out with one rock, when you were no more than a wee babe?"

How dare he?

"Did you run the walls during battle and give sustenance to your clansmen?"

He couldna' know what he was saying, couldna' know what his words were about. "Don't you dare make fun of me, MacKay." She challenged, for she knew the depth of embarrassment, humiliation, his words provoked.

Brows puckered in surprise, he moved closer. "I'm not funning with you, Maggie MacBede." He touched her check, feathered a line to her chin. "I'm wondering if the tales are true."