Mackenna was sure the bellowing voice belonged to Robbie. 'Twas a blessing she was blindfolded and couldn't see the rutting boar and his frothing scarlet hair; she'd laugh for certain and damage his brittle male pride.

"Don't go choosing Robbie, Mackenna. He has nary a whisker to show for all his twenty years. Should make you wonder what else he's yet to grow. 'Tis me you ought to be choosing."

Garvey, the braggart. A bit raw, but she could at least trust him to do a full day's labor--

"Just three steps more, Mackenna, and I'm all yours. I'll work hard for you, sweet lass; plow my furrows by day, and yours by night."

Mackenna cringed. Poor Kyle must be deep in his cups; he was usually a pious man without a ribald thought in his head. Aye, a good man, but--

Nay, she shouldn't be listening to any of them! She didn't want to know....

"Damn it, Mackenna. You'll come here, if you know what's bloody good for you. I'm standing right in front of you."

Owyn. The blacksmith had the nature of a hedgehog: prickly, dull-witted and quick to anger. A man to avoid.

"Over here, Mackenna! To the right a little more, then straight on into my arms! No, no, my girl, to your right...."

Lucas.

"I love you, 'Kenna!"

And Cody.

And then all the others caterwauling as one. The din deafened, and angered her to the core. This wasn't some silly Michaelmas game to pass the time 'til the dancing began. This was her future! Her choice would make all the difference in the world. And now, these unfeeling louts had ruined everything--all her plans for anonymity! She knew each voice as well as she knew her own; and now she knew exactly where each man was standing in the surrounding circle. Blessed Lady, if she weren't such a coward she'd rip the blindfold off and just choose.

Aye, but this was a coward's way to choose a husband....

"What are you waiting for, Mackenna? They're none of 'em gettin' any prettier."

She rounded on Meg Bavitts' voice. "If you think you can do better, Meg dear, choose one of the sluggards for yourself. I'll be glad to pick from the leavings."

Laughter rose up around her, carried aloft by too much Michaelmas ale. The minstrels launched into a lively tune and the market square exploded with singing. Even blindfolded, Mackenna felt the circle surge inward impatiently. Evening was near upon them; the was air sweet and unusually warm, and the dancing was soon to begin in earnest, gladsome dancing that would surely greet a rose-soft dawn.

And why should it not? The harvest had been bountiful this summer; hard work and good planning had paid off as never before in the four years since she'd become the reeve. The hogs were fattening on acorns in the forest, most of the winter plowing was done, and the grain stores were safely hidden in the abandoned castle, where no one outside the village would think to look.

The castle--forsaken and overwhelming as it threatened from its precipice; a bitter reminder that the king would one day send an overlord to reclaim the fortress, to enslave the village as Lord Gilvane had done, to plunder and starve and destroy.

Before the thought could drag her down, strong fingers claimed her elbow.

"You must end this blasphemy, Mackenna." She might have known: Father Berton and his confessional voice, raised now to compete with the tumult around them.

"'Tis not blasphemy, Father." She was talking through her teeth now. Her jaw ached.

"A stranger wandering into our fair village would think you a practicing pagan. You must remove this blindfold."

"I'm choosing a husband, not a rooster for my hens. Shall I have them strut through the market square so I might pick the one with the best display of tail feathers and the largest comb?"

Oh, but how could she choose any of them? 'Though most were pleasing in some way, none had made her heart quicken, nor caused her to wonder if his kiss would be as sweet as May wine.

"'Tis unworthy of you, Mackenna."

"I admit it, Father, I'm cowardly to the marrow, unable to choose from among my suitors in the ordinary way."

"So a spineless game of chance is your answer?"

"Aye, Father, 'tis an act of cowardice, plain and simple." She yanked off the blindfold and glared into Father Berton's ice-blue eyes. He wasn't a big man, and seemed even smaller with his thin shoulders hunched to enfold their private words.

"'Tis unnatural, this choosing."

"I'll not be blaming myself for something I'm being forced to do. Suppose I choose wrong? How do I live with myself? I'd make the poor man miserable, and myself as well. Better that my eyes are closed and I have naught to blame but chance."

"Wait on it, Mackenna. You needn't take a husband today."

"I've got four elder brothers, one married, one soon to be, and two others with marriage on their minds. 'Tis long past time I should have found a husband and a home of my own."

"For the love of God, then spare yourself a bit of dignity, Mackenna, and decide within the privacy of your own family."

"Aye, we did just that, Father," Galen grumbled suddenly from behind her, "but our sister refused to marry the man! 'Tis a disgrace!"

Mackenna whirled and glared at her eldest brother. "I don't need your help, Galen." He'd broken through the perimeter, trailing Cadell, Bryce and Addis right behind him. She loved her brothers, but lately she'd begun to think she had far too many.

"We tried to stop her," Galen continued.

"You threatened to tie me to a tree--"

"That never worked when we were children," Bryce said, grinning as he tugged gently on a length of her hair. "You always escaped."

"Well, she's not going to escape this time. Bloody blazes, Mackenna. Choose a husband immediately, or we'll do it for you." A vein throbbed in Galen's forehead.

"You'll name my husband over my dead and bleeding body."

"That we could manage right well," Galen shouted.

The circle of bridegrooms had once been twenty paces across; now it was less than ten, shaped like a cow-pie, and getting smaller with every passing oath as everyone in Fellhaven pressed in closer for a better look at another Hughes family debate.

"Now, choose, Mackenna!" A familiar tic animated the corner of Galen's right eye. Cadell pushed him aside.

"Ah, leave off your bellowing, Galen." Cadell settled his arm across Mackenna's shoulder, his brow so sincerely furrowed she wanted to slap him. "Look, sweeting, Owyn told me he'd was willing to take you to wife." He gestured toward Owyn, who looked as if he'd eaten burning coals for supper.

Mackenna grabbed Cadell's tunic at the neck and dragged his face down to hers. "Owyn will just have to take his chances along with the rest of them. And if I hear his name escape your mouth one more time before the moon has set on this night of horrors, I shall give you scars you'll remember each time you and Willa think about having children."

Cadell cringed and straightened when she let go his tunic. "As you say, love."

The circle pressed in closer; a great, gangling, many-legged entity, breathing in concert, moving as one, smelling of meat pies, ale and spices. If she stomped down on one toe, every throat in Fellhaven would cry out in pain.

"Whatever you do, Mackenna, my love, do so quickly," Addis said, "you've got a near riot on your hands. Your grooms are champing at the bit, frightening the children. Look at them...."

Young Robbie nodded at her like a grinning, freckled duck worrying the silt in a puddle. Kyle was rubbing his palms together and arching his beetle brows, casting her a slanting smile that left little to her imagination. Richard had already apologized to her for being old enough to be her father. What an enchanting lot! Oh, to melt into the hard-packed earth....

"They won't marry until you're unavailable," Addis said under his breath. "You know as well as I that there hasn't been a wedding in the village since you began your search for a husband." His eyebrows jumped twice, then he grinned at her.

Mackenna might have been flattered and fooled into thinking she was a beauty. But she knew better; her unruly hair was a peculiar mix of copper and flax, her eyes were the dark rust of cinnamon bark and her lips were too full, too arching. Aye, her bridegrooms were waiting all right, but they were waiting to wed the reeve, a woman whose dowry included the grist mill and a cartwright shop. She couldn't hope to marry for love; waiting for it hadn't worked, hoping for it hurt more and more with each passing season. Marriage was the best thing she could do for the village and for her family. It would settle things.

"All right, all right," she shouted, suddenly full up with the delay. "Stand back! All of you! Give me room to breathe." She thrust her arms out in front of her and rounded the circle, dodging the grasping hands and the suggestive sniggering, until the circle was again more than twenty paces across.

"A warning to my prospective bridegrooms: if any of you call out to me, or identify yourself in any way before I've removed my blindfold, you'll be immediately disqualified." She didn't want to know who her husband would be until the last possible moment.

"I'll be waiting for you right over here, Mackenna darlin'!" Kyle tottered on his heels and threw her a wobbly kiss.

"Don't listen to him, Mackenna. Kyle's plow is small and liable to break! Mine is sturdy and plows a deep furrow!"

It was easy to ignore the bawdy comments, but the circle tightened a step with the rising wave of laughter. Father Berton raised his arms to his flock and they gave him their attention.

"Do keep a decent thought in your hollow heads. And Mackenna," he said just for her, "God keep you and your choice." Slanting her one final glare, he stepped out of the circle.

She could delay no longer. Less than a minute from now she'd know for certain whom God had planned to join her to for the rest of her days. She hoped He wouldn't inflict His inscrutable sense of humor on her to teach her another unfathomable lesson.

She strode to the center of the circle, took a deep breath, then pulled the scratchy wool blindfold over her eyes.

Blessedly dark.

The village grew silent, save for an occasional cough, a shifting of feet, the stir of clothing.

And a far away rumbling. Thunder? Nay, it wasn't thunder. The late afternoon sky had been clear, the sun ready to set over the sharp crags of Mickelfell. It was an eerie sound from under the mountain, and hinted at a long ago sorrow....

But she was stalling again.

And now her memory was too good. She needed to cloud her sense of direction; she'd make herself good and dizzy. She began to pivot on one foot, spinning slowly at first. As she picked up speed, she lifted her arms and the ground seemed to drop away from her feet. The minstrels struck up a bright melody, and someone started to clap to the beat of the tabor. Soon everyone was clapping and stomping in a rhythm that shook the market square. The dizziness stayed with her as she slowed, and kept her spinning while she tried to recover her balance. When she finally stopped, she was lost inside the circle.

Blessedly lost.

The music had evaporated, and the clapping too. No voices, no coughing, not even a breeze to tell her the direction of the lake. But there was something....

She squared her shoulders and tamped down the unaccountable fear that her plan was about to go horribly, inexorably wrong. Just a few moments and it would be over. Now.

Lifting her chin, Mackenna took five long, confident steps forward and crashed into a towering, immovable wall.

The barrier might have been a horse except that her nose had buried itself into soft woolen cloth that smelled of cloves and dust and leather. She tried desperately to recall which man in Fellhaven was that tall, that massive, and which would have had the consideration to scent himself with cloves. She'd have to thank him sometime.

Thank him? Blessed Lady, this man was to be her husband!

He was broad-chested, tall and smelled wonderful. But who was he? If she could just unmask him before she took off the blindfold, then she could set her wifely smile in place and not be startled out of it when she looked him full in the face.

She put her hand where her nose had just been. Her palm settled against hard, shifting muscles and a searing heat cloaked beneath the wool. Heaven be praised! But which of the tall men in the circle had she seen in the fields with his tunic off, clad only in his long braies, and sporting a chest of rippling wonder? She was certain these muscles were as bronze as the bell in the church tower. No matter his identity, at least she would always have this magnificent sense-memory of her husband, one she could conjure in the dark while he was bedding her.

She wondered again why everyone was so still. Given the near-riot of a few moments ago, she hadn't expected her high-spirited friends and her impatient family to keep her plea for silence past her first step. She knew they were nearby, that she wasn't alone with this man. There was a crackling in the air, the kind that came after a lightning storm had swept the valley and disappeared over the next ridge.

Mackenna smiled to herself. All of Fellhaven was caught up in the anticipation. Well, she was ready to face the face--almost. She guided her hand upward over his finely woven tunic, over a diagonal strap of leather that crossed high on his chest. My, his shoulders were wide! Undaunted, and shamelessly eager to discover who this delicious man was, and wondering how he'd hidden his better qualities for so many years, she followed the ridges and hollows across his collar bone. The man beneath all this splendor straightened some, became taller, broader; and did she hear him take in a deep breath?

She stopped again when his long hair brushed her fingers. What color would it be? And who among her eligible bridegrooms had managed to grow his hair to his shoulders in the last two minutes? She must not be remembering right; distances were deceiving behind the blindfold.

Wonder kept her hand moving up his corded neck, found his pulse pounding beneath her fingertips. Would she know him by touching his chin, his brow, the bridge of his nose? She reached up, put both hands to his face and her heart stopped.

A beard. A lush and silky, well-trimmed beard.

But that couldn't be. Excepting Kyle's drooping moustache and Richard's thin one, all the men in the circle had clean-shaved their faces that day to within an inch of their lives.

Then a bell pealed in her head. Bloody hell--they'd deceived her! Her vile brothers had slipped a different man into the circle. Some miscreant, mean-spirited miser who'd bargained best for her dowry, a man from another village. No wonder they had pressed her to hurry!

Suddenly blazing with blistering words for her brothers and for this black-hearted interloper, Mackenna stepped back and ripped the blindfold off her eyes.

Merciful Mary!

Her fury failed her. Stark fear staked her words against her tongue and her feet to the ground.

This was no man! He was half the sky; hell's black shadow cast against the blood-red setting sun. The crucible-gleam where human eyes ought to have been was a narrow, feral glint.

She prayed for the strength to run. Nay. He would overtake her before she gained a step. Surely he wouldn't dare hurt her here in a public market.

Then the beast bent to her. He claimed the column of her neck with his fingers and his calloused palm, tipped her chin to meet his measure with the end of his thumb. The closer he came, the more he drew her into his dark eyes, the better she could discern the superb definition of his mouth, the sculpted ridge of his lips as they parted.

"I don't know your game, girl," he whispered against her temple, "but I do fancy the way you play it."

Excerpt Copyright © 1997-2002 Linda Needham