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Southwest of Meggernie Castle

Perthshire, Scotland

THE JOURNEY HAD been uneventful—until they were within three miles of their destination.

It was close to dusk. The last of the sun was filtering through the woodland of sycamore, beech, and oak, and the sky above had turned indigo.

Bran rode at the head of the company of forty men he’d brought from Dùn Ara.

It was unseasonably cold, so he’d pulled his fur-lined cloak close.

And as his horse traveled the narrow path between a thick press of trees and a tangle of hawthorn and elder, he silently cursed his father for making an agreement he’d felt obliged to keep.

Surely, a clan-chief could choose his own bride? However, just under four years earlier, Kendric Mackinnon made a pact with the MacGregor clan-chief. And now, here his son was, about to be shackled to a woman he’d never met.

Bran’s belly tightened then, frustration clutching hard. His old man was still controlling him—even from beyond the grave. He hated that his life wasn’t his own. He was nothing but a pawn.

Nonetheless, he’d done his best to delay this moment. He’d left his arrival as late as possible. It was now the eve of Bealtunn. His plan was to marry the woman with a minimum of fuss and depart for home as soon as possible.

He didn’t want to linger at Meggernie.

The snapping of twigs underfoot yanked Bran from his brooding.

His chin jerked up as a host of warriors burst onto the path ahead of him.

Dirks gleaming in the gloaming, they rushed at Bran and his men.

“To arms!” he bellowed, swinging down from his courser and drawing his dirk. No sooner had he done so, when their attackers were on them.

The clash of steel rang through the shadowy woodland, followed by curses.

Fury ignited in Bran’s gut.

What devilry is this? They were within striking distance of Meggernie and should have been safe in its shadow.

Instead, this wild mob had appeared. And a feral-looking warband they were, with long tangled hair, worn leathers, and weather-stained cloaks.

God’s teeth, there were dozens of the bastards, rushing from the trees on all sides .

Teeth gritted, Bran ducked the swipe of a blade and kicked the feet out from under his attacker.

Chaos had erupted on the path through the woods.

The wagons following his men, drawn by feather-footed garrons, lurched to a halt.

Meanwhile, the horses he and his men had been riding squealed, leaping out of the way of the struggling figures.

A hiss of pain cut through the air behind him—whether it was friend or foe, he wasn’t sure. An agonized grunt followed, although Bran was too busy fighting to risk a glance over his shoulder. He brought his dirk up sharply then, just in time to prevent a blade to the belly.

Hades, these bastards were out for blood.

Ducking under his attacker’s guard he jabbed hard, slicing open his arm.

The warrior grunted a curse and reeled back.

Bran spun on his heel then, to see that one of his men had indeed been felled and lay groaning a few feet away.

He couldn’t stop to help him. Instead, he swung left, just as a cloaked figure rushed at him, longsword thrusting.

He side-stepped swiftly, wishing there had been time for him to unstrap his heavy claidheamh-mòr from behind the saddle.

A dirk was all well and good in close quarters, but his attacker’s slender, lethal longsword made their fight decidedly one-sided.

It was all he could do to fend off the slashing blade.

The warrior was smaller than him, their face hidden by a deep cowl, yet they fought viciously. Their duel continued, and the cloaked figure lunged.

Bran leaped backward, and as he did so, his foot caught on a tree root. The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, looking up at the trees and the darkening sky .

The following moment, he found the cold, sharp tip of a blade at his throat.

“Don’t breathe … if ye know what’s good for ye.”

Bran went rigid, not just because of the threat, but because the voice that had growled it was female. And as he stared up at his attacker, she raised her free hand and pushed back her hood. Cool moss-green eyes raked over him—and then she froze when her gaze reached his chest.

Staring up at her, Bran took in a strong-featured face, stubborn jaw, and full lips. She was young, no older than him, he reckoned, and under other circumstances, he might have found her comely.

But since this lass had just bested him, humiliation bit hard.

“Ye’re a Mackinnon.” Her words sounded more like an accusation than an observation. Of course, she’d just spied his plaid clan sash—a cross-hatching of red, blue, green, purple, and white. Earlier, it hadn’t been visible, for he’d wrapped his cloak about him to ward off the chill.

“Aye,” he ground out, anger simmering. “Ye have yer blade at the clan-chief’s gullet.”

Horror bloomed in those green eyes. “Cods.” The curse came out in a wheeze. An instant later, she glanced around her. “Cease!” she shouted roughly. “It’s Bran Mackinnon and his men.”

Around him, the clang of steel and grunts of fighting faded away. Someone rasped a curse, while a few groans followed, but Bran paid the injured on either side little heed. Instead, he was too focused on glaring up at the lass who hadn’t shifted the tip of her sword from his windpipe .

He was close to letting his temper get the better of him. “Aye, so ye know who I am now.” He bit out each word, fury simmering. “Tell me who ye are.”

The young woman swallowed, her expression strained. Then, abruptly, she withdrew her sword and took a step back from him. “Makenna MacGregor, daughter to the clan-chief,” she replied curtly as she sheathed her sword at her side. “Yer betrothed .”

What have ye done?

Makenna moved farther back from the man she’d just bested. The Mackinnon clan-chief still lay on his back, his silver-grey eyes glinting dangerously. Her blood was up, and her palm itched to redraw her sword, yet she stilled the impulse. She’d done enough damage. It was time to stand down now.

Even so, she didn’t offer him her hand. She could tell he didn’t want it anyway.

The Mackinnon rolled smoothly to his feet and unfolded his lanky frame, rising to his full height. He then brushed the leaves and dirt off his fine fur-lined cloak, his mouth pursed now as if he’d just tasted something foul.

Shaggy flame-red hair framed a lean, youthful face. Freckles dusted the bridge of his nose, although the bullish set of his jaw made anxiety flutter under her ribs.

He was vexed, and she couldn’t blame him. Around them, warriors on both sides were injured, although the worst of the wounds appeared to belong to one of the Mackinnons. The man lay bleeding out on the ground nearby. Her chest constricted as she listened to his groans. He sounded in a bad way.

Da will be rabid .

She cleared her throat then, rallying. “We thought ye were Campbells.”

“Aye, well, if ye had waited, ye would have seen our clan sashes,” Mackinnon growled. “Why the devil would yer enemies stray this close to Meggernie?”

“They’ve grown bold of late,” she replied stiffly, even as fire burned in the pit of her belly.

His thinly veiled disdain rubbed her up the wrong way, making her momentarily forget her concern for his injured warrior.

He had no idea how bad things were between the MacGregors and the Campbells.

They’d long harried her clan, driving them out of the lands around Loch Awe so that her people had been pushed south.

Those MacGregors who’d remained in the north had become Campbell tenants and were treated cruelly by all accounts.

Now, to make matters worse, the Campbells of Breadalbane, whose lands lay south of her father’s, had started to stir up trouble too.

The feuding with their neighbors was one of the reasons why her father had made so many alliances with powerful clans through marriage. It was why she’d been promised to Bran Mackinnon.

Quietly simmering, she watched as the clan-chief turned from her and went to the fallen man, crouching next to him. “How are ye holding up, Tadhg?” he asked roughly.

“Bleeding like a stuck pig,” the big man grunted.

“We need to get him back to Meggernie,” Makenna said, forcing a briskness into her voice she didn’t feel. Guilt quickened her pulse and turned her palms clammy. “There’s a healer there. ”

“I’m sure there is,” Mackinnon replied between gritted teeth. His gaze swung around, piercing her like an arrow. “But Tadhg wouldn’t need assistance if ye hadn’t come at us like rabid dogs.”

Makenna’s gaze narrowed, even as heat washed over her once more. Rabid dogs? “Ye are speaking of the Meggernie Guard , Mackinnon,” she ground out.

The clan-chief stood up once more, surveying the men—some of them nursing injuries—who’d gathered behind Makenna. His lip then curled. “Maybe, but ye look like a band of cutthroats to me.”

Bran quietly fumed as he followed the MacGregors northwest. He’d been in a foul mood before the attack, but he was furious now.

Not for the first time that day, he cursed Kendric Mackinnon.

The devil roast his father in hell. The bastard’s scheming and selfishness had landed him in this mess.

He had few fond memories of the man who’d sired him.

Indeed, whenever he recalled the oppressive environment he’d grown up in, a dull ache rose under his ribs.

Even as a bairn, he’d been lonely. Life at Dùn Ara would have been unbearable had it not been for his sister.

Tara. Heat washed over Bran then. She’d been the one person he thought he could count on, and yet she’d betrayed not only her clan, but her own brother.

Gut clenching, he shoved his sister from his thoughts and shifted his focus from kin back to the company of Mackinnons surrounding him.

Following the attack—many of them bloodied and grimacing from their injuries—they’d warily mounted their horses and continued their journey.

However, there was no conversation, no banter.

Tadhg wasn’t in a good state. They’d managed to get him into the saddle, although the warrior now sat slumped, one arm cradling his midsection.

His head hung, and when his horse had moved off, he grunted in pain.

The mood was understandably tense, and a few of his warriors now wore mutinous expressions. Bran wondered if any of them blamed him for this situation. After all, they wouldn’t be in Perthshire if he hadn’t ridden here to keep his dead father’s promise.

Teeth gritted, Bran urged his mount forward. That was his problem in a nutshell. His sense of honor was a weakness, not a strength. He didn’t owe his father, or the MacGregors, anything. Yet, here he was, like an obedient dog.

His attention swung then to the small figure that marched ahead of him on the track. Like the others of her band, she traveled on foot.

Eyes still upon the hellcat who’d nearly severed his windpipe, Bran’s gaze narrowed.

Makenna MacGregor carried herself proudly.

Despite that mud splattered the hem of her cloak, he could see that it was of fine weave.

Her boots, too, were well made, and when she’d moved back from him earlier and her cloak parted, he’d seen that she wasn’t dressed like the grizzled warriors surrounding her.

Instead, she wore a long leather surcote over a pine-green woolen kirtle.

Both garments were split at the sides for ease of movement, and as she’d stepped away from him, he caught a glimpse of the thick leather chausses she wore underneath .

Aye, the woman was a warrior, but there was no mistaking that she was high-born.

Somehow though, she held onto her femininity.

Her brown hair, threaded with auburn highlights, tumbled becomingly down her back, although she’d made another concession to practicality by braiding the sides and pulling them back into slender plaits so her hair didn’t fall in her face when fighting.

And when she’d stood over him, Bran had breathed in the scent of an expensive perfume: rose, moss, and musk.

The lady was the greatest contradiction he’d ever encountered.

Bran’s lips compressed then. He’d been expecting a sweet, biddable, gently-bred bride-to-be—and patient too, he’d made her wait long enough—not a vicious shrew .

Ahead, the bower of sycamores drew apart then, making him drag his glare away from between Makenna MacGregor’s shoulder blades.