Page 10

UNBUCKLING HER OWN dirk-belt, Makenna set the weapon down upon the moss-covered stone where she’d been seated. As she did so, she was aware of the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

They were going to do this.

Makenna didn’t doubt her abilities; however, fighting the man she was to marry soon wasn’t the cleverest idea she’d ever had. Nonetheless, the hunger to put him in his place sang in her blood now, and there was no ignoring it.

She’d learned from the best. Captain Walker and the other experienced members of the Meggernie Guard first, and then Alec Rankin.

Finally, Tormod MacDougall—a warrior at Dounarwyse, and the most skilled of them all—had trained with her the previous summer.

These days, she preferred not to think about MacDougall.

He’d been dangerous, yet, eager to learn from him, she’d trained with the warrior often.

Until the day he tried to rape her .

Shoving aside the memories, which still chilled her blood, Makenna moved away from the bank of the burn to a space in between the waterway and the edge of the encircling beeches.

Here, the ground was spongy with moss, with no brambles, rotting branches, or rocks to harm themselves on. It was the ideal spot for a fight.

Mackinnon was rolling up his sleeves now, revealing toned forearms dusted with red hair.

The man was lithe—a similar build to Tormod MacDougall.

Such men were quick on their feet. Even though she was strong for a woman, her muscles honed by hours of training with the Guard, Makenna knew she’d never best even the smallest of men in strength.

No, it was her speed, skill, and cunning she’d rely on now.

And luckily, both Rankin and MacDougall had taught her several tricks.

Judging from the way her betrothed’s gaze glittered, she’d need them.

“Ready?” She let her arms hang loosely at her sides and moved her legs apart, bending them slightly at the knee.

Mackinnon nodded, and they began to circle each other, each taking their opponent’s measure.

He favors his left hand.

Aye, she recalled that from knocking elbows with him at supper the eve before. That made him trickier to fight, for she was used to fighting those who, like her, were stronger with their right.

His gaze held a calculating light now, his movements smooth and supple.

A frisson of danger skated down Makenna’s spine, honing her already sharp senses further. They both knew the only reason she’d bested him so easily the day before was because he’d tripped on a tree root. Before that moment, she’d been impressed by his skill. She’d never admit that though.

She waited for him to attack, impatience curling within her when he didn’t. He wanted her to make the first move. Despite the predatory way he was watching her, she sensed his hesitation.

Makenna smiled inwardly. That was the greatest of her advantages. He’d never fought a woman hand-to-hand before, she wagered. He was afraid of hurting her.

She rushed at him then, aiming a strike just below his ribs.

He quickly side-stepped, his own fist grazing her flank. They danced apart.

Makenna flashed him a grin, even as her pulse quickened further. He was fast. Almost as quick as Tormod had been. She attacked again, this time letting him think she was going for the same spot, only to strike out with her left fist.

Her knuckles connected with his jaw, and his head snapped back.

They sprang apart once more, and Mackinnon flexed his bruised jaw, his attention never leaving her face. That smoky gaze was smoldering now, and the odd sensation that had ignited in Makenna’s belly earlier returned. It made her breathless and a little weak in the knees.

Focus!

She wasn’t sure why she’d responded this way, but she couldn’t let it continue.

Makenna went for him again. But this time, he caught her wrist, hauling her close. Of course, at close quarters, he thought she could do less damage. He then blocked her other fist as it drove up at his face.

He’s good. Aye, she’d admit it—but she couldn’t let him win.

Snarling a curse, she tried to kick his shins, but he avoided her blows deftly.

Anger surged up then. Earlier, she’d used his hesitation to her advantage, yet it frustrated her now. The bastard wasn’t fighting her properly, as he would a man. Instead, he was trying to subdue her. He was trying to best her without landing a punch.

She wouldn’t let him get away with it.

Twisting one wrist free, she grabbed him by the neck and yanked his head down—her forehead colliding with his mouth.

Mackinnon released her and reeled back. He then wiped his forearm across his lips, and it came away bloody. “Hellcat,” he growled.

“Shit-eater,” she taunted. “Ye want more of that?”

He did attack her then, moving with such speed that he took her by surprise.

The next thing Makenna knew, they were on the ground, rolling over and over, as he tried to pin her under him, and she tried to twist out of his grasp.

He was using his strength against her now, although she tried every trick she knew to get free.

She tried to headbutt him again, but he was wise to that.

She tried to knee him in the cods, but he flattened her to the ground, his lower body pressing her into the bed of soft moss beneath them.

She tried to bite him, yet he wisely kept his hands away from her face.

And all the while, his moves were to defend himself or subdue her—not to attack as she had .

They continued to struggle, her curses ringing through the glade, until, finally, Mackinnon managed to pin her arms above her head.

With one hand, he grasped her wrists, holding them against the moss, while with the other, he pressed down on her shoulder.

With the full weight of his lower body against hers, she was trapped.

Fury hammered through her as she glared up at him. “That wasn’t a fight,” she snarled up at him. “Ye refused to engage.”

Mackinnon’s lip curled. “Did ye really think I was going to rough up Bruce MacGregor’s daughter … two days out from our wedding?” He shook his head then. “Ye must believe me to be witless.”

No, she didn’t. Instead, she had a grudging respect for the bastard. She wasn’t going to admit such though, and so she spat a curse at him, writhing in his grip. Unfortunately, her movement merely ground their hips together—intimately.

“Stop it, Makenna,” he growled, his voice sharp with warning.

His command only made her struggle harder. He grunted then, alarm flashing in his eyes. And then she felt it: a rigid hardness pressing against her belly.

Mortified, Makenna ceased her wriggling. What the devil is that?

Meanwhile, her betrothed glared down at her.

They were both panting and sweating from their fight.

Curse her, she was now far too aware of him.

A faint sheen glistened on Mackinnon’s brow, and blood trickled down his chin from where her forehead had collided with his mouth.

This close, she could make out the flecks of smoke and steel in his irises.

He had long auburn eyelashes, tipped with black.

A faint stubble of red beard covered his jaw, and a livid mark, from where she’d struck him, was coming up there. He’d soon have a bruise.

Her gaze fastened on his mouth then. His lower lip was split and starting to swell, yet she’d never noticed just how sensual the curve of his upper lip was. The scent of his skin, both spicy and woodsy, filled her nostrils, and dizziness suddenly assailed her.

She was in trouble.

“Ye are crushing me,” she finally wheezed, sagging against the ground. The fight went out of her now.

Mackinnon’s gaze darkened with what looked like worry, self-recrimination even. He then breathed a curse. A moment later, he lifted his lower body from hers.

“Got ye.” Makenna brought her knee up and drove it into his groin.

Grunting, he let go of her wrists as if burned. Seizing her chance, she shoved him off her and rolled to her feet. Then, staring down at the man as, cradling his injured cods with one hand, he rolled onto his side, she caught his eye.

“Ye showed me mercy, Mackinnon … that was yer first mistake.”

He glared up at her, a nerve flickering in his cheek as he tried to focus through the pain she’d just inflicted. “And my second one?” he rasped.

Makenna moved back from him and retrieved her dirk-belt, buckling it around her waist. To her consternation though, her hands were a little unsteady. That fight hadn’t gone as she’d expected. Trying to ignore her reaction, she cut him an imperious look. “Letting yer guard down.”

Bran limped into the bailey.

The throbbing in his bollocks was fading, although each stride chafed them.

Ire pulsed under his breastbone. Indeed, he’d fumed with every painful step back to the castle.

However, some of that anger was directed at himself.

What had he been thinking, accepting her challenge?

The woman was a warrior and hadn’t taken kindly to him pulling his punches.

By doing so, he’d insulted her. He’d thought subduing Makenna would be the end of it, but when she’d wriggled like a pike on a hook under him—and to his horror, he’d found his rod stiffening for her—he’d been distracted.

And she’d seized her chance.

Even now, the shame of his arousal made his cheeks burn. He couldn’t believe his body had betrayed him like that. Aye, he’d marked the lass’s attractiveness from the first the day before, yet he didn’t think he’d respond to her so strongly.

“What happened to ye?” A male voice, laced with faint amusement, drew his attention then.

Turning, Bran’s gaze alighted upon Alec Rankin. He was leaning against a nearby wall, arms folded across his chest.

Bran’s mouth twisted. “Nothing. ”

“I just saw Lady Makenna stalk past,” Rankin drawled, eyeing Bran speculatively. “Her face was red, and she had a murderous glint in her eye.” He paused. “Were ye responsible?”

Bran snorted. He wasn’t going to dignify that with a response.

Rankin shook his head and pushed himself off the wall. “Ye didn’t attempt to dishonor the lass, did ye?”

The anger pulsing under Bran’s ribs flared hot once more. Was this pirate about to defend Makenna’s virtue? “Go stick yer head in a dung hill, Rankin,” he snarled. “I don’t answer to ye.”

Bran tensed as his father’s killer approached.

He hadn’t seen Kendric Mackinnon fall on that fateful day.

The final fight had taken place out on the water.

The crew of The Blood Reiver had boarded the clan-chief’s birlinn, and there, the two men had dueled.

He reminded himself then that death in battle wasn’t murder, and that there was no better way for a warrior to die.

Even so, the sight of the pirate still curdled his gut.

Rankin halted around three yards distant. His gaze then narrowed. “If I find out ye’ve—”

Bran’s angry curse rang out across the bailey. “The woman goaded me into fighting her … and then when I did, she used my chivalry against me.”

A beat of surprised silence followed, and then to Bran’s shock, Rankin barked a laugh, delight sparking in his blue eyes. “Clever lass.”

Bran clenched his jaw, his fists balling at his sides. If the bastard didn’t stop yapping, he’d make him.

The pirate smirked then. “I might have taught her a few of the moves she used on ye.”

“So, I have ye to thank then? ”

Rankin shrugged. “She wanted me to teach her how to fight dirty … and I did. Makenna is a canny warrior, yet she knows that size and strength go against her.” He paused then, folding his arms across his chest once more. “So, the wedding’s off, I take it?”

Bran’s lip curled. How he wished it was. However, he’d signed his name in blood that morning. He’d made a promise that he was now bound to honor.