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MEGGERNIE CASTLE ROSE before them: a mighty tower house with mossy ramparts brushing the cobalt sky.

Bran didn’t want to be impressed, but he was.

There was no denying it, the seat of the MacGregors of Perthshire was fine indeed, and he found himself comparing it to Dùn Ara.

He’d always been proud of his home, but now insecurity wreathed up.

Perched on the north banks of a meandering river, Meggernie’s lofty sandstone walls glowed in the gloaming.

The last of the light was leaching from the world now, and Bran spied figures on the ramparts, lighting braziers.

There were also sentries—many of them—keeping watch.

Meggernie was well-defended, and it needed to be if they were expecting enemies on their doorstep.

Bran scowled. Even if the lass had been telling the truth, Makenna and her rabble should have made sure they were dealing with Campbells before attacking .

Unlike his fortress, which perched upon a crag, this castle sat on the flat valley floor of Glen Lyon, in the heart of Breadalbane.

From this distance, it appeared larger than Dùn Ara—big enough to house an orchard, garden, and a small community.

It had a settled look, as if it had always been part of the land.

Indeed, Meggernie hadn’t been an easy stronghold to reach, for sprawling mountains surrounded it to the north and south, providing a natural defense from outsiders.

Bran fought a grimace. Dùn Ara’s setting was more remote and far less bucolic. Would his bride be disappointed when she set eyes on it?

Anger spiked through him then, although this time, it wasn’t directed at the MacGregors, his father, or at the woman who’d just tried to kill him. No, he was vexed with himself. Why was he comparing his fortress to this one? His crippling self-doubt galled him.

Ye’re a Mackinnon of Mull, he reminded himself as his fingers tightened around the reins. And equal to any other clan-chief in Scotland .

Yanking himself from his brooding, he caught sight of a huge mound of branches and twigs upon the wide meadow that stretched between the river and the woodland to the south.

Of course, it was the eve of Bealtunn, and the locals had built a bonfire for tonight’s celebrations.

After dark, the folk of Meggernie would guise themselves and gather around the fire, dancing, drinking, and singing as they welcomed the summer.

Bran hoped he wouldn’t be expected to join them.

The party of MacGregors and Mackinnons eventually clattered over the bridge spanning the river and passed through the large stone arch that led into the bailey beyond. The heavy stone walls swallowed them whole, and tension curled like an adder about to strike under Bran’s ribs.

Drawing up his horse in the cobbled bailey, he cast a suspicious eye around. Ire continued to churn in his gut. The fingers of his right hand itched to close around the hilt of his dirk.

Steady, man , he reminded himself as he swung down from the sturdy courser who’d carried him all the way from Oban. MacGregor didn’t invite ye here with murder on his mind .

Perhaps not, but after his betrothed’s behavior, he’d keep his guard up.

Behind him, the warriors he’d brought with him clattered into the bailey. The carts of weapons and supplies—most of which would be given to the MacGregor as part of their arrangement—followed. They rumbled under the portcullis, drawn by the heavyset ponies.

Two large archways spanned opposite sides of the bailey.

Through one, Bran spied apple and pear trees that were newly in leaf, while through the other, he caught sight of neatly tended vegetable plots.

Aye, Meggernie was a thriving community, and he found himself wishing Dùn Ara had orchards within its walls. Maybe he should—

He cut his thoughts off savagely. Cods. What was the matter with him this evening?

“Mackinnon!” A loud, hearty voice boomed off stone. Bran’s chin kicked up, his gaze swinging right to where a broad, stocky figure bounded down the steps of the tower house.

Bruce MacGregor was well into his fifth decade now, and running to fat these days, but he moved like a man half his age. Clad in chamois braies, a snowy lèine, and a leather vest, which his gut strained against, he had ruddy cheeks and a thick head of brown hair shot through with silver.

Bran’s jaw set as he met the older man’s gaze.

The MacGregor clan-chief’s moss-green eyes were warm. He grinned then, two deep dimples forming on either side of a wide mouth. “Och, I’d forgotten how bright yer hair is, lad. Ye’ll have no need to carry a torch when ye travel at night.”

This comment drew snorts of laughter from the other MacGregors around them, although the Mackinnon men knew better than to snigger.

Bran didn’t answer. He couldn’t care less what the clan-chief had to say about his hair. Flame-red, it ran through his family. What did vex him though was MacGregor’s use of ‘lad’.

Bran was three and twenty. He’d fought in battles and ruled northern Mull ever since his father’s death.

He was a clan-chief too, of the same rank as MacGregor—and he’d had the integrity to make good on his father’s promise.

It was bad enough that he’d started to doubt himself as he approached Meggernie; he didn’t appreciate being talked down to by this paunchy laird.

It was time he made things clear.

“That must be why yer daughter and her rabble spied us so easily,” he replied, his tone wintry. “Right before they attacked us.”

That wiped the broad smile off MacGregor’s face.

A few yards away, Makenna shifted her weight from one foot to the other, even as her chin rose. She was readying herself for a storm, and Bran hoped it would be a vicious one.

Bruce MacGregor studied Bran for a long moment, his green eyes—the same mossy shade as his daughter’s—hardening. Then he shifted his attention to his daughter. “What’s this, Makenna?” His voice was still jovial, yet there was an edge to it now.

She cleared her throat. “We thought they were Campbells.”

“We were riding through the woods, upon the road that heads straight for Meggernie,” Bran replied. “Our weapons were sheathed, and we were minding our own business.”

“None of us saw their clan sashes!” Makenna gasped out the words.

The lass wasn’t so sure of herself now. She’d been defiant with Bran but was less so with her father.

A nerve flickered in her cheek, and he was pleased to see that a faint sheen of sweat shone on her brow.

“We were on our way back from Fortingall. The Campbells of Breadalbane raided the village yesterday.” Her voice faltered then, yet she pushed on.

“They killed most of the men and took the women and bairns.” She cut Bran a glare.

“We thought more of them were scouting around Meggernie.”

“Whoresons!” the MacGregor clan-chief growled. “How dare they?”

A strained silence fell in the bailey. Bran’s gaze flicked between father and daughter. Of course, he knew of the feuding between the MacGregors and the Campbells—everyone in the Highlands did—but Makenna hadn’t told him that one of their villages had just been attacked.

He’d had no idea the feuding between the clans had gotten this bad. It was no wonder the MacGregor wished to strengthen his relationship with the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara, and requested Bran bring a company of his finest warriors with him to Perthshire, half of whom would remain at Meggernie.

He needed allies to push back against the Campbells.

“Yer neighbors grow bold,” he noted, shattering the tension .

“Aye,” MacGregor said roughly. “Duncan Campbell accused us of stealing his cattle a few years back. The shitweasel has harried us ever since.”

Bran raised an eyebrow. “And did ye steal Campbell’s cattle?”

MacGregor scowled. “Maybe one or two … but Black Duncan uses that as an excuse … what he really wants is to drive us out of this glen and take Meggernie for his own.”

Bran considered the clan-chief’s words. He’d never met ‘Black’ Duncan Campbell but had heard how ruthless and shrewd the chieftain was.

He wasn’t keen to become embroiled in this feud either.

He had his own defenses to worry about, his own problems. Ever since becoming clan-chief, he’d struggled to win his people’s respect.

To many of them, he was the whelp who surrendered to the Macleans—and they couldn’t forgive him for that.

In return, he resented them for making him their scapegoat.

They forgot he was a man of flesh and blood, and one who’d worked hard to do right by them.

The MacGregor clan-chief roused himself then, tearing his focus from the hated Campbells.

“Apologies, Mackinnon,” he muttered. “My daughter acted hastily.” He cast Makenna a glare that could have soured milk before his attention shifted to the men who filled the bailey behind Bran. “I trust no one was hurt?”

“Some of my men will need to be stitched up … and one of them has a deep wound on his flank,” Bran replied, gesturing to where Tadhg hadn’t yet dismounted from his horse. The man’s face was now worryingly ashen .

Makenna cleared her throat. “A number of our warriors have injuries that require looking at as well,” she informed her father huskily.

The clan chief’s strong jaw bunched. He then glanced over his shoulder at a balding warrior with piercing blue eyes, wearing a quilted gambeson and leather braies, who stood to his right. “Walker … tell the healer to ready the infirmary.”

The man nodded before moving away.

MacGregor then focused on Bran once more.

“Ye have received a poor welcome … but we shall remedy things. Leave yer horses with my men and join me shortly in the great hall.” He halted then, his attention flicking to where Makenna stood, unspeaking.

The woman still held herself as proudly as before, yet her expression had shadowed.

“Makenna … I shall speak to ye upstairs … alone.”

Anger now smoldered in the clan-chief’s eyes, and vindication ignited in Bran’s belly.

Good.