Page 20

A shadow settled over her, chasing away her earlier sense of well-being, and dimming the beautiful morning.

She glanced Bran’s way again, to find him looking ahead once more as he rode.

His profile was proud, and the sunlight made his wavy hair look as if it were on fire.

He was dressed in a lèine, chamois braies, and a leather vest this morning, although he’d also donned his clan sash.

The brightness of it stood out. Seeing it reminded her of Bran’s arrival at Meggernie.

He’d been so angry, so bitter—such a contrast to the night before.

Tension coiled under Makenna’s ribcage as her gaze slid over his chest. He’d worn that sash deliberately—to remind everyone here he was, and would always be, a Mackinnon.

Aye, he’d drunk from her father’s quaich, but that didn’t mean they were friends.

After their revealing conversation before coupling, she felt as if she understood him a little better.

“I met yer sister at Dounarwyse.”

His body jerked, his gaze swinging Makenna’s way.

His eyes then narrowed. As she’d expected, this wasn’t a subject he wished to discuss.

In truth, she wasn’t sure why she’d brought it up, only that she’d liked Tara and hadn’t forgotten the pain in her eyes.

All the same, the stiffening of his spine challenged her. She couldn’t let it go now.

“Tara is a good woman … with a kind, generous soul,” she continued. “She wishes to be reconciled with ye. Why won’t ye bury the ax?”

His gaze hardened. “What lies between my sister and me is our business, not yers.”

His tone was sharp, and Makenna lifted her chin as she eyeballed him back. “So, ye’ll not forgive her then?”

A muscle feathered in his jaw before he looked away. “No.”

And with that short exchange, the easy rapport between them shattered. It surprised Makenna that it had taken so little to stir up their earlier animosity. However, the trust they’d built overnight was clearly as fragile as thistledown.

She focused once more on her gelding’s furry ears, her belly clenching. Why did ye do that?

She’d known he wouldn’t want to speak of Tara. Not yet—not while things were so new between them. But she’d done so anyway and driven a wedge between them. For an instant, she’d enjoyed challenging him, yet the sensation had been fleeting.

And in the aftermath, shame washed over her.

Bran urged his cob into a canter, following the men through a steep-sided valley. The hounds were on the scent, racing after a large roe stag that bounded ahead of them.

Noon was approaching, and it was the second hunt of the day. Earlier, two roe deer hinds had fled across their path. The dogs had gone after them, using their speed and keen eyesight to track the hinds through the trees.

The riders followed, catching up with the deerhounds just as they ran both deer down. The carcasses were now slung over the backs of the garrons they’d brought with them.

This coursing came as a welcome distraction for Bran. The stag was young and would take a while to tire; this would be a grueling hunt. Just as well, for he needed to settle his temper.

The morning had started so well. The beginning of their ride south had been enjoyable too, for things had been easy between him and Makenna. For a short while, he’d dared believe his ill luck had come to an end—that for once, things might work out for him.

But he’d marked Makenna’s shift in mood when she’d spoken of her love for Meggernie. She hadn’t seemed that impressed by his description of Dùn Ara either.

Yet when she’d brought up Tara, she crossed the line.

He wouldn’t have her telling him how to conduct himself with his sister. Makenna had grown up in a secure and happy home. She had no idea what it was like to be betrayed by kin so deeply.

All the same, a hollow sensation had settled in Bran’s chest in the aftermath.

Last night had been like stepping into someone else's life. For the first time in a long while, he hadn’t felt alone.

Instead, he’d lost himself with a beautiful woman—and had foolishly believed it was a turning point for him.

Maybe this marriage wouldn’t be the awful burden he’d feared.

But the reality was that he’d wedded a strong-willed woman. This wasn’t the first time Makenna had challenged him—and it wouldn’t be the last either.

Up ahead, the MacGregor whooped. “We’re gaining on him!”

The warriors following shouted, bloodlust igniting in their veins. The going was rough here, for the valley floor was knotted with tree roots, yet their surefooted coursers leaped burns and wove in and out of trees with ease.

In the distance, Bran caught a flash of tawny brown. The stag was tiring. Soon, it would stop, turn, and face its pursuers. At that point, they’d bring it down.

As he rode, Bran was aware of Makenna following just behind him.

Now and again, he’d catch a flash of green, for she wore a pine-colored leather vest over a kirtle of the same color and woolen leggings underneath.

Crouched over her horse’s withers, she rode confidently, her gaze trained on the hunt.

She was magnificent, although part of him didn’t want her here.

His father had always insisted that a woman’s place was by the hearth, taking care of bairns and managing a household.

Not riding like a man on a hunt. It wasn’t seemly, but his reaction went deeper than that.

He was protective of her. Worried that she might take a fall.

Vexed that he’d be concerned about such things—for Makenna was far more capable and tougher than most men—Bran focused once more on the stag.

They’d just ridden into a narrow glade alongside a meandering burn. And here, the exhausted beast made its stand. Sides heaving, it stopped, turned, and lowered its antlers, ready to fight.

The hunters drew up their horses, while MacGregor whistled to his hounds, commanding them to circle the stag rather than attack.

Pulling up his own horse, Bran’s gaze settled on their quarry.

The stag was beautiful, with a sleek brown coat, dark eyes, and massive antlers.

His chest constricted then, the excitement of the hunt fading.

He never relished this part of it. The stag was valiant yet outnumbered.

It wasn’t a fair fight—but then, there was little that was fair about life. He’d learned that early.

“Go on, Mackinnon,” MacGregor boomed, drawing his attention. The clan-chief’s face was red with exertion, his eyes bright, his grin wide. “Bring it down. ”

The tightness in Bran’s chest increased. Of course, his father-by-marriage was doing him an honor. He could have asked any of the men present to kill the stag or have claimed the right himself. But he wanted his new son-by-marriage to do it.

Bran couldn’t disappoint him.

Setting his jaw, he nodded and unslung the longbow from his back.

A moment later, he plucked an arrow from the quiver.

Shifting in the saddle, he turned his torso, raised his bow, drew back the bowstring, and sighted his target.

He was positioned to the right of the stag and had a clear view of its head and neck.

It would be a clean kill. The beast wouldn’t suffer.

And so, he loosed the arrow.