Page 21

MAKENNA KEPT STEALING glances at her husband as they turned and made for home.

The rest of their party were in high spirits.

Alec and Rae were firm friends, it seemed.

The two of them conversed at length as they rode side-by-side up ahead.

Her father led the way, riding alongside Captain Walker now.

Although she couldn’t hear them clearly, she knew they’d be talking about the hunt—about the things that had gone well, and what they could have done better—as they always did after a day of coursing.

But Bran had been silent ever since bringing the stag down.

His aim had been impressive. A single arrow into the soft spot above the eye. The shaft had driven into the stag’s brain and killed it instantly .

Cheers had filled the glade afterward, although Makenna had marked that her husband didn’t share in the revelry. The man barely raised a smile. Was he still vexed with her for asking him about his sister?

The stag now hung across the back of the sturdiest of the garrons they’d brought with them. Meggernie would have plenty of venison to feast upon in the coming days.

“Ye wield a longbow well,” she said finally, breaking the weighty silence between them.

His attention swung her way, although his expression and gaze were both veiled. “Aye,” he replied without a trace of arrogance. “It’s always been my weapon of choice.”

“Did yer father teach ye?”

“No, a man named Fergus … who once captained the Dùn Ara Guard. He fell at Dounarwyse.” His gaze shadowed at this admission.

“He was a friend then?”

Bran shifted his gaze away, focusing ahead. “Aye … he had the patience for teaching that my father always lacked.”

Makenna gave a soft snort. “My father is the same … after our first swordplay lesson, he threw up his hands and refused to teach me again.” She paused then, her gaze flicking to where the Captain of the Meggernie Guard had just snorted at something her father had said.

“Fortunately, Walker has infinite patience. I’ve certainly tried his over the years. ”

She’d deliberately made a self-deprecating comment, in the hope of lightening the mood between them, of seeing that beautiful mouth quirk into a smile. However, Bran’s expression didn’t change. In truth, she was now truly sorry about baiting him earlier in the day .

She’d wanted to challenge him, but it hadn’t tasted as sweet as she’d expected. And now, she found herself wishing things were easy between them again.

“Is the hunting good on Mull?” she asked finally, when it became clear he wasn’t going to respond to her comment. “I didn’t go out coursing at Moy or Dounarwyse while I was there last year.”

“Aye … there are plenty of deer and even a few boar in the woodlands.”

“And are the woods like these?” She wanted to keep him talking, to thaw the ice between them.

“Similar … oak and ash mainly. Many ancient oaks grow along the coast, although the wind blows them into twisted shapes.”

Her mouth curved. “I remember seeing those … near Moy Castle.” She paused then, awkward. She wasn’t used to feeling on the back foot. “I look forward to us exploring the isle on horseback and hunting together.”

He didn’t answer immediately, and when she looked his way once more, she marked the groove that had etched between his eyebrows.

“Things will be different when we return to Mull. Ye won’t be serving in the Dùn Ara Guard …

and I don’t want ye training with them either.

Nor will ye carry weapons like a man.” He paused then, his gaze shadowing.

“I don’t wish for ye to come to any harm. ”

Makenna snorted, even as her heart kicked against her ribs. “I’m not made of eggshell. I’ve already bested ye twice.”

Irritation flared in his eyes. “No … but a husband must protect his wife,” he answered firmly. “It will be for yer own good. ”

“This is who I am,” she said, fighting to keep her tone even.

He might think such a declaration was protective, that he was doing her a favor.

Instead, it was smothering, and she wouldn’t stand for it.

“I will bear ye bairns, sew and weave, and manage yer castle as chatelaine … but ye cannot clip my wings, Bran. I won’t let ye. ”

His face flushed then, and their gazes locked in silent combat. Eventually, her husband growled his answer, “Ye are my wife, Makenna … ye will do as ye are told.”

Fire ignited in her belly. “Then ye will have to lock me up,” she ground out. “Ye won’t rob me of my dirk and sword … or forbid me from riding and hunting … without a fight.”

An answering heat flared in his smoky eyes. “Yer father has indulged ye … as has Captain Walker … but I’ll not let ye make me the laughingstock of Mull.”

“I thought ye wanted to protect me?” she countered, her gaze narrowing. “But it sounds that ye are more concerned about how other people see ye.”

Her voice was rising now, causing the men riding ahead of her to glance over their shoulders in surprise. Makenna ignored them.

Meanwhile, her husband’s expression turned stony.

They stared at each other, anger crackling like a summer storm between them. Neither of them was willing to give ground.

Disappointment tightened Makenna’s chest. The night before, she’d been delighted to discover her husband was far more sensitive and deep-thinking than she’d anticipated. But this morning, he’d revealed yet another side to him—one she liked far less .

If he got his way, she foresaw a miserable life awaiting her on the Isle of Mull.

“Ye named yer father a tyrant,” she said finally, even as her pulse thumped in her ears. “Yet it appears to me that ye wish to emulate him.”

Bran flinched as if she had just struck him across the face. “I’m only trying to be a proper husband.” He bit out the words. “And take care of my wife.”

“No, that’s just a ruse! Ye wish to dominate me, I see it now.”

“Ye see nothing . Don’t act as if ye know me. Ye don’t.”

The baying of hounds cut through the woods then, severing their argument.

Makenna stiffened, her gaze sweeping the tangle of hawthorn at the path’s edge. The noise wasn’t coming from their dogs, for the six deerhounds they’d brought with them trotted alongside the horses, exhausted after a day’s coursing.

“To arms!” Her father roared then from ahead, his voice slicing through the warm afternoon air. He yanked his dirk free of its scabbard. All those following him did likewise, including Alec and Rae.

Cursing, Makenna did the same.

She glanced to her right then, to see that Bran had unslung his longbow and already notched an arrow.

Huge muscular dogs burst from the trees, followed by a stream of men on horseback.

The twang of Bran’s bowstring followed as he loosed his first arrow. It struck one of the riders leading the group of attackers in the chest, knocking him off his horse. An instant later, Bran had notched another shaft. He let that one fly too, and it hit a second warrior in the throat .

And then the warriors were upon them.

Things moved swiftly. So fast that Makenna had no time to take a good look at their attackers. Most of them were big men clad in leather and woolen cloaks. And the expression on their faces was savage.

Their dogs were beasts. Their jaws were huge and slavering, their dark gazes feral. Bloodhounds, yet bigger than any she’d ever seen.

The hounds reached them first. Some savaged the deerhounds while others leaped at the horses. Curses and grunts followed as the warriors fought them off. The riders came after their dogs moments later, dirks slashing.

Makenna twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding a blade. Heart pounding, she slid down from her horse and drew Arsebiter, ducking as another dirk slashed at her.

An agonized grunt followed, and the warrior who’d just tried to stab her toppled off his horse, grasping a feather-fletched arrow buried deep in his neck.

Bran had just brought him down. Like Makenna, he’d dismounted. All of them had. It was easier to fight on foot.

Their assailants swarmed around them now. Campbells.

The bastards.

Makenna leaped forward, engaging one of their attackers, who’d just leaped from his mount and lunged for her.

The ring of clashing steel echoed through the woods, and suddenly she was fighting for her life.

There was no time to look at her father, or even glance Bran’s way.

One moment of distraction and it would be over .

Meanwhile, those massive hounds were wreaking havoc. They’d bested their deerhounds and were now swarming around the fighting warriors, jaws snapping.

Makenna looked frantically around her. They were surrounded. Outnumbered.

Two of their warriors fell close by—Tyree and Brec, men she’d grown up with—the wet sound of their final breaths cutting through the woodland air.

With a roar, she launched herself at their killers, her blade flashing bright in the afternoon light.

But it wasn’t enough. There were men all around her, hemming her in.

Their gazes gleamed, and they grinned toothily.

The whoresons had them—and they knew it.

Panting, Makenna found herself fighting back-to-back with Bran. He’d cast aside his longbow to use a dirk at close quarters.

And then, amongst the press of large leather-clad bodies, she caught a glimpse of a man with white-blond hair.

He’d just stuck his dirk through the throat of a warrior and kicked him to the ground.

The pale-haired warrior fought with a skill she knew intimately, for she’d trained at swordplay with him many a time.

Trained, and lost every fight against him.

A chill washed over her, dousing the fire of battle in her veins. She’d only ever met one man she truly feared, but believed she’d never set eyes on him again.

No … it can’t be.