Page 22

THEY WON’T GET away with this. The Meggernie Guard will come after them .

Makenna tried to keep up her spirits with rallying thoughts. But underneath her mantle of courage, it was difficult not to worry. It was difficult not to despair—or to let fear unravel her.

Tormod MacDougall is alive.

Her belly twisted as she recalled the moment he’d shifted his attention her way during the fight. His gaze was as pitiless as before, although his face seemed crueler. And the slow smile he’d given Makenna had made her heart stutter.

They hadn’t spoken, although she’d seen him watching her as she’d had her ankles and wrists bound. And the look in his pale-blue eyes had made her tremble .

Makenna wasn’t a lass who was easily frightened. Nonetheless, she’d never forget what Tormod had tried to take from her the year before, and his threat as Rae Maclean’s men dragged him from the broch after the laird had flogged him still haunted her.

It isn’t over between us, lass … ye shall see me again .

Wrists and ankles bound and slung over the withers of a horse, she stared down at the grass they now cantered over.

Hanging upside down like this had made the blood rush to her head.

A wedge of filthy cloth gagged her, and the side of her head throbbed from where one of her captors had hit her when she’d tried to stop him from tying her up.

Closing her eyes, she tried not to think of Tormod.

She couldn’t allow herself to do so. Instead, she silently cursed the Campbells.

Cursed every dog-humping one of them.

They’d been forced to surrender eventually.

It was either that or die. Six of their party—and all her father’s beloved deerhounds—had fallen in the skirmish, their bodies left sprawled amongst the trees.

The rest of them were taken captive: Makenna and Bran, her father, Captain Walker, Alec, and Rae, as well as the two remaining MacGregor warriors, Aodh and Mungo.

Bloodied but not beaten, her father had raged at them at first. Yet his outburst had caused a man with a long face, hooked nose, and pitiless eyes to push his way through the circle of warriors and dogs.

He’d then stridden over to him and struck the MacGregor hard across the face, bringing him to his knees.

It was then they’d discovered that this wasn’t just a Campbell raiding party, but ‘Black’ Duncan Campbell’s warband. The chieftain himself had accompanied his warriors. They’d come north hunting the MacGregor clan-chief—and they’d found him.

Staring down at the clumps of coarse grass, thistles, and heather, Makenna wondered how Bran was faring.

He’d fought savagely in the end, only giving up when Tormod pinned him to the ground and placed a dirk-blade to his throat.

Makenna had thought for a sickening moment that Tormod might kill him then. Her belly clenched at the memory.

Tormod hadn’t slain him though. Instead, he’d held Bran still while others bound his feet and wrists. And now, Meggernie lay far behind them.

Aye, the Guard would come after them, eventually, but it would take time to track them, to catch up with this warband. In the meantime, Duncan Campbell had a big head start, and she had no idea what he was planning.

Frustration beat like a caged raven in her chest. She hated feeling so powerless. Seeing her father and Captain Walker taken captive had been an awful wrench too. They were now as helpless as bairns. The order of things had just splintered, and she couldn’t see how to put things back together.

The afternoon stretched out into a golden evening.

Their captors made the most of the long gloaming to get as far from Meggernie as possible.

Finally though, they drew up in a narrow, wooded gully—a sheltered spot in a pass that cut through the eastern arm of the mountains—where no one would find them.

Makenna’s temples pounded as she slumped onto the pebbly ground. Hanging upside down for hours had made her dizzy and nauseated. Bran was then hauled over and thrown down next to her.

Blinking to see properly in the shadowy dusk, Makenna studied her husband’s pale face. A bright bruise had come up on his cheekbone from his fight with Tormod. Nonetheless, his silvery gaze burned.

Tearing her attention from Bran, she looked over at her father and the others.

The MacGregor wore a glower that looked as if it might split his face—a mutinous look Makenna knew well.

Her chest constricted painfully then. His anger wouldn’t help him now.

Next to him, Rae was bleeding from a shallow cut to his forehead.

It seemed he’d given the Campbells some trouble moments earlier when they’d pulled him off the back of a horse.

Meanwhile, Alec’s handsome face was carved into hard lines, his blue eyes narrowed as he observed the men who milled around them now.

The Campbells ignored their captives for the moment; instead, they concentrated on lighting a fire and preparing supper.

They ate dried meat and oatcakes, talking amongst themselves, but they didn’t offer their captives any food.

And it was only later that they removed the gags from their mouths and gave them some ale to drink, holding skins up to their lips.

Makenna drank thirstily, although the few gulps they gave her weren’t enough. Glaring at the warrior who yanked the skin away before leering at her, she watched as he moved to Bran. Her husband looked as if he wanted to bite the warrior’s hand off, yet, like her, his thirst was greater.

As the man moved over to the next captive, Bran shifted his attention to Makenna .

His gaze met hers then and held. His ire still simmered, yet there was a question in his eyes now, a shadow of concern. He wanted to know if she was hurt.

Makenna gave a barely imperceptible shake of her head. She wasn’t going to snarl at him for being overprotective now, not when all their futures were uncertain.

“Ye won’t get away with this, Campbell,” her father rasped then. “Abducting a clan-chief is low … even for ye.”

The Campbell warriors around him snorted with laughter and rolled their eyes at this. Duncan Campbell, who sat upon a rock by the fire a few yards away, merely shrugged. “Long have ye underestimated me, Bruce. Ye should have known this day would come.”

“Aye … ye’ve had it coming, ye cattle-stealing whoreson,” a younger man standing nearby sneered. By his looks, Makenna guessed this was the chieftain’s son. He was dark-haired and rangy but without his father’s intensity.

“Too right, Robbie,” Campbell rumbled, his gaze never leaving Makenna’s father.

“Shit-eating bastards.” Undaunted, the MacGregor glared back. “Does the Campbell know about this?”

The chieftain’s bearded jaw tightened a fraction. “Ian Campbell will thank me for dealing to ye.”

Makenna stilled at these words—an admission that the Campbell clan-chief hadn’t sanctioned this abduction.

Her father spat on the ground. “I shall have my reckoning against ye … mark my words.”

Campbell merely exchanged a look with his son before smirking .

Makenna’s chest tightened. She shared her father’s rage.

Nonetheless, the glint in the Campbell chieftain’s eyes was a warning.

There was something in his manner that reminded her of Tormod.

Her father was as strong as an ox, and a formidable warrior, but at his core, he was decent and capable of mercy.

But Campbell and MacDougall were cut from a different cloth.

Fighting dread, she glanced over to where Tormod sat whittling a piece of wood by the fire.

The bastard was watching her.

She couldn’t help it; she shuddered under the weight of his stare.

And seeing her reaction, he flashed her a wolfish smile.

Dusk slid into night. The Campbells gathered around the fireside, drinking and congratulating each other, while their beastly hounds lounged at their sides, eyes glowing in the firelight.

Leaning against a cold slab of rock, Makenna wriggled, trying to ease the chafing of the rope upon her wrists.

“They know how to tie knots, it seems,” Bran murmured.

He was seated next to her, so close their shoulders brushed.

His nearness was reassuring. All the same, she wished she were sitting next to her father, and that she could speak to him.

Unfortunately, he sat nearer the fire, under the eye of Campbell.

The last thing the chieftain wanted was his prize escaping.

“I know,” she grunted. “I can’t budge them.”

Silence fell then before Bran nudged her with his elbow. “That man with the pale hair has been staring at ye all evening. It’s as if he knows ye.”

Makenna’s pulse quickened. “He does. ”

“Tormod MacDougall.” Rae’s voice intruded then. Makenna had forgotten he was seated next to Bran. “Kylie stabbed him in the cods around three months ago … but the rat-faced bastard didn’t bleed out as we hoped.”

“No,” Makenna whispered, deliberately not glancing Tormod’s way. He was looking at her again; she could feel the probing weight of his stare. “Last year … at Dounarwyse … he tried to rape me.”

Bran made a soft hissing sound.

“I fought him off,” she continued, “and Rae flogged him the following morning before banishing him from his lands.” She halted there, her throat constricting.

Although she hadn’t admitted it to anyone, that attack had shaken her more than she cared to admit.

It had been a chink in her armor—a reminder that she had vulnerabilities, after all.

If she was honest with herself, she hadn’t been herself ever since.

“But he found allies amongst the Ghost Raiders,” Rae continued the tale after a lengthy pause. “Thanks to him, they discovered a way into my broch.”

“Looks as if he’s got new friends,” Bran replied. His voice now held a rough edge.

Rae gave a soft snort. “Aye, unfortunately.”