Page 23

Silence fell between them then. Exhausted, Makenna leaned her head back against the damp rock and closed her eyes.

Even so, her stomach was in knots, and she’d broken out in a cold sweat.

“He wants me ,” she admitted finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“He told me we’d see each other again … and he’s made good on his threat. ”

“I remember his words,” Rae answered gruffly, while Bran remained silent. “But he wants his revenge against me as well, lass. He’ll be congratulating himself on bringing down two birds with one stone.”

Bran’s brow furrowed as he observed his wife.

Makenna had been dumped a few yards away, and sat head hanging, shoulders slumped.

When he’d caught a glimpse of her face earlier, he’d marked her strained features and shadowed gaze.

It was unlike her to look so defeated, and something deep in his chest tightened.

He couldn’t help it. He worried about her.

The Campbells had set off at dawn, traveling swiftly.

They were now watering their horses and resting for a short while on the northern shore of Loch Tay.

The sun warmed Bran’s face and sparkled off the water of the loch.

The day was the bonniest of the year so far, but he was hardly in the mood to appreciate it.

Instead, he couldn’t take his eyes off Makenna.

Ye don’t have to scratch far beneath the surface to discover that much of my confidence is bluster.

There was far more to his bride than met the eye. Beneath her arrogance, she was sensitive and caring. She could handle herself as well as him in a fight, yet she was vulnerable now. They all were .

Bran swallowed, trying to ignore his dry mouth and throat. The Campbells hadn’t given them enough to drink, although he wasn’t thinking about his own discomfort, but Makenna’s. He hated knowing he couldn’t shield her from harm.

She thinks I’m a tyrant. Aye, and he had only himself to blame for that. He’d come across as overbearing, and he was sorry for it.

The truth was he was forming an attachment to his feisty bride.

Finding someone to care about after years of loneliness had made him act impulsively.

He needed to ensure he didn’t lose her. He didn’t want to fail her, not like he had his sister.

When Tara had returned to Dùn Ara after escaping her abductor, he’d stood by while their father had condemned and then humiliated her.

Was it any wonder she ran away?

Pushing aside painful memories, Bran tore his attention from his wife and glanced over at the man who’d tried to rape her.

The night before, he’d noted that Tormod sat apart from the Campbells and didn’t interact much with his fellow warriors.

The chieftain favored him though. The pair had ridden side-by-side for most of the morning, at the head of the band.

Tormod didn’t appear to notice Bran’s scrutiny. Instead, he whittled a piece of wood with a small sharp knife while staring at Makenna. His gaze was hot and hungry.

Bran clenched his jaw. How he longed to drive a dagger through that dung-eater’s eye.

And he made a silent promise to himself that he would.

Heart pounding, he stared down at his bound wrists. The rope had chafed the skin where he’d tried to loosen it. There was no getting free of these bonds .

The day before, Makenna had accused him of caring too much about the opinions of others.

Perhaps he did. To many of his people, and the Macleans and the Macquaries—the other clans on Mull—he was the wet-behind-the-ears pup who’d crawled back to Dùn Ara after the Battle of Dounarwyse with his tail between his legs.

Even years later, he burned with the humiliation of it.

Or he had —until the Campbells of Breadalbane took it upon themselves to kidnap the MacGregor hunting party a day after his wedding.

Suddenly, none of that mattered. He couldn’t have cared less whether all of Mull hated him.

He was too angry to care about anything but making the Campbells and Tormod MacDougall pay.

The Mackinnon temper was something indeed.

Cold and quiet, yet sharp as a boning knife.

Mackinnons didn’t rant and rage. No, they bided their time, and when they struck, they went for the throat.

But until that time, he’d let the Campbells think he wouldn’t give them any further trouble.

The Campbells rode as if Lucifer himself were on their tail. A spine of mountains now reared up to the north.

Slung over the back of a horse, his body sore, his head aching, Bran did his best to keep track of their progress. Had someone picked up their trail yet? Was there a band pursuing them? Frustratingly, it was impossible to know, for the Campbells told their captives nothing.

They barely rested for the remainder of the day, and the shadows were growing long when they finally reached the southern edge of Loch Tay .

Fighting dizziness, Bran lifted his head to see high grey walls rising above a birch copse. Shortly after, they left the loch’s shoreline behind and climbed the hill up a narrow path, single file now, before riding through a scattering of shielings.

Bran lifted his head again to see men, women, and bairns gathering before their thatch-roofed cottages. They watched the chieftain and his warriors—and their captives—with nervous, cowed expressions. Campbell didn’t bother to acknowledge them as he rode by.

Neck aching from the effort of keeping his head raised, Bran shifted his attention to the fortress that loomed to his right.

His gaze narrowed as he inspected it. The tower house was high—at least four floors—although the dark-grey stone gave it a gloomy look.

A high wall surrounded the keep. The gate was open to admit them, a dark maw with the spiky teeth of the raised portcullis.

Finlarig Castle awaited them.