Page 25

IT WAS DARK and fetid inside the pit—and cramped, with six men sitting in it.

Leaning up against the rough earthen wall, Bran listened to the muffled sound of voices in the hall beyond. There had been much noise earlier, boasting and numerous toasts to their ‘victory’.

His temper had simmered with each one. Around him, his companions had fallen silent, each man lost in his own thoughts.

“How long do ye think they’ll keep us in here?” One of the MacGregor warriors, Mungo, asked eventually. His voice was low, rough. The note of resignation in it worried Bran.

A snort followed. “Not long,” Rae muttered. “This is a holding place … Campbell will have something else in store for us, I’m sure.”

Rae’s words were ominous, yet none of them contradicted him .

“Aye … this pit is for show,” Alec agreed. His tone was unusually subdued. “He put it in his hall for a reason.”

Bran swallowed a curse. “Who does that?”

“Black Duncan.” Captain Walker spoke up for the first time. “I’d heard the tales … but thought them exaggerations. Long have folk whispered of how he beheads prisoners for visitors.”

Alec harrumphed. “A bit of light entertainment, eh?”

Bran suppressed a shiver as he recalled the shallow stone-lined pit just a few feet from this one. “Looks like there was some truth to those tales.”

“Aye,” Walker replied, his voice grim. “It would seem so.”

Aodh, the second of the two MacGregor warriors who’d been captured, growled an oath. “Well, that’s it … we’re all done for.”

A brittle silence fell then as each prisoner wrestled with the knowledge they’d soon be executed. And as the moments slid by, Bran could feel the hope leaching from his companions.

Clenching his jaw, he fought the same despair. No, he wouldn’t resign himself to his fate. He’d fight until his last breath.

“So, lads,” Lloyd said finally, rousing them from their brooding. “Any regrets?”

“Regrets?” Aodh asked, his voice thin with barely disguised fear.

“Aye … we’re likely to meet our maker tomorrow. Is there anything ye’d do differently?”

Silence followed this comment, stretching out until Aodh made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “I wish I’d had the balls to ask Elsie Grant to wed me. ”

“Malcolm the blacksmith’s wife?” Mungo asked incredulously.

“Aye … I’ve been soft on her for years but was too proud to say so … and he got in first.”

“I wish I’d joined the Bruce’s cause,” Mungo added after a brief pause. “My brother went, and I always felt like a fazart for not following him.” He halted then before asking, “What about ye, Captain?”

Lloyd gave a soft snort. However, there was no hesitation when he answered, “I wish I’d been a better husband.”

“Aye?” Rae asked.

“Aye.” There was an edge to the captain’s voice now. “Freya was a good woman … but I tried to change her. We fought like pit dogs as a result.”

Bran’s stomach clenched at this admission. Walker didn’t realize it, but that comment was a little too close to the bone. “She’s gone then?” he asked gruffly.

“Aye … two summers past. Life hasn’t been the same since.” Lloyd’s words were softly spoken, yet there was no mistaking the pain in them.

Silence filled the dark pit until, finally, Rae cleared his throat. “I had many regrets … once,” he murmured. “About my family, my first wife … my choices. I used to carry them on my back … but ever since meeting Kylie, I’ve let many go.” He paused then. “And ye, Alec?”

“A pirate doesn’t let himself have regrets,” Alec replied after a few moments. A wry edge crept into his voice as he continued, “Quickest way to get him killed.”

Bran pulled a face. Why wasn’t he surprised by his attitude? “So, ye regret nothing, do ye, Rankin?” He couldn’t help but make the dig. After all, he shared a pit with his father’s murderer and couldn’t bring himself to forget it.

“Ending yer father’s life, ye mean?” Rankin replied smoothly.

Bran flushed hot. “Aye.”

A pause followed, and when the pirate answered, his voice was serious. “There have been men I’ve killed over the years that didn’t have it coming … but yer father did.”

Bran glared at Alec’s dark form, seated directly opposite him in the pit.

“He sought to bring down the Macleans of Mull … to seize their lands for his own,” Rae added, his tone hardening. “To destroy and dominate … to rule over all of the isle.” He broke off then, letting his words settle for a few moments. “Is that what ye wished for too, Bran?”

The question was a slap across the face. A direct challenge. Bran’s first instinct was to hit back, to tell Rae that, aye, he believed in his father’s cause—that he’d wished to see the Macleans utterly crushed and driven from Mull.

But it would have been a lie.

“No,” he admitted eventually, his voice rough. “I never wanted that.”

“I thought as much,” Rae answered. “Ye aren’t like him.”

Bran curled his hands into fists, leaning his head back against the rough wall of the pit.

Part of him wanted to snarl at Rae, to tell him he had no business making assumptions about him.

But there was another part that craved to hear those words—for, in truth, there had always been a part of him that wondered if, despite everything, he wasn’t that different from Kendric Mackinnon, after all .

“And ye, Mackinnon?” Walker asked then. “We’ve all spoken of our regrets … or lack of them. It’s yer turn now.”

Bran grimaced, grateful that no one in this dark pit could see his expression. Regrets. He was still young, but he had already amassed too many. His sister was his biggest one, but he couldn’t talk of it here, with these men who were virtually strangers to him. It was too raw. Too personal.

Makenna knew though, which was why she’d dared raise the subject with him. And in return, he’d snarled at her—and now he might never have the chance to make things right.

He regretted that too.

“I wish I’d have had more time with my wife,” he admitted finally, even as his chest tightened. “I’d have liked to know her properly.”

Another silence fell then, the mood inside the pit even gloomier now.

No doubt, Rae and Alec were both thinking about their wives too. Bran had watched Rae interact with Kylie and noted also how happy Alec and Liza were together. They’d found their other half in each other, yet hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.

“Enjoying yer accommodations are ye, lads?” A goading voice intruded then from above.

Bran craned his neck upward to see Robbie Campbell’s leering face, ghoulish in torchlight, looming over the iron grate.

“Aye … the finest I’ve ever had,” Alec quipped, unable to help himself. “Why don’t ye come down and join us … there’s plenty of room.”

Robbie snorted a laugh. “I think not … ye lot reek like stags in rut. ”

“We’re thirsty, Campbell,” Walker said, not bothering to disguise his irritation. “Why don’t ye stop yer empty blether and hand us down some ale skins.”

“Thirsty, eh?” Robbie drew back from the pit, and a rustling sound followed.

Moments later, something streamed through the grate.

Warm liquid splashed on Bran’s face, and he drew back in disgust. Meanwhile, around him, his companions cursed.

The whoreson was pissing on them.

Seated at the chieftain’s table, Makenna looked around for a weapon.

She’d been handed a wooden cup filled with wine, but there were no eating knives within reach, not even a wooden spoon that she could use. A banquet lay before her: a spit-roasted suckling pig stuffed with chestnuts and apples, pottage, breads, wheels of cheese, and an array of custards.

She had no stomach for any of it. Not while she and her father were hostages. Not while her husband and friends waited in that foul pit a few yards away.

Her father sat a few feet farther down the table, in between two huge warriors.

Makenna was also flanked by men clad in chainmail and leather.

Both men were heavily armed, and one of them had a knife wedged into the back of his boot.

She longed to lunge for it, but since the warrior in question watched her like a buzzard, she didn’t dare.

After waiting a day—the longest wait of her life—they’d collected her from her bower and escorted her downstairs .

Like her father, she was freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothing.

Servants had brought in a green kirtle that matched her eyes, with a wine-red surcote to wear on top.

She’d initially refused to don the clothing.

The servants had then disappeared before one returned with the news that her husband would have a finger cut off with every further refusal she made.

Teeth gritted, Makenna had done as bid. She couldn’t let them maim Bran.

And now she sat at the chieftain’s table, alongside Black Duncan, his wife, son, and two daughters. She was supposed to eat and drink, to pretend nothing was wrong. Likewise, her father sat rigidly upon the bench seat. She’d never seen him look so grim. His jaw was set, his mouth a thin, hard line.

Musicians appeared then, upon the stone gallery above the hall. Two harpists who struck up a courtly tune. The supper began. Serving lads circled the floor, refilling cups with ale and wine. The mood was convivial, as if they were celebrating Yuletide.

Makenna tried to eat, picking up morsels with her fingers, but every mouthful of pork stuck in her throat. What she wanted to do was rail at them, to smash things. But she restrained herself. Losing control wouldn’t help anyone.

Bide yer time.

She drank sparingly, for she wished for her instincts to remain blade-sharp. She couldn’t make her move now, but her mind had been scrabbling since the moment she entered the hall—and a plan of sorts was now forming.

A few yards away, seated at the end of one of the long trestle tables, Tormod ate from his trencher, his pale gaze never leaving her.

Makenna did her best to ignore him, even as her skin prickled and her pulse started to race.

The man had the gaze of a serpent. Aye, he still terrified her, but she’d had time to rally, to raise her shields.

He was the least of her problems right now though.

The feasting and drinking went on for a long while, and during that time, Campbell didn’t even acknowledge his hostages.

Instead, he spoke at length with his son while occasionally speaking to his young wife.

Janet was slender and pretty with large—vacuous—blue eyes.

The woman seemed oblivious to Makenna and her father’s presence at Finlarig and didn’t look Makenna’s way once.

Instead, Lady Campbell spent most of the meal conversing with the laird’s two daughters, who were both barely five years her junior.

Makenna held fast, but underneath it all, dread grew like a stain. It made it difficult to focus.

Black Duncan was waiting.

And he was, for eventually, once servants carried the remnants of the feast away, the chieftain’s female kin—and all the women present save Makenna herself—rose from their seats and left the hall.

The warriors who remained behind pushed back the tables, leaving a clear space between the pit and the chieftain’s table.

Makenna’s heart started to drum against her ribs, and her palms grew damp.

Here, it begins.