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AS THE WARRIORS pulled Makenna away from her husband, Bran moved.

They should have bound his wrists upon hauling him out of the pit, but they hadn’t. They’d been arrogant, so sure that he wouldn’t try to escape. As such, Bran took the man to his right by surprise as he drove an elbow into his gut.

An instant later, he’d swiped the man’s dirk and driven it up under his jaw.

Makenna didn’t hesitate.

She brought her slippered heel down hard on the foot of the man to her left and then twisted right, slamming her forehead into the mouth of the other warrior.

Fury turned her vicious. She didn’t hold herself back. Instead, she used every skill she’d learned from Walker, every dirty trick Alec had taught her—and every subtle move Tormod had shown her .

Earlier, she’d noted the hilt of the blade peeking out from the boot of the warrior to her right. She’d known that was what she’d go for if she got the chance. And she did so now.

Grabbing it, she slashed the warrior to the left across the throat and then ducked a punch from the man she’d just head-butted, cutting him across the back of the knees.

A great roar went up in the hall—angry shouts and the hammering of booted feet as the chieftain’s men reacted and lunged for her.

Makenna dove for the pit, reaching it moments ahead of the Campbell warriors. Yanking up the heavy iron lid—even as the muscles in her upper arms screamed at the weight—she let it fall to the floor with a heavy boom. She then turned back to face her attackers.

Just a few yards away, Bran was now fighting Tormod. The two of them slashed at each other with dirks.

Her belly dropped to her boots. Christ’s blood. Not him. She’d sparred with Tormod often enough in the past to know just how good he was. Bran could handle himself in a fight, but he wasn’t that warrior’s equal. She hadn’t met anyone who was.

But she couldn’t focus on him right now, not when she was surrounded.

Meanwhile, her father had used the distraction to deal with the two men who held him. One of them lay face down on the table, blood pooling under his head, while the other grappled with his captor.

Campbell had leaped to his feet, drawn his dirk, and was bellowing orders. “Robbie!” he yelled. “To me!”

The chieftain’s son, who’d rushed toward the pit with the others, swiveled, moving back toward the chieftain’s table. Together, father and son advanced on Makenna’s father.

But she couldn’t focus on him either.

Snarling curses, she struck at any warrior who came within reach. However, there were too many of them. She wouldn’t be able to hold them off for much longer.

But she didn’t need to, for now that the pit was open, the men inside had worked together to climb out of it.

A large broad-shouldered figure barreled past her, moving low.

Rae tackled one of the warriors around the thighs, bringing him down. Alec, Aodh, and Mungo were right behind the chieftain of Dounarwyse—and then, suddenly, the fight wasn’t quite so one-sided.

Nonetheless, there were seven of them fighting against a dozen. The odds weren’t in their favor.

Jerking back as a blade swiped at her face, Makenna kicked her assailant hard in the cods. She then drove her dirk into the soft flesh above his collarbone. She yanked her blade free as he grunted and fell to the floor.

Only then did she dare take her eye off the Campbell warriors still swarming around them, to see how the fight between Tormod and Bran was progressing.

And to her surprise, her husband was holding his own.

Bran had told her that a bow and arrow were his weapons of choice, yet he handled himself well with a dirk. Both he and Tormod were bleeding now though. Blood slicked Tomrod’s forearm, and a shallow cut oozed on Bran’s cheek.

Neither of them took their gaze off each other.

All the same, the savagery on Tormod’s face chilled her blood, as did the coldness of his eyes. That was what made him a better warrior than most—his utter lack of mercy.

Unless she did something, Tormod would eventually best her husband.

Meanwhile, Alec had fought his way through the press, collecting a blade as he went, and was now at her father’s side. Black Duncan, Robbie, and three other warriors surrounded them, but the two men were doing an admirable job of holding them off. For the moment.

Another warrior rushed at Makenna then, drawing her focus once more, and after she’d bested him, her gaze returned to Tormod and Bran.

Tormod had backed her husband up. Bran now fought just a few feet from the wall. Any closer and he’d be trapped, and Tormod would strike.

She had to do something.

“Tormod,” she yelled above the din. “ Tormod!”

Aye, she knew the man was obsessed with her. It was a twisted attachment, one that had nothing to do with real love or affection. He wanted to dominate her, to have her as a possession. However, it was the only thing she had over him, and she’d wield it.

Hearing her voice, his chin jerked sideways. “Makenna!” he panted. “Ready to watch Mackinnon die?”

“Stop!” she gasped, feigning panic, as she moved toward them. “Please spare his life.”

Bran made an outraged noise at this, but she ignored him.

“I’ll go with ye now … we can ride from here and never look back … if ye promise to show him mercy.”

Tormod’s pale-blue eyes glinted, and she knew she had him .

And Bran did too. It was the moment of distraction he needed. She’d been waiting for him to take it—but, even so, the swiftness and brutality of his act surprised her.

One moment, the two men had been slashing at each other, the long thin blades of their dirks glinting in the light of the torches burning on the walls. The next, Bran swapped his blade to his right hand and lunged.

And he drove his dagger straight through Tormod’s left eye.

The warrior had turned his face slightly, to see Makenna, unwittingly holding his head at just the right angle.

The two men fell, sprawling together on the rush-covered floor.

Even with a knife embedded in his eye socket, Tormod tried to fight. But his movements were clumsy, jerky.

Makenna looked on, impressed. She hadn’t realized Bran could wield a blade so deftly with his right hand.

Pinning Tormod to the ground, Bran grabbed hold of his flailing wrist and stared down at the warrior’s ashen face. Her husband didn’t speak, yet the hardness in his eyes made his hatred clear. And as Makenna looked on, Tormod’s body shuddered and then went still.

A shout echoed through the hall, and her attention was drawn to where more warriors had rushed inside.

They were still outnumbered, and yet something had changed.

The huddle of men fighting by the chieftain’s table had dispersed, and Makenna quickly saw why.

Alec had managed to disarm the chieftain’s son. He now held him captive, a blade at his throat. Makenna’s father stood at Alec’s shoulder, and Rae, Aodh, and Mungo had joined them.

Murmuring an oath, Bran rose to his feet, his gaze cutting to Makenna.

Aye, the tide was close to turning in their favor—but they needed to get to the others.

They fled across the hall, dodging the warriors who now rushed at them, reaching their friends just as a circle formed around them.

Breathing hard, blood running down the side of his face now, Black Duncan glared at them. The chieftain was hunched over and was favoring his left side. Someone had managed to get under his guard. “It’s over,” he ground out. “We have ye surrounded.”

“No … it’s far from over,” Alec replied softly. He then pressed the blade harder against Robbie’s throat, causing blood to well. “Unless ye want me to kill yer son.”

The Campbell chieftain’s face turned to stone. Meanwhile, Robbie made a strangled sound in the back of his throat—one that sounded very much like a plea.

Makenna’s breathing grew shallow, and she adjusted her grip on the dirk.

A dull fatalism pressed down on her then. They had no way of knowing whether Campbell was willing to sacrifice his son’s life or not. And if he was, then it really would be a fight to the death in this hall.

She wouldn’t be taken prisoner again—and neither would her companions. Things might be about to get bloody.

Long moments drew out, and around them, the hall fell silent .

Campbell didn’t give the order to attack.

Finally, Alec spoke once more. “Here’s what will happen now, Campbell. Ye will stand aside while we leave. I’m taking yer lad with me, mind … to ensure ye behave yerself.”

A nerve flickered in Black Duncan’s cheek.

The cunning, callous bastard had one weakness, it seemed. His son.

“How do I know ye won’t kill Robbie?” he ground out.

“Ye will have to take my word,” Alec answered, his blue eyes glinting. “And pray it means more than yers does.”

A brittle silence fell then, drawing out until the Campbell chieftain gave a jerky nod. Then, moving aside, grimacing in pain as he did so, he gestured for his men to do the same.

And they did—one by one, each warrior shifted back, leaving the way to the door clear.

Alec nodded to his companions. “Go on … Robbie and I will follow.”

Makenna obeyed. Flanked by her father and Bran, she edged toward the door, with Rae, Aodh, and Mungo behind her. Alec brought up the rear, walking backward, his knife never leaving Robbie’s throat.

Moments later, they were in the entrance hall, and a short while after that in the barmkin that surrounded the tower house.

They moved across the cobbled space toward the gates.

Night had long fallen, and the sliver of the moon shone amongst a carpet of stars.

Torches hanging on chains illuminated the barmkin, casting long shadows.

“Raise the portcullis, and open the gate!” Robbie cried. He didn’t trust that Alec’s blade wouldn’t slip. However, the guards there hesitated. “Do it!” His voice grew high-pitched, panicked .

Reluctantly, the guards moved to obey. Nonetheless, the MacGregor party was made to wait while the portcullis was raised. The creaking of iron filled the humid night air, and then, finally, the gate rumbled open.

Makenna glanced behind her then, to see a tall, spare figure standing on the steps, flanked by his men. Black Duncan’s hawkish face was harsh in the torchlight, his eyes dark pits of hatred. He still clutched his left side, his hand wet with blood.

“Let my son go!” he shouted, his rough voice carrying through the silence.

“Soon enough,” Alec called back.

Together, they edged through the gate and along the path that led into the village beyond. Finlarig slumbered at this hour, the scent of woodsmoke heavy in the air. Light glowed from around the edges of closed doorways.

No one here would bother to stop them.

“When we reach the edge of the trees, we run,” Makenna’s father murmured as they strode along the road now, the castle rising in a dark silhouette above them.

“Aye,” Alec grunted. “And what do ye wish me to do with our captive? If ye want vengeance for Walker, I shall give it.”

Makenna’s pulse quickened. He was letting her father be the one to choose.

Robbie made a panicked noise. “Ye promised,” he rasped. “I—”

“Still yer tongue,” MacGregor cut him off. “Yer whining unmans ye.”

They’d reached the tree line—a dark press of beech waiting to receive them .

Makenna’s fingers flexed around the hilt of her dagger. She longed to make someone pay for Lloyd’s death. She’d be happy to take this rodent’s life. It wouldn’t bring her friend back, but it would even the score.

“As tempting as it is to slit yer throat, I shall let ye live. Although” —her father stepped closer and brought his own blade up— “I shall leave ye with a lasting memory of this day … a reminder of what happens when ye cross the MacGregors.” And with that, he drew the tip of his blade down from the top of Robbie’s eye and down his cheek, carving a deep, dark path.

Blood welled, and the chieftain’s son whimpered a curse. Nonetheless, with Alec’s knife still at his throat, he didn’t dare move.

“Off ye go now,” her father murmured. “Run back to yer Da.”

Alec released Robbie, and the laird’s son stumbled away, clutching his bloodied face. Such was his terror that he didn’t curse them, didn’t utter threats.

A heartbeat later, Makenna’s father turned to his companions. “It’s not over yet … they’ll come for us soon enough.”

“We can’t outrun them,” Rae pointed out, his tone grim.

“We don’t need to,” her father replied. “The alarm would have been raised in Meggernie when we didn’t return. They’ll be hunting for us.” He paused then, his gaze glinting in the moonlight. “I have some of the best trackers in Perthshire in my Guard … they’ll find us.”