Page 29

THE HOUNDS STARTED baying a short while after they left Finlarig Castle.

They’d expected it. Even so, the sound made Makenna’s pulse lurch. Black Duncan was hunting them now, and he’d be out for blood.

Meanwhile, the seven of them ran along the loch shore, setting a steady pace.

Some, like Bran, Alec, and Rae, ran easily, their long legs eating up the ground. But her father had started to wheeze now. He was bigger and older than the other men, and after a short while started to fall behind.

He’d spoken true earlier. The MacGregors of Meggernie were known for their expert tracking and hunting skills. Yet would their people dare camp this close to Finlarig? Would they find them in the dark?

Initially, Makenna tried to keep pace with Bran, although it wasn’t long before her legs and lungs started to protest. She dropped back next to her father. “Black Duncan is injured,” she panted. “He was bleeding badly when we left.”

“Aye, lass,” he gasped. “I made sure to stick him good and proper!”

Under other circumstances, she might have grinned at this news.

But knowing that they’d lost Lloyd, and that they were leaving his corpse behind at Finlarig, made it difficult to celebrate.

They weren’t out of danger yet, but now that they’d gotten out of the castle, grief hammered into her again.

It was hard to think about anything else. It was hard to even breathe.

“I hope he bleeds to death,” she ground out.

“With any luck, he will, lass,” her father answered, his breathing labored.

The baying of the hounds intruded once more. Nearer now. The thunder of hoofbeats, approaching from the west, and the shouts of men, echoed across the still loch.

Makenna’s already racing heart leaped at the noise.

“Cods!” her father cursed. “Where are the others?”

“There’s a light up to the east,” Rae shouted from ahead.

“A campfire, I’d say,” Bran added, his voice rough from exertion.

Makenna’s heart leaped. “It’s them!” And just as well too, for sweat slicked her body, and her chest was burning. She wasn’t used to running this far or fast.

“MacGregor!” Her father roared. Despite that he’d been winded just moments earlier, hope made him rally. His voice carried far into the night. He then followed with, “àrd-Choille!”

High Wood! The MacGregor war cry.

Moments passed and then shouts echoed back at them from farther up the shore. “‘S Rioghal mo dhream! ”

Makenna’s breathing caught, her skin prickling now at the sound of the MacGregor motto. It was the response they’d been waiting for—a way of telling friend from foe, for the enemy would have likely just shouted bac k ‘ àrd-Choille’. Tears of relief welled in her eyes.

“Thank Christ,” Mungo rasped from just ahead. “I can’t run much farther.”

“Keep moving!” Rae grunted. “Or one of those beastly hounds will take a bite out of yer arse.”

That spurred all of them on and gave them the final burst of speed they needed to reach the MacGregor search party.

Relief crashed over Makenna at the sight of the warriors rushing toward them, dirks drawn.

“MacGregor!” One of the warriors called out, spying his clan-chief. It was Blair, Walker’s second-in-command. Peering at the approaching men, she recognized her brothers-by-marriage: Connor MacFarlane and Rory Lamont.

“They’re right behind us,” her father shouted.

Reaching the MacGregors, they skidded to a halt.

Makenna swiveled on her heel to face their attackers.

She was now gasping for breath. Next to her, Bran’s chest rose and fell sharply as he also struggled to catch his breath.

However, like her, his gaze was trained west, at where the enemy approached.

Their torches glowed like fireflies in the dark, the outlines of horses and dogs frosted by moonlight clearly visible now.

As if sensing her stare, he glanced her way then, before a harsh smile tugged at his lips. “Ready to deal with the Campbells?”

Fire ignited in Makenna’s belly as she nodded.

A crimson sunrise spilled over the sky at dawn, almost as if the blood that had flowed on the shore of Loch Tay had stained the heavens as well.

Victorious, the MacGregors left the bodies of their Campbell pursuers sprawled amongst the heather, took their horses, and set off east. A few of their men had been injured in the fight, but nothing serious. Once they returned to Meggernie, Garia would tend to them.

The bloodhounds didn’t follow the MacGregors, for once they realized their masters were beaten, they’d fled back in the direction of Finlarig.

The MacGregors didn’t dare celebrate yet though, for there was a chance Black Duncan would send more warriors in pursuit.

And as they rode side-by-side under the warm sun, listening to the flutelike whistle of thrushes, Bran found himself glancing often over his shoulder.

“Let them dare follow us,” Makenna muttered. Looking her way, he saw that her hand then strayed to the dirk at her hip. His wife’s expression was fierce this morning, her lovely face pale and splattered with blood. Lloyd’s death had left its mark upon her.

Bran’s chest constricted.

This woman was truly unique. He could travel the length and breadth of Scotland and never find her like. They’d come close to being separated forever back at Finlarig Castle, something that had hardened his resolve to fight back. He couldn’t lose Makenna.

“It was a near thing back there,” he admitted after a pause. “Tormod was close to besting me. ”

“The whoreson was a fiend with a blade,” she replied. “That’s why I interfered.”

“Aye,” he answered roughly. “I’m not foolish enough to be vexed about that.” He winced then. “Although I’ll admit, my pride was dented at the time.”

“Ye killed him though. I gave ye that, at least.” Makenna was watching him intently now.

“Ye did,” he answered quietly. “I’d vowed to … for what he did to ye.”

Their gazes fused then, the moment drawing out. A faint flush rose to her cheekbones, her eyes softening. “Thank ye, Bran,” she murmured.

He swallowed. He wanted to tell her that he’d take on the devil himself to protect her. However, he was now painfully self-conscious. Things were still new between them, and he had no idea how she might respond to such a declaration.

Ahead, the rest of their party traveled in exhausted silence. None of them had rested during the night. There would be time to do so when they reached MacGregor lands once more. Once they were certain no one followed them.

Tearing his gaze from Makenna’s, Bran cleared his throat. “I wish to apologize.”

“For what?”

He glanced her way again, to find a groove etched between her eyebrows. “For being so heavy-handed … when we spoke of how things would be when we returned to Dùn Ara.” He broke off there, his embarrassment growing. “I was an arse.”

She snorted a laugh. “Och, with everything that’s happened, I’d forgotten about that.” She pulled a face. “Thank ye for reminding me. ”

“Aye, well … I’m sorry.” He raked a hand through his hair, wishing he was better with words. “And I want ye to know that I will never again tell ye to put down yer blade.”

Her gaze widened. “Ye won’t?”

“No, I give ye my word. I said those things out of fear, Makenna.”

She stiffened. “Ye did?”

“Aye … fear of failing ye … of losing ye.” He stopped there, his throat painfully tight.

Meanwhile, his wife continued to watch him, her green eyes softening.

Exhaling sharply, Bran pushed on. “But I know better now. Ye are a warrior. If I took that from ye, ye’d wither … like a wildflower torn from a meadow.” He paused, swallowing. “I want to see ye bloom at Dùn Ara … for ye to have purpose there.”

She raised an eyebrow. “So, ye won’t grumble when I ask to spar with ye?”

“No … just as long as ye train only with me.” A wave of possessiveness swept over him. He meant it too. Makenna could handle herself, yet he didn’t want any of his men leering at her or using training to take liberties.

To his surprise, an impish half-smile tugged at her lips. “Ye wish for me to give ye some pointers, do ye?”

He huffed. “Aye, well … ye might as well teach me some of those ‘dirty tricks’ of yers.”

At dusk, deep inside MacGregor lands once more, the party halted for the day and made camp. And as the last of the daylight faded from the sky, they sat companionably around a crackling fire while the carcasses of two hares spit-roasted over embers.

The aroma made Makenna’s belly growl, for she’d lasted the day on nothing more than a few mouthfuls of bread and cheese.

The day had been a fine one, with warm sun on their backs.

They’d made camp in the heart of a pinewood, and the evening air was soft and fragrant with the scent of woodsmoke and resin.

Seated cross-legged before the fire, it was hard not to let her shoulders slump. Finally, they’d reached safety. Exhaustion dragged down at her, turning her eyelids heavy.

Holding up the skin of ale that Blair had just passed him, her father surveyed the faces of those seated around the fire.

“At a time like this, I truly count my blessings,” he said, his voice unusually solemn.

“I have lost good men in the past days, and my heart is heavy … but when I look around this hearth, I see friends.”

Makenna’s throat constricted at this, her vision blurring. Lloyd should be here with us.

Sorrow twisted like a blade inside her chest then. Fighting to keep her composure, she looked over at Bran, and then her attention slid to Rae and Alec. Their gazes all gleamed. Meanwhile, Connor and Rory observed their father-by-marriage with a blend of wariness and surprise.