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“WHAT THE DEVIL did ye think ye were doing?” The MacGregor’s voice boomed through the solar high in Meggernie’s tower house. “I sent ye out on patrol … not to make an attempt on Bran Mackinnon’s life.”

Makenna swallowed. “Da, I—” she began, but her father cut her off.

“Was it deliberate, lass?”

She gasped at the accusation, even as heat rolled over her. After the fuss she’d made of late about her impending marriage, she shouldn’t have been surprised her father would draw such a conclusion. However, he was wrong. “No!”

“Oh, aye?” The MacGregor folded his beefy arms across his chest and viewed her down his long blade-like nose. She’d inherited that nose. His mouth and eyes too. And his stubbornness. “So, ye thought the Black Duncan’s warriors had actually dared venture so close to Meggernie?”

“Aye! Ye didn’t see the mess they made of Fortingall,” she countered, her own temper rising now, even as her belly twisted. “They razed it, Da.”

Indeed, the smoking ruin of the village had haunted her all the way home—it would do so for a long while.

The only survivors of the raid had been a handful of elderly, too sick or feeble to pose a threat and not valuable enough to carry off.

Makenna’s chest had ached when they’d told her what happened, and she’d sworn then and there that she’d have reckoning.

MacGregor muttered a salty curse under his breath and turned from her.

He then started to stalk around his rectangular solar, his large hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

A hearth burned up one end of the chamber, where two slender deerhounds lay gnawing mutton bones.

It was dark outdoors now, and the sacking had been rolled down over the narrow slitted windows to keep out the draft.

Weapons hung from the rough stone walls—poleaxes, claidheamh-mòrs, and shields—while sheepskins covered most of the wooden floor.

The air in here smelled of leather, woodsmoke—and dog.

“We can’t let them get away with it,” Makenna said as she watched him circle the floor. It was a relief to shift the focus away from what she’d done and back on the Campbells. Her heart started to thud against her ribs then. “Give the word, and we shall travel to Finlarig and pay them back. ”

Her father halted abruptly and swiveled on his heel, fixing her with a glare that nearly made her wither. “Ye shall do no such thing!”

Makenna choked back a curse. “But we must respond!”

“And we will,” he shot back. “Once ye are wedded and Mackinnon takes ye back to Mull, Captain Walker and I will come up with a solid plan on how to deal with the Campbells. Meanwhile, ye will put down yer sword for the remainder of yer time at Meggernie, sweeten yer tongue, and mend the mess ye have made.”

Panic washed over Makenna, making her breathing come fast and shallow.

Put down her sword? Never! Her father was denying her the reckoning she craved—the worst punishment of all.

She didn’t want to focus on Mackinnon. Especially not now.

Her people were what mattered. “It was an honest mistake,” she said, cursing as her voice caught. “I told ye, we—”

“I heard ye the first time,” he cut her off once more. “I may be getting old, but I’m not yet demented.”

Bran hadn’t thought his arrival at Meggernie could get any more awkward or unpleasant—but that was before he stepped into the castle’s great hall.

Although MacGregor had insisted his men would take care of the horses, Bran had gone into the stables to ensure everything was in order.

Some of his men would be bedding down in there, and he wished to make sure there was, indeed, space for them.

After the welcome he’d received, he’d take nothing as a given .

Nonetheless, when he walked into the large rectangular hall afterward, his boots crunching on fresh rushes, and his gaze alighted on those already seated at the clan-chief’s table at the far end, his belly dropped to his boots.

What are they doing here?

Just a few yards away reclined a tall blond man with roguish good looks. And at his elbow sat a broad-shouldered warrior with short dark-auburn hair.

The devil smite them. Alec Rankin and Rae Maclean were at Meggernie too.

Bran’s step slowed. His pulse started to thunder in his ears, and crimson now stained his vision.

This was too much. Did MacGregor really expect him to break bread with the man who’d slain his father?

Or the chieftain who’d bested him in battle?

He was surprised that Loch Maclean wasn’t here too—to make his humiliation complete.

A familiar burn began in the pit of his gut. He forced himself to keep walking, to cross the wide floor, down the aisle between rows of trestle tables, where his men now took their places with Maclean and MacGregor warriors.

Both Rankin and Maclean watched him closely as he approached.

Stubbornness rose within Bran then. If either of those whoresons wanted a reaction, they wouldn’t get one.

Mastering himself, he schooled his features into the blankest expression he could manage. On the inside though, he was raging.

At least, they didn’t bring Tara.

The burn in his belly grew hotter then. His sister’s betrayal was like a scab—best left well alone, yet he could never resist picking at it.

Ye adored her once , a voice whispered to him then, reminding him of happier days. Tara had once been his ally, his confidant, and the softness to counterbalance his father’s harsh temperament and unyielding demands. Life had turned bleak without her.

A hollow sensation filled him. He’d been alone in the world for a while now yet never felt it quite as keenly as he did at this moment. Soon, he’d be wed surrounded by MacGregors and Macleans, with no kin by his side. His parents were dead, and he had no siblings except for a sister he’d disowned.

As he drew near to the clan-chief’s table, both Rankin and Maclean rose to their feet. Their female companions did the same. In truth, Bran had been too focused on seeing his enemies here to take note of much else—but he did now.

Rankin’s companion was a dark-haired, golden-skinned beauty with strong features and night-brown eyes.

She wore a wine-red surcote that clung to her shapely form, and she surveyed him with interest. The woman with Maclean also observed him keenly.

She too had strong, proud features, but her beauty was gentler.

Her thick oak-colored hair was swept up into an elaborate braid.

There was a similar cast to both their features—and they reminded him of someone else. However, before he had time to make the connection, Maclean spoke. “Good evening, Mackinnon.”

Next to him, Rankin favored Bran with a nod, his sea-blue gaze veiled. “Mackinnon. ”

Bran managed a tight nod of his own. He didn’t trust himself to speak.

“May I present my wife, Kylie.” Rae motioned to the woman beside him. He then gestured to the two young lads seated next to the woman—one auburn-haired, the other dark. “And these two are my sons, Ailean and Lyle.”

Bran’s gaze narrowed. He knew he should respond, but the words stuck in his throat.

“And I’m Liza … laird of Moy.” The dark-haired woman spoke then, not waiting for anyone to introduce her.

Bran stiffened, and he looked upon her with renewed interest, putting his rancor aside for a moment.

Of course. He should have made the connection.

Aye, he’d heard of Liza Maclean. The tale about how her husband, the former chieftain of Moy, had tried to murder her by tying her up and leaving her on a rock in the Sound of Mull had circulated the isle the year before.

She’d been rescued by pirates and had hired them to slay her husband and take his place.

Shockingly, Loch Maclean had pardoned her and allowed her to rule as lady laird until her son came of age.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Bran hadn’t realized that the pirate who’d saved Liza had been Alec Rankin, or that she’d married him. Still chewing over this scandalous tidbit, he noted that a lad of around six or seven sat next to Liza. He was dark like his mother yet with a solemn face.

Marking the direction of Bran’s gaze, Liza smiled. “This is my son, Craeg.”

He managed to summon the manners to incline his head to them both.

He had no quarrel with this woman or her son, even if her first husband had fought against him at Dounarwyse.

Even so, it was hard to remain civil. He felt cornered.

Tricked. MacGregor would have known he wouldn’t want to see Maclean and Rankin, and yet he’d invited them to the wedding, nonetheless.

“I see ye have been reacquainted with auld pals,” a hearty male voice boomed behind him. “And met two of my bonnie daughters.”

Bran stiffened. His daughters?

He turned then, his gaze alighting on where the clan-chief approached, a woman on his arm. Two other couples followed, with Makenna sullenly bringing up the rear.

And when his gaze swept over the newcomers, he realized why Maclean and Rankin were here. They were married to MacGregor women.

MacGregor’s wife was an older, plumper version of Liza—a comely woman indeed, with a thick mane of greying hair that would have once been the color of jet.

Despite that they’d just emerged from a bitter winter and wet spring, and everybody else was pasty white, Lady MacGregor’s skin was tanned light gold.