Page 33

THE TIME CAME to bid her sisters farewell.

Sonia and Alma, their husbands, and brood of bairns departed a couple of days after the burials, although the Macleans of Dounarwyse and Moy had waited until a fortnight passed.

Of course, there were tears when Makenna saw Kylie and Liza off—although she promised them that she would make regular visits. She wasn’t sure how Bran would react to her traveling into Maclean country, but she wouldn’t be kept from her sisters. She hoped he’d understand.

Standing on the wall, watching Kylie and Liza depart alongside their husbands and bairns, she rubbed at her aching breastbone.

“Ye shall miss them greatly,” Bran observed as he stood by her side.

“Aye,” she whispered. “I already feel as if my heart has been ripped out. ”

He didn’t reply to that, and when she glanced his way, she saw his gaze was shadowed. He now watched the Macleans—a party of around fifty—as they traveled across the meadows and disappeared into the woodlands beyond.

She wondered then if he was thinking about his own sister.

After their argument about her on the day of the attack, she’d avoided bringing Tara up again. She still believed he should mend things with her, but knew the subject was a raw one for him. She wasn’t afraid of rousing his husband’s anger—rather, she didn’t want to hurt him.

“I would like to visit my sisters … at least once a year … if that’s possible,” she said after a lengthy pause.

Bran cut her a veiled look. “Aye?”

Makenna lifted her chin. “Aye.”

His mouth tugged into a wry smile. “As if I’d ever be fool enough to stop ye.”

“Does that mean ye shall accompany me?”

He pulled a face. “When ye go to Moy, I might be persuaded.”

“And Dounarwyse?” She couldn’t help it. Just a little push.

Bran looked away, his mouth pursing.

Swallowing a sigh, Makenna let the matter drop. Instead, she moved closer to him, linking her arm with his. “Can we stay on in Meggernie a little longer?”

He turned his attention to her once more. “Aye … although the longer ye leave it, the harder it’ll be. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

Makenna swallowed to ease the sudden tightness in her throat. “Aye,” she murmured. “But I just want to ensure Da is well … he’s not been himself since we returned from Finlarig. ”

Bran nodded. “He’s quieter than he was, aye … but he’ll rally. Yer father is tough as weathered oak.”

She snorted. “All the same, I worry.”

His eyes softened, in that way of his that made her melt. He then raised his hand, brushing his knuckles across her cheek. “As ye wish, Makenna. Dùn Ara can wait.”

“Isn’t the pie to yer liking, mo chridhe?” Carmen’s worried voice made Makenna glance her mother’s way.

“It’s delicious,” the clan-chief replied.

“But ye have barely touched it.”

“Don’t fuss, my love,” he growled.

Makenna’s brow furrowed. Indeed, most of those at the chieftain’s table had nearly finished their meal, but the MacGregor picked at his. He’d also downed twice as much wine as everyone else.

She understood exactly how he felt.

Nearly a week had passed since Kylie and Liza’s departure, and restlessness within her grew with each day.

They needed to act. Just the day before, she’d suggested they attack Finlarig in retribution.

However, her father pointed out that such a move would likely bring the wrath of the Campbells who lived to the north of their borders upon them.

He was right, of course.

They hadn’t been idle though. Her father had put more men on the Watch and doubled the patrols around Meggernie. Makenna and Bran had led many of them. Her father no longer forbade her from carrying a longsword or doing her part to help defend the castle.

No Campbell would stray close without being spotted—and so far, none had.

Meanwhile, Carmen studied her husband’s strained face. Her dark brows drew together then. She was just about to say something else when a shout cut through the smoky air.

“Black Duncan is dead!”

Jolting, Makenna’s attention snapped right to where a warrior had just rushed into the hall. Breathless, he strode toward the chieftain’s table.

A stunned silence fell.

Makenna watched the man’s flushed face and bright eyes for a moment, until the full weight of his announcement sank in.

Dead.

Under the table, Bran put his hand on her thigh and squeezed. In response, she covered his hand with hers, gripping tightly.

“How?” the clan-chief rasped.

“The wound ye dealt him soured, MacGregor,” the warrior replied, drawing near. “They say he lingered for a while … and that his end was agonizing.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the hall at this news.

All gazes shifted to Makenna’s father.

The MacGregor straightened up in his carven chair.

And then, as Makenna watched, the tension he’d carried ever since their escape from Finlarig lifted.

It was like seeing a sunburst chase away storm clouds.

His vision cleared, his shoulders lowered, and the deep lines that had carved themselves on either side of his mouth softened.

Likewise, something deep inside Makenna’s chest unknotted. She glanced Bran’s way then, to find his gaze sharp, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fitting end for the whoreson.”

Makenna nodded. She couldn’t agree more.

Next to the clan-chief, Carmen shifted uneasily, her night-brown gaze flicking from husband to daughter.

Although the Campbell treachery had upset her, she hadn’t understood their hunger for revenge.

She wasn’t a warrior like Bruce or Makenna.

She didn’t understand the honor Black Douglas had stolen from them.

Aye, they’d escaped with their lives, but not before he’d humiliated them.

Sensing his wife’s discomfort, the clan-chief reached out and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s over, mo ghràdh. I can let this rest now. Vengeance is ours … finally.”

The long twilight began, a gradual lengthening of the shadows while the blue sky—for it had been a bonnie day—leached of color.

Makenna, who’d spent most of the afternoon up on the walls with the Guard before taking supper with her husband and kin in the great hall, slipped away and climbed the narrow, winding stairs to the roof.

And there, she stood, leaning against the sun-warmed rock, listening to the gentle coo of the pigeons.

There was a flat area on the doocot’s roof, where the birds sunned themselves in the last of the light.

Her gaze traveled south, to where the outline of Ben Lawers and its brethren rose against the horizon, and her lips thinned.

Robbie Campbell would be chieftain now. The man was a swine, although not half as dangerous as his father had been. He lacked Black Duncan’s cunning and malice. Even so, her clan would need to keep a close eye on their southern borders in the coming months—and years.

Every time Robbie caught a glimpse of his reflection in a looking-glass, he’d see the scar her father had dealt him.

He’d remember the MacGregors.

Makenna’s gaze shifted then, sweeping across the curtain wall that surrounded the tower house. Guards stood watch there. Blair had increased their number for the moment. Just in case there was any trouble.

Sighing, Makenna murmured an oath under her breath. It’s not yer responsibility anymore … ye need to let go. Aye, she did, although that was easier said than done.

“That is a weary sound for such a bonnie eve.”

A familiar voice made her turn, her gaze alighting upon the tall figure who moved along the narrow walkway, between the doocot and the crenelations that ran around the roof of the tower house.

“Ye found me then?” she greeted her husband with a smile, deliberately not answering his observation.

He flashed her a boyish smile, one that made her belly do a wee flip .

The more she spent time with Bran, the more she wanted him. They were both surviving on little sleep these days, as their nights were spent tumbling. They were ravenous for each other.

“I thought ye’d be in high spirits after learning of Black Duncan’s demise … I know I am,” Bran continued, clearly determined not to let the matter drop. “Why the sighing?”

Makenna pulled a face. Sometimes, she wished her husband wasn’t quite so observant. There was very little that got past him. “I still feel guilty about leaving Meggernie,” she admitted finally. “I keep thinking I need to be here … just in case.”

Bran’s gaze roamed over her face, and she braced herself for him to try and reassure her, to tell her that the Meggernie Guard had defended this castle before she served amongst it and would continue to do so after she departed.

But his response, when it came, surprised her. “Ye don’t want to leave the familiar behind … that’s understandable.”

“It’s not that,” she replied, a trifle defensively.

His lips lifted at the corners. “Isn’t it?”

“No. I just worry about my clan’s future.”

“And yer loyalty does ye credit … but I can’t help but think ye use it as a shield.” Makenna’s gaze narrowed at this, yet Bran wasn’t done. “Ye know every inch of this castle … and the meadows, woodlands, and hills beyond. Ye feel comfortable here … safe … just as I do at Dùn Ara.”

Discomfort flickered up, although Makenna masked it with a frown. How was it that Bran could see such things about her? She wanted to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck in her throat .

“Ye understand then?” she asked finally, even as her skin prickled.

Leaning up against the battlement, she placed her hands on its top, taking comfort from its solidity.

Would he think her weak for wanting to remain in a place where she felt in control?

She didn’t like revealing a chink in her armor.

“More than ye realize,” he answered, moving close. They stood side-by-side now, their shoulders touching. Bran reached out then, his finger tracing a pattern over the back of her hand atop the battlement. “It was part of the reason why I waited so long to travel to Perthshire and claim ye.”

Makenna cast him a sidelong glance. “I thought it was because yer father had made ye a betrothal ye didn’t want.”

He huffed a rueful laugh. “There was that, aye … but there was fear too. I know Dùn Ara, even though its people don’t yet respect me.”

Makenna stiffened, yet Bran merely shrugged.

“It stings … but it’s the truth. I’m a clan-chief, but compared to the likes of yer father, who has ruled his lands for over two decades, I’m young …

untested.” He broke off there, his gaze shifting out to where tiny shapes flitted around them.

Bats. The wee pipistrelles were stretching their wings now that dusk was nearing.

“I worried I’d be mocked for my inexperience …

or reminded about my failure at Dounarwyse.

” He shook his head, even as Makenna’s chest tightened—she’d done just that once.

“And ye can imagine how pleased I was to discover Rae and Alec were amongst our wedding guests.”

Makenna observed him, momentarily forgetting her own defensiveness and niggling guilt. Bran’s candor made something squeeze under her ribs. “Ye have the respect of both those men … ye realize that, don’t ye? ”

He glanced her way and nodded. “I doubt the Mackinnons and the Macleans will ever be fast friends … but at least now, there is an understanding between us.”

Their gazes held then before she let out another sigh. “The devil’s turds … I hate it when ye are right.”

His mouth curved. “It brings me no pleasure.”

“Liar.” She nudged him gently in the ribs with her elbow.

“What ye said struck home though … here, I know what my role is and how others will respond to me.” She paused then, swallowing.

“In truth … I struggle sometimes. My father has never really understood … but Lloyd was always there for me.” She didn’t add that Tormod’s attempted rape had rattled her far more than she cared to admit.

In the aftermath, she’d lost confidence, and shame had dogged her ever since.

She’d always thought of herself as strong, yet Tormod had taught her she wasn’t invincible.

However, facing the Campbells at Finlarig healed that wound—and Tormod MacDougall was now dead.

“And now, I am here for ye,” he reminded her softly.

Warmth rose to her cheeks. “And I will not forget it.” She paused then. “I suppose Dùn Ara will be good for me. I could do with toughening up.”

Bran cut her a surprised look. “What?”

“It’s true.”

“But ye are stronger than most men I’ve met.”

She shook her head. “I can hold my nerve in battle, aye … but on the inside, I’m far too soft. I feel things too deeply.”

Bran harrumphed and lifted his arm, looping it protectively around her shoulders. “ No, ye don’t,” he said firmly. “And don’t ever apologize for yer compassionate and gentle heart either. It’s where true strength lies.”