Page 34

RIDING AWAY FROM Meggernie, Makenna fought the urge to keep glancing over her shoulder.

Throat tight, her eyes stinging from the tears that had flowed when she’d bid her parents farewell, she stared resolutely at the tangle of branches up ahead.

She’d known leaving would be hard, but she hadn’t realized just how much it would hurt.

Bran rode next to her, a silent yet reassuring presence, while the remainder of the Mackinnon company followed them. Tadhg was among them. It was now the beginning of July, and the warrior had fully recovered from the grave injury that had nearly killed him.

Even now, guilt constricted Makenna’s chest every time she caught sight of him. The man was still gruff with her, although he had warmed up slightly. Nonetheless, he was a reminder of just how far she and Bran had come .

As they reached the tree line, where the dark boughs of sycamores beckoned, she gave in to the urge and glanced back at Meggernie one last time. The castle’s sturdy walls glowed in the warmth of the morning sun, the MacGregor pennant—a crowned lion’s head—fluttering from the top of the tower house.

“This isn’t the last time ye shall see it,” Bran reminded her then, his voice gentle. “With the alliance our clans have struck, we shall be back here every year or two.”

A little of the pressure in Makenna’s chest eased at this reassurance. “Aye,” she said huskily. “I will return.”

She would, but this castle would never be her home again.

That wasn’t what cut the deepest though.

For so long, all she’d cared about was defending this fortress, and the villages, lands, and people belonging to it.

But now she had to let them all go. She was crossing a threshold today—one that she’d been putting off for too long.

Gathering her reins, she turned away from the castle and favored her husband with a brittle smile. Then, she urged her courser forward.

They rode in silence through the cool green of the woods, serenaded by the languid call of song thrushes and blackbirds—and with each furlong, the wretchedness that had filled Makenna upon leaving home gradually lessened.

They’d had a bonnie summer so far, and today was another example, with a robin’s egg blue sky, hot sun, and a gentle, sweet-scented breeze to take the edge off the heat. Surrounded by such beauty, it was impossible to remain heavy-hearted for long .

Presently, the road took them back to the northern shore of the River Lyon, hugging the waterway’s lazy path southwest. Eventually, it would lead them to the loch by the same name, where they’d cross, but for the next day, they’d remain on this path.

Dragonflies danced in the shimmering air, and flies and midges buzzed around the horses, causing them to toss their heads and flick their tails in irritation.

Thick swathes of thistles grew by the river, their bright purple seedheads waving in the breeze. “What a sight,” Makenna murmured to Bran, gesturing to the bristling carpet. “I do love thistles.”

“Aye,” Bran agreed before flashing her a smile. “They remind me of ye. Bonnie … but prickly.”

She snorted at his teasing, her mood lightening further. “Aye, well, we both know a sweet, meek wife would bore ye.”

He laughed at that, the deep sound drifting through the warm air. “How right ye are.”

Bran climbed aboard the ferry and held out a hand to his wife.

And as he did so, an uneasiness quickened in his gut.

After ten days in the saddle, it felt odd to be traveling without his horse. He’d just sold them back to the horse trader he’d originally purchased the beasts from months earlier.

Nonetheless, his disquiet this morning was due to something else. The Isle of Mull lay across the water, and with it, his old life. His old identity .

“It looks as if it will be a calm enough crossing,” Makenna observed as she took hold of his hand and stepped onto the ferry.

“Aye,” he agreed. “We’ve timed things well.”

“I’m looking forward to seeing Tobermory,” she replied, smiling. The day before, he’d told her that the ferry would drop them there, where his birlinn had been moored for the past months. From there, it was a short journey to his castle.

“It’s a pretty port,” he agreed, cutting his gaze away.

“Is something amiss, Bran?”

Stiffening, he shook his head. Curse it, Makenna read him too well. “I always get a bit queasy on water,” he lied.

“Ye never said.”

“Aye, well … it’s embarrassing.”

Makenna harrumphed but thankfully let the subject drop. Instead, she made her way to the bow, where she arranged her skirts and settled herself on a wooden plank seat. Around them, his warriors also took their places, along with the other passengers who were traveling to Mull this morning.

Jaw clenched, Bran lowered himself next to his wife. Meanwhile, the ferry captain began barking orders at his crew as they untied the vessel from its mooring and prepared to cast off.

He’d been like a cat on a hot griddle since they’d arrived in Oban—ever since he’d made his way down to the docks the evening before, while Makenna soaked in a hot bath, and bought passage for their group on the morning ferry.

During the evening that followed, he’d been distracted when his wife talked to him and quieter than usual .

And now, as the ferry moved away from the docks, propelled by oars, Bran glanced back at where Oban’s busy quay bustled with sailors, locals, and travelers, with the tightly packed houses lining it. A wooded hillside rose behind the port, and the sky was pale blue this morning with wispy clouds.

Bran should have been excited about returning to Mull—but he wasn’t.

Old insecurities died hard, it seemed. His experiences over the past months had changed him, but everything back home would be the same.

His people would expect a sullen young clan-chief to return.

He remembered their smirks and whispered comments over the years.

How would they respond to him now? And, more importantly, how would he conduct himself?

But that wasn’t the only thing that bothered him.

The evening before, he’d made a choice, one he was already regretting. He’d told himself the past needed to be faced, but now he wasn’t so sure. However, reconciling with his sister was the right thing to do.

She might not want to see me .

Aye, that was a real possibility. The last time they’d seen each other, he’d said ugly things to Tara. Words he could never take back. Regret had gnawed at him for a long while now, despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise.

As they sailed away from Oban, and Mull’s dark outline etched the western sky, he started to feel lightheaded and queasy.

It wasn’t long before his sharp-eyed wife noticed something amiss.

“Shouldn’t we be heading north … rather than west?” she asked.

Bran didn’t answer, pretending he hadn’t heard .

She was silent for a short while before plucking at his sleeve. “Bran … isn’t that Craignure ?”

Tearing his gaze from where the row of cottages lined a white-sand beach, with a long wooden jetty thrusting out into clear water, Bran nodded. “It is.”

“I thought this ferry went direct to Tobermory?”

He shook his head, their gazes fusing.

Moments passed before understanding dawned in his wife’s eyes. “We’re going to Dounarwyse … aren’t we?”

“Aye,” he replied, wishing his voice wasn’t so strained.

He hoped Makenna wouldn’t start asking him questions.

He didn’t want to go into his reasons for this decision, although she was largely responsible.

He’d never forgotten her words on the day the Campbells had attacked their hunting party. They’d taunted him ever since.

Tara is a good woman … with a kind, generous soul. She wishes to be reconciled with ye. Why won’t ye bury the ax?

Makenna hadn’t let him blame his sister. She’d angered him at the time, but her words were like thorns that had worked their way under his skin. There was only one way to pluck the things out.

He had to see his sister, to try and put things right between them.

Wordlessly, Makenna reached out, taking his hand and entwining her fingers through his. “I’m with ye,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.

Bran’s heart kicked hard. This woman. “Thank ye,” he answered gruffly.

Dust devils scattered across Dounarwyse’s barmkin, ignored by the small crowd that had gathered there.

Rae, Kylie, and the chieftain’s two sons stood on the steps before the broch, looking on from a discreet distance while Tara faced her brother. Her husband, Jack, waited a couple of feet behind his wife. A wee lassie clung to her father’s leg, while he held a younger bairn in his arms.

However, Jack Maclean’s attention wasn’t focused on his daughters, but on his brother-by-marriage. His fern-green eyes sliced like ax blades into Bran.

Makenna had halted a few feet back, allowing her husband to face his sister without feeling crowded. And like everyone else, she waited for either Bran or Tara to speak.

The pair studied each other for a long while, each taking the other’s measure.

Tara looked well. Her long bright-red hair was unbound and whipped around her. Her face, the same shape as his, with the same stubborn chin, wore a guarded expression.

It struck Bran that she was bracing herself. She expected the first words out of his mouth to be harsh ones. He couldn’t blame her, for the last time they’d been face-to-face, he’d raged at her, had called her a ‘traitor’.

He cleared his throat then, unclenching his hands at his sides. It would help if he didn’t look as if he were about to throw himself into a fight. “I’m sorry, Tara.”

The words fell heavily in the silence.

Her eyes widened. A moment later, a nerve flickered on her cheek. She didn’t believe him. Of course, an apology wasn’t enough .

Huffing a sigh, Bran reached up and dragged a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t understand what drove ye to run away …

but I do now. I shouldn’t have cursed ye as I did.

And I should have been there when ye needed me.

” He swallowed then, wishing his throat didn’t sound so tight.

“It’s because of ye that Loch Maclean didn’t have me strung up by the neck from the walls … I’ve never forgotten that.”

He recalled then, the way his sister had sunk to her knees before the Maclean clan-chief, how she alone had begged for his life. At first, Maclean had been unmoved, but then, when Jack had stepped up next to his wife and asked him to heed her, he’d relented.

He owed his life to them both, yet he’d been heinously ungrateful at the time. Aye, he was alive but humiliated. He’d left Dounarwyse without speaking to his sister again and vowing never to do so. But ‘never’ was a long time.

“I’m cursed with our father’s stubborn pride, it seems,” he admitted after a few moments.

Tara’s throat worked. “I’m sorry too,” she replied huskily. “For leaving without telling ye. I was desperate and wasn’t sure I could trust ye not to betray me.”

The admission made him flinch, yet she was likely right. He didn’t know how he’d have reacted had she come to him in the hours before she escaped from Dùn Ara and bribed a fisherman to take her away in the dead of night.

“Life with our father wasn’t easy for me either,” he admitted after a brittle pause. “When ye fled, ye left me alone with the bastard.”

A muscle ticked in her jaw. “I know,” she whispered .

The pain in her eyes cut him to the quick. “Ye did what ye had to … I understand now.” Bran took a tentative step forward, his throat burning. “I’ve missed ye.”

With a strangled sob, Tara threw herself at him.

The force of their collision nearly knocked him off his feet. Righting himself, Bran hugged his sister tightly. His eyes stung dangerously as she sobbed against his chest.

Christ’s blood, he shouldn’t have left this for so long. Tara hadn’t deserved to be punished. And he’d spoken the truth. He had missed her. Losing her had left a chasm inside him that even Makenna couldn’t quite fill. He and his sister had a shared history.

“Fear not, we will be strangers no longer,” he assured Tara, stroking her back as she hiccoughed and attempted to knuckle away her tears. “Makenna plans to make regular trips here … and, if ye wish it, I shall join her.”

“Of course, I wish it!” Tara grabbed his hand, squeezing it so tightly that his bones creaked. “Ye are my brother … and I have missed ye too.”