Page 35

SEATED IN DOUNARWYSE’S hall, at Bran’s side, Makenna watched him talk to his sister.

They were so alike, with many of the same mannerisms. The jut of the chin when they disagreed. The narrowing of the eyes. And the same bright, playful smile when they were amused.

Tara had become a friend during her stay here the year before, and she’d marked the sadness in the woman’s eyes when she’d spoken of her brother all those months ago.

Earlier in the day, it had surprised Makenna to see Craignure looming on the horizon. She’d known something was amiss though; Bran hadn’t been himself ever since their arrival in Oban. She’d sensed something was gnawing at him, and had thought it had more to do with his imminent return to Dùn Ara.

However, his decision to mend things with his sister impressed her.

They’d avoided speaking about Tara over the past two months. Aye, there had been many times when Makenna wanted to bring the subject up, to gently press him into confronting the past, but she’d choked the words down every time.

Bran knew how she felt—and she’d decided to let it lie. For the time being, at least.

But unbeknown to her, he had been thinking over things. And better yet, he’d made up his own mind.

Farther down the table, Kylie also observed brother and sister catching up on the years lost. A soft smile curved her lips, and her oak-colored eyes were luminous. Like Makenna, she understood what this meant to Tara. To them both.

“Uncle Bran,” a sweet voice trilled then. “Can I sit on yer lap?”

Wee Grace, who was currently sitting with her father, flashed Bran a shy smile.

The lass, who was around three summers old, had been watching her uncle with wide, fascinated eyes.

“Aye,” Bran replied, answering her smile with one of his own. “If yer Da permits it.”

Jack gave a grunt before nodding. Throughout the meal, he’d watched his brother-by-marriage warily. He was slower to forgive and forget than his wife, yet there was warmth in his green eyes now as he let his daughter slide to the floor and clamber under the table.

A moment later, Bran picked her up and let her perch on his knee.

The lass turned to look at him. “Ye are bonnie.”

Bran huffed a laugh, his smoky eyes twinkling now. “ Bonnie , eh? ”

She reached up then, her small fingers brushing his wavy hair. “It’s the same color as Ma’s.”

“That’s because she’s my sister.”

“Like me and Arabella?”

“Aye.”

The lassie continued to look at him, in that unabashed way that bairns possessed. “Arabella is annoying.”

Bran’s mouth twitched at this, while Tara made a disapproving sound. Ignoring her mother, Grace went on. “She cries too much … and pulls my hair.”

“She doesn’t do that on purpose, love,” Jack answered with a wry shake of his head. “Ye will insist on treating her like one of yer poppets.”

Meanwhile, the bairn in question made a gurgling sound as she chewed a piece of bread. She’d heard her name uttered and was delighted.

Grace pouted at her father’s gentle reprimand.

Something tugged at Makenna as she watched softness settle over her husband’s face. He’d make a wonderful father one day. Despite that they coupled regularly, her womb hadn’t yet quickened. They still had plenty of time though.

“Sisters can be annoying sometimes,” Bran said, pushing one of Grace’s auburn curls off her forehead. He then flicked Tara a cheeky smile before focusing on his niece once more. “But life is so much sadder without them.”

Bran’s eyes fluttered shut as his climax barreled into him. Heat exploded in his lower back, pleasure pulsing through his loins and belly. Gasping, he arched into Makenna, spilling deep inside her.

She cried out—a sound halfway between a sob and a squeal, and one that never ceased to thrill him—her fingernails raking down his back.

They clung together in the aftermath, the rasp of their ragged breathing filling the bedchamber.

“Woman,” Bran panted against her neck as he propped himself up on his elbows. “I swear, one of these days, ye shall stop my heart.”

She giggled, wrapping her strong legs around his hips and pulling him close.

He was still buried within her, and neither of them wanted to separate.

Her mouth then found his, and she kissed him.

They clung like that for a while, savoring slow, tender kisses while their pulses slowed and the sweat cooled on their bodies.

Tumbling Makenna was like riding a storm. Each time they came together, she gave herself passionately, wildly—and he answered her with equal hunger.

Tonight though, after he’d reconciled with his sister, he felt a freeness with his wife that hadn’t been there before.

He was now ready to tell her the words that had been burning within him for a while.

Drawing back slightly, he cupped her face and stared down into her limpid moss-green eyes. “I love ye, Makenna,” he whispered. “Deeply, madly. ”

Her pupils grew large, her lips—swollen from their passion—parting. “I’ve been longing to hear those words,” she whispered. “I’ve been wanting to say them too … but I was shy.”

He gave a soft snort.

Her lips curved, making her cheek dimple. “Aye … I can be demure about some things, ye know?”

He laughed, and she gave his cheek a playful slap. “Knave!”

He caught her hand and placed a kiss on her palm. “I love all that ye are, Makenna,” he murmured. “Never forget it.”

“And I love ye too, Bran.” Her eyes gleamed with tears now, her voice husky. “I am so grateful that fate brought us together.”

He smiled. “It wasn’t fate, lass … but our ambitious, power-hungry fathers.”

“It was,” she admitted with a soft laugh. “I spent years dreading meeting ye … but now, I don’t ever wish for us to be parted.”

Lifting his hand, Bran swept away a tear that rolled down her cheek with his thumb. He swallowed then. Like her, his emotions boiled close to the surface tonight. For years, he’d believed happiness would never find him, but his marriage to Makenna had taught him that he did deserve it, after all.

“I have little to thank my father for,” he admitted roughly. “Yet the day he made an alliance with yers, he unwittingly did something I will always be grateful for.”

She nodded, staring up at him. The love in her eyes made it difficult to breathe.

However, as the moment drew out, and the joy and excitement of their tumbling faded a little, the worries that had plagued him ever since leaving Meggernie returned. His jaw tightened.

Makenna’s brow furrowed. “Ye have that look on yer face again.”

He stilled. “What look?”

“The one that means ye are worrying about something ye are keeping to yerself.”

Bran grimaced. She was right. He didn’t want to admit his fears to her. There was a part of him—even after the trust they’d built—that worried she’d think less of him if he did.

But when her gaze narrowed, it was clear she wouldn’t let this lie.

Eventually, he huffed a sigh. “Ye know the folk of Dùn Ara have never fully accepted me?”

She nodded, her green eyes shadowing. “I reminded ye of it when ye signed that agreement, remember?”

He grimaced. Aye, of course. It shouldn’t have surprised him to learn that all of Mull had been gossiping about him, yet the knowledge had stung all the same.

“When we lost to the Macleans and I returned home, defeated, there were moments when I thought they’d rise up against me.” Cold washed over him as he remembered those fraught days. “But luckily, many members of my Guard were loyal to my family … and thanks to them, I remained clan-chief.”

He fell silent then before raking a hand through his hair. Why was this so hard?

“With the passing of the years, things improved … slightly … but the fact remains that when I departed Dùn Ara, few folk bothered to see me off … and many would prefer I didn’t return.”

“But if ye didn’t, who would rule?”

He pulled a face. “I’ve got a cousin who has a holding at Croig, west of my castle, who’d be only too happy to take my place.”

Her frown deepened. “Are ye worried he’s tried something while ye were away?”

Bran shook his head. “I’d trust the Captain of the Guard with my life … but the fact remains, ye may find we get a lackluster welcome at Dùn Ara. I want ye to be prepared.”

A steely look flared in the depths of her eyes, which was a relief, for the last thing he wanted was to see pity or scorn there.

“However they respond, ye shall walk in there with yer head held high,” she replied, her voice turning fierce.

“And I will be at yer side.” She reached up then, her hand cupping his face.

“I’m proud that ye are my husband, Bran, and I dare anyone to challenge me on it. ”