Page 37

Two months later …

MAKENNA LISTENED TO the cook prattle on, barely restraining herself from tapping her toe in impatience. She was late.

“We shall have venison stew at least twice this week, Lady Mackinnon,” Donald enthused, rubbing his hands together. “We have plenty of meat after yer successful hunt.”

Makenna nodded, managing to keep the encouraging smile still plastered to her face.

Indeed, she and Bran had returned to the castle with five deer hinds just a couple of days earlier.

It had been a chance for her to further explore the rugged hills, deep corries, and sprawling woodlands of northern Mull.

She’d been here two moons, and Bran had wanted to take her out hunting before the weather turned .

They’d stayed out for three days, camping overnight in a shallow valley with the small group of warriors who’d joined them.

Sitting by a fire under the stars, listening as the men told stories and tried to outdo each other with boasts, had filled her with contentment.

She could have explored the wilderness for a few days longer, but home, and the duties that awaited them there, called.

And one such duty was regular meetings with the castle cook. She liked Donald, yet he’d been talking her ear off for a while now. She had somewhere else to be.

“That’s excellent,” she said, taking a step backward toward the open door of the kitchen. “I’ll just—”

“Can ye take a look at the spence with me, Lady Mackinnon?” he asked, eyes bright. “I’m running low on spices … we shall need to order more.”

Makenna swallowed a sigh before casting an eye over the surrounding kitchen.

The large oaken table that dominated it was scrubbed clean, and kitchen assistants worked industriously at it, chopping vegetables for the noon meal.

“Very well,” she murmured. “The clan-chief will be putting an order in soon … let’s see what’s needed. ”

Donald nodded eagerly before moving toward the archway at the far end of the rectangular kitchen. “This way.”

It was a while later when Makenna finally stepped outside into the barmkin and heaved a deep sigh.

“By the Saints,” she muttered. “The man’s harder to escape than a gossiping fishwife. ”

The morning sun warmed her face, although the air was crisp, for it was mid-September.

Life had been busy of late. The day before, they’d just sent off their first shipment of smoked herrings to Meggernie—a haul her father would receive with delight—and any day now, a cog was due with a cargo of Breadalbane wool.

As always, the barmkin was a hive of activity.

Stable lads swept out soiled straw from the stables and used a fork to heap it up onto the back of a cart.

One of the kitchen lasses was scattering grain for the clutch of fowl that provided eggs for the castle.

The farrier was shoeing a horse, and two warriors were arguing about something by the gate.

Makenna’s gaze flicked upward, and she caught sight of a flash of fiery hair.

Bran was up on the walls, talking to Finlay.

They were discussing something important, it seemed, and things were getting animated as they gesticulated with their hands.

She smiled as she watched them. Bran and Finlay had a good rapport, one built on mutual respect.

She noted then that the sun was almost directly overhead. The noon meal was approaching. Donald had kept her even longer than she’d first thought.

Shifting her attention from her husband, Makenna looked over at the smith’s forge. Bac’s bulky form filled the interior as he hammered out a horseshoe for the farrier.

Anticipation quickened within her. Finally. He’d wonder what had kept her.

Shortly after her arrival at Dùn Ara, she’d visited the smith and made a commission—one she’d asked him to keep secret. The day before, he’d let her know it was ready. She needed to collect the item she’d asked him to make .

Keeping an eye on where Bran still spoke to Finlay, Makenna hurried across the cobbled expanse. She didn’t want her husband to spot her going into the forge. Nonetheless, the stable lads working nearby turned as she walked by.

“Lady Mackinnon,” they both greeted her respectfully.

She nodded back at them, reflecting that it was difficult for her to sneak up on anyone. The rattling of the heavy set of chatelaine keys that now hung from her belt warned others that Lady Mackinnon approached.

Her life was busier than ever these days.

When she wasn’t training with her husband or discussing the defense of the castle and the management of their lands, she was organizing servants and running the household.

There was barely time to retreat to her solar or linger in her beloved rose garden in the afternoons, but she always made sure she did.

It was easy to get swept away by all the things that needed to be done, but in the quiet moments, Makenna could put her thoughts in order.

Spending time alone every day kept her calm, focused.

Reaching the forge, she ducked inside.

Bac glanced up from hammering yet another horseshoe as she entered, a grin splitting his sweaty red face. “Morning, Lady Mackinnon.”

She flashed him a contrite smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Och, it’s nae bother.” He stepped away from his anvil, rubbing a stiff muscle in his back as he did so. “I was behind on work this morning anyway.” He flashed her another wide smile. “However, yer commission is ready, as promised.”

Moving to the back of his forge, he picked up a sword sheathed in an embossed leather scabbard. Turning to face her, he then withdrew the blade from the case .

Steel glinted in the ruddy light of the forge, and Makenna’s breathing caught. She then murmured an oath.

Bac’s eyes shone with pride as he crossed to her and handed Makenna the longsword. Gripping its pommel, she tested its weight and balance. Then, stepping back, lest she catch the smith with its sharp edge, she made a few practice strikes and feints.

“What do ye think?” Bac asked eagerly. “It’s been a while since I crafted anything so fine.”

Grinning, she lowered the sword. “It’s perfect.”

When Makenna climbed up to the walls, she found her husband standing near the northern watchtower, looking out over the sea. He’d finished his discussion with Finlay. The captain had gone down to the barmkin and was now talking to the guards at the gate.

A brisk breeze had stirred the water up, white caps foaming now. Placing her hand on her rattling keys, she approached as quietly as possible before stepping up to his side.

Bran cut her a surprised look. “Where did ye come from?”

Makenna laughed, turning to face him.

He observed her for a moment, a quizzical expression flitting across his features. “What have ye got behind yer back?”

“A gift.”

“For me?”

“Aye, mo chridhe … would ye like it?”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Of course.”

Smiling, she brought the sword, encased in its beautifully stitched and worked scabbard, into view.

Bran’s eyes snapped wide. “Ye had a sword made? ”

“Aye, Bac’s been hard at work on it since I arrived here … and luckily, the smith knows how to keep a secret.”

Her husband took the sword, his gaze still awed. “Bac used to forge weapons for the Mackinnons of Skye,” he murmured. “But these days, he insists he’s too old for such work.”

“I had to do some convincing,” she replied, noting the reverent way he held the blade. “Bac and I both agreed that ye needed a new sword. ‘Bonestrike’ doesn’t suit ye.”

Bran snorted. “That’s why it now adorns the wall of my solar,” he replied. “My father’s claidheamh-mòr never sat easily in my hand.”

“After watching ye fight, I knew a longsword would suit ye better,” she replied softly. “Ye are quick and light on yer feet … and this blade will help ye take advantage of yer speed.”

Flashing her a grin, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and drew the sword from its scabbard. The folded steel blade with its twin sharp edges gleamed in the bright noon sun. “Bac is a master,” he murmured, admiring the workmanship.

“Aye,” she agreed. “But now, ye must name this blade … what will it be?”

He stepped back from her and tested the sword. It whispered through the air. “It shines as if it were made of ice,” he said, his voice awed now. “And it will have a cold, vicious bite.” His gaze glinted then. “I shall name it ‘Winterthorn’.”

“Winterthorn,” Makenna tested the name out for herself. “A good choice.”

Bran tried out a few more moves with his new sword, and she noted how well-matched they were. Her instinct for what weapon he needed had been on the mark. Satisfied, he sheathed the blade and buckled the scabbard around his narrow hips .

He then focused his attention wholly on Makenna. “No one has ever given me something so special,” he murmured.

“Ye like it then?” she asked, warmth flowing through her.

“Aye.” He moved close and caught her around the waist, drawing her in for a hot, passionate kiss.

Reaching out, Makenna grabbed his gambeson, fisting the quilted material as the kiss deepened.

They were in full view of everyone here, up on the walls, but neither of them cared.

Once, Makenna had been embarrassed about displaying affection in public, although those days were now far behind her.

She loved Bran and didn’t care who witnessed it.

And over the past two months, the people of Dùn Ara had gotten used to seeing their laird and lady show each other affection.

When they finally drew apart, breathless now, heat pooled in the cradle of Makenna’s hips. Suddenly, she wished to forget about the looming noon meal and instead drag her husband up to their bedchamber.

The look that burned in his grey eyes told her he was thinking along the same lines.

“The sword is fine indeed,” he said roughly, reaching out and cupping her cheek, “but it is the love and thoughtfulness that prompted ye to commission the blade that touches me more.”

Her throat tightened. “Ye deserve it,” she whispered. “I wanted ye to finally have a weapon worthy of ye.”

He swallowed, his eyes glistening now. “My fierce, bonnie wife,” he whispered. “Have I told ye how much I love ye?”

Her lips tugged into a smile as she raised her hand to cover his upon her cheek. “Many times, dear husband … but go on … tell me again.”