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“I won’t expect ye to remember everyone’s names right away, lad …

but allow me to introduce the rest of my family.

” MacGregor went on. He seemed to have recovered from the news that one of his villages had been attacked—and the shock of learning that his daughter had tried to kill her betrothed—and his hearty manner was firmly back in place.

Nonetheless, to Bran, it seemed a little strained, as if he was trying to force an atmosphere of good cheer.

“Th is is my bonnie wife, Carmen.” He gestured next to the two sets of couples behind him.

A group of bairns followed them—the eldest of whom looked around twelve summers, the youngest around four or five.

“And here are my two other daughters … Sonia and Alma … their husbands , Connor MacFarlane and Rory Lamont … and their broods.”

Bran fought the urge to frown.

Sonia . That name tugged at a memory. It reminded him of something he just couldn’t place. A moment later though, it came to him.

His father had mentioned that name. He remembered other details too then.

Hadn’t he been promised to the eldest of the daughters …

to a lass named ‘Sonia’? Not Makenna. That didn’t make sense—but maybe he’d misheard his father.

Both Sonia and Alma looked at least a decade older than him and were clearly wedded.

Indeed, after meeting all five of MacGregor’s daughters, it was obvious that Makenna was the youngest of the brood.

Something strange was afoot here.

Bran’s skin prickled then.

Fortunately, he had a document in his baggage, one that his father and MacGregor had both signed.

Since his father had explained the agreement he’d made to him, Bran had never bothered to glance at it over the years.

In truth, he’d been loath to touch the cursed thing that bound him to a woman he’d never met.

But as soon as he had a moment alone, he’d make sure to refamiliarize himself with the terms of their agreement.

His pulse quickened. Had he just discovered a way out of this marriage ?

“And, of course … ye have already met Makenna.” The clan-chief’s dry tone caused an explosion of smothered coughs and smiles from around them.

Bran didn’t share their amusement. And neither did Makenna. His betrothed’s cheeks were flushed, her jaw set. She didn’t look any happier than him.

The lass had changed clothing since he’d seen her last though and tidied herself up.

She now wore a becoming dark-blue surcote over a sky-blue kirtle.

The garments fitted her small, compact form perfectly, accentuating the swell of her hips and the dip of her waist. Her hair was unbound, falling over her shoulders in glistening waves.

Aye, his betrothed was comely enough, although right now, Bran would have preferred to have wed the Bean Nighe herself.

They all seated themselves around the clan-chief’s table—a tight squeeze with so many present. Servants had added a trestle table at each end to accommodate everyone.

Once again, a familiar emptiness tugged at Bran’s insides. What would it have been like to have grown up with such a big family? All the same, he wasn’t sure he’d have wanted five sisters. Tara had been enough.

Trying to focus, he took the seat he was directed to. Unfortunately, he was between the clan-chief and his betrothed. Nonetheless, he was relieved to be seated far from Maclean and Rankin. He had nothing to say to either of them.

Serving lads appeared then, carrying huge tureens of what smelled like venison stew and baskets of oaten bread.

The aroma was delicious, and Bran’s belly rumbled. Nonetheless, he couldn’t focus on the food. Not after the events of the past couple of hours. And meanwhile, that agreement was sitting in his bag upstairs, waiting to be read. He itched to get his hands on it.

“Yer warriors have had their injuries dressed, Mackinnon … and our healer is taking good care of Tadhg.” Carmen MacGregor met his gaze from where she sat on the clan-chief’s other side.

Her voice was warm and heavily accented.

Bran recognized the inflection, for he’d met a few foreign merchants who docked at Tobermory and Dùn Ara over the years.

He’d wager the woman was Iberian. “All he needs now is time.”

Bran nodded, forcing himself to soften his expression a little. The woman was gracious, and he couldn’t bring himself to be rude to her. “Let us hope he’ll rally.”

“Och, he will, laddie.” MacGregor slapped him on the back, with such force that Bran nearly splattered hot stew over himself. “No hard feelings, eh?”

Bran bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from snarling at the clan-chief. The man was laying it on thick now. Laddie . Did MacGregor think he was a swaddled bairn?

And as for ‘no hard feelings?’ “Aye, well, we’ll see,” he muttered.

“How about a smile, eh?” MacGregor boomed in his ear. “This is no place for such a miserable face. Ye are about to wed my bonnie daughter!”

“Yer ‘bonnie daughter’ attacked me,” Bran shot back. “Why should I rejoice about our union?”

MacGregor snorted, brushing his comment aside. “It was but a misunderstanding … one Makenna is very sorry for.”

Bran had to hand it to him. MacGregor was doing a fine job of trying to blether his way out of a tense situation. It wouldn’t work though. He wasn’t appeased .

“She doesn’t appear sorry,” he answered coldly. It was true. The lass didn’t look remotely contrite. Instead, she sat next to him, her chin tilted at a defiant angle, her eyes slightly narrowed.

“Of course she is. Come, lad. Put it behind ye now.”

Bran glared at the clan-chief. His gut was in knots, killing his appetite. Farther down the table, he caught Alec Rankin’s smirk, and his temper flared bright once more.

“Does something amuse ye, Rankin?” he growled.

To his ire, the pirate’s smile merely widened.