Page 6

ALONE IN HIS bedchamber, Bran crossed to the leather satchels the servants had carried upstairs.

Finally.

He dug around inside one of them until he found the scroll he’d brought with him. The urge to rip it open thrummed through him. But, making himself wait, he poured himself a large cup of wine first. He’d refrained from drowning himself in the stuff during supper and the Bealtunn celebrations.

He was already close to storming from Meggernie, and it would take little to persuade him.

All evening, the MacGregor clan-chief had shouted in his ear.

The man had a hide like a boar too. He’d been deliberately impervious to every accusation Bran hurled his way.

The man was desperate to make this alliance work; that much was clear.

Makenna hadn’t been as restrained with the wine. The lass had downed cups like an alehouse slattern. And by the time her sisters had escorted her back to the castle, her cheeks were apple-red, and she’d stumbled over her feet.

Taking a much-needed gulp of the rich, peppery wine, Bran crossed to where a log of pine smoldered in the hearth.

MacGregor had given him a chamber that was comfortable enough, although right now, it felt like a cage.

The urge to saddle his horse and gallop away into the night seized him once more, yet he quashed it.

Mackinnons didn’t run from their enemies.

Face screwing up, he took another slug of wine.

Aye, Macleans surrounded him here, and his father’s killer was sleeping under the same roof.

Bran’s grip on his cup tightened. The pirate had been laughing at him tonight.

Did he think him a fazart? Maybe he should challenge Rankin to a fight to the death.

Aye, that would help, he chastised himself. As if ye don’t have enough to contend with.

Of course, such behavior would just make him look rash, young and foolish—as would his continued angry outbursts. He had to change focus.

Draining the rest of his cup, Bran untied the leather tie that had been wrapped around the scroll, unfurled the parchment, and lowered himself onto a stool.

He then read the agreement his father had made with Bruce MacGregor.

It hadn’t been written by his father, for he’d have recognized Kendric Mackinnon’s spiky hand anywhere.

Instead, the lettering was neater and written with care.

The document outlined the force the MacGregors would bring to their aid: three twenty-oar birlinns and one hundred warriors.

It had been generous—especially since Meggernie was landlocked and MacGregor had bought those birlinns especially for the campaign—but not without its price.

In return, Kendric Mackinnon promised the hand of his son, Bran, to Sonia—MacGregor’s eldest daughter.

His pulse took off at a gallop. Sonia. There it was. He hadn’t been mistaken.

Bran’s fingers tightened around the parchment, his stomach swooping. Suddenly, it was as if the door to his cage had just swung open. For the first time in four years, he could see daylight.

God’s teeth, he was a lucky bastard.

Indeed, he’d just found a way out of this marriage.

His gaze traveled down then, to where his father had signed his name next to Bruce MacGregor’s, at the bottom of the agreement. Heart still pounding, his mind traveled back to a past he’d tried hard to forget.

His father hadn’t been himself in those final days. His lust for power and drive to dominate the Macleans, to crush them into dust, had blinded him to all else. And after Tara’s disappearance, his already quick temper had become dangerously volatile. He’d been impatient. Reckless.

Despite his exhilaration from his discovery, the lingering taste of wine turned sour in Bran’s mouth.

He’d have signed his son’s life away to get him what he craved.

As it was, Bran had only dared to complain once about the arrangement.

The words had barely left his mouth when the clan-chief lashed out at him.

He’d ended up lying on the floor, winded, while his father stood over him, hand fisted to strike again.

“What was that, son?” he’d asked, his casual tone at odds with the anger burning in his eyes.

Bran swallowed, bitter memories tightening his throat.

He’d had no say in this marriage, but he was no longer a callow youth ruled over by a tyrannical father. He was clan-chief now and wouldn’t be manipulated any longer.

Instead, it was his turn to take control—and this letter would give him the means.

Re-rolling the document and securing its leather tie, Bran placed it upon the mantelpiece. “Tomorrow, MacGregor,” he spoke aloud to the empty chamber, “ye and I shall have a chat.”

“It is written here … in yer own hand, I’d wager.”

A quiet vindication curled through Bran as he watched the clan-chief’s features tighten. Of course, when he’d brought up the subject, the clan-chief had tried to bluff and bluster his way out of it.

But Bran had held fast—and now that he unrolled the document upon the table in the solar, his finger tracing the line in question, the clan-chief couldn’t pretend he was making things up. MacGregor now eyed the document warily, as if he expected it to bite him.

Silence fell in the solar then. Bran made no move to shatter it. No, he’d let MacGregor think about how he’d answer him. For the first time since his arrival, he had the upper hand .

As he waited though, he cast a glance at the woman standing by the hearth.

Arms folded across her chest, Makenna was scowling. Nonetheless, her eyes were shadowed.

Bran’s heart kicked hard. She knew.

He’d made a point of insisting the clan-chief call his daughter in before raising the matter. After all, this agreement affected them both. All the same, he’d expected this to be news to her—and that she’d fly into a temper and refuse to marry him.

But she’d done no such thing.

When Makenna had stridden into the solar earlier, she’d brought the scent of rose and fresh air with her.

Her cheeks were still pink from being up on the walls.

He’d expected her eyes to be bloodshot, and her expression pinched after all the wine she’d downed the eve before, yet she looked annoyingly fresh.

She still carried a dirk at one hip, although managed to look ladylike, all the same.

Perhaps it was her well-brushed hair, with neat, slender braids at the sides, or the well-cut surcote and kirtle.

Even the leather chausses she wore underneath her skirts, and her supple boots, didn’t detract from her appeal.

Bran caught himself then.

Appeal? What in Hades was he doing?

Makenna met his eye, her chin rising in a silent challenge. Bran answered it, his gaze narrowing as their stare drew out.

Eventually, MacGregor cleared his throat, intruding on their silent combat. Tearing his attention back to the clan-chief, Bran noted the older man now wore a pained expression.

“Aye … yer father insisted that he wished for my eldest daughter’s hand,” he said, his voice gruff, “and so I agreed.” Reaching up, he rubbed at his shaven chin.

“I tried to offer my youngest instead, but he wasn’t interested.

He never asked me if Sonia was already wed though … and I didn’t put him right.”

Bran scowled. “And why not?”

MacGregor’s wide mouth lifted at the corners in a rueful smile.

He then gestured to the document that lay between them.

“It’s all written there. Not only did yer father promise to unite our families in marriage …

but he promised ongoing support. Warriors.

Weapons.” The clan-chief paused then. “And until now, I have asked for nothing.”

Bran pulled a face. “Aye, I read it … but he promised those things believing that he’d take Dounarwyse.” Heat kindled in his belly. “When the tide turned against us, our allies deserted us. Ye and the MacNabs couldn’t retreat fast enough. Ye left us at the mercy of the Macleans.”

The accusation fell heavily in the warm, smoky air.

That was the crux of it. He didn’t want to marry a woman not of his choosing—and especially not one who’d tried to kill him—but his bitterness wasn’t just at his father.

He resented this clan-chief as well. When the Mackinnons needed them, the MacGregors had let them down.

MacGregor eventually shattered the brittle silence.

A deep groove had etched between his coarse eyebrows, and his green eyes had hardened.

“That’s the nature of war, lad . Mackinnon bought our loyalty …

but that didn’t mean we intended to go to the grave with him should the battle not go his way.

He knew that too. If the tables had been turned, yer father would have done the same. ”

The heat in Bran’s belly started to pulse. The bastard wasn’t even embarrassed, or contrite .

Stepping back from the table, he folded his arms across his chest. “The fact remains that ye lied , MacGregor.”

The clan-chief snorted. “A wee falsehood … and one that hurts no one. Yer father insulted me , by rejecting my offer of Makenna’s hand.

” He gestured to the lass in question then, who’d held her tongue during the exchange yet was now looking decidedly uncomfortable.

“My youngest daughter has as much value as my eldest. Had yer father lived, he would have come around to the idea. Makenna is bonnie and sturdy … she will make ye a fine wife.”

She made a soft choking sound at this. Bran didn’t blame her. MacGregor had just spoken of her as if she were a carthorse.

Bran didn’t look her way though. “If ye won’t honor yer promises, why should I?”

Freedom was close now. Soon he’d be riding away from Perthshire, never to return.