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brAN LEFT THE clan-chief’s solar in a daze.

Numbly, he descended the steps to the ground level of the tower house, before he emerged, blinking, into the bailey. It was a bright morning, and the warm breeze carried the sweet scent of summer.

Halting on the cobbles, he watched the men sparring with wooden practice swords a few yards away. It was difficult to focus on them though, for he was still reeling from his meeting with the clan-chief and his daughter.

He’d heard of the MacGregors and their rebellious nature—but dealing with them was like trying to net the wind. He’d met Bruce and Makenna early, just after breaking his fast, but now noon was nearing.

Where had the time gone … but more importantly, what had he agreed to?

Reaching up, Bran dragged a hand over his face. He felt as if he’d just downed a horn of strong mead and then been clobbered over the back of the head.

He’d been so close to freedom—whatever the cost—yet Makenna MacGregor had ripped it from him.

And as she’d done so, she’d pointed out the humiliating truth.

The Mackinnons of Dùn Ara were no longer a force to be reckoned with.

He wouldn’t be remembered as a strong clan-chief, but one who’d lost the respect of his people.

Bran needed allies as much as the MacGregors did. He needed to prove himself.

Both he and her father had stood, poleaxed, as Makenna grabbed a fresh sheet of parchment, settled herself at the clan-chief’s desk, and helped herself to a quill. Then, dipping its nib in ink, she’d begun to write.

And now, a while later, he’d agreed to many things—including allowing one of their sons, should they have any, to foster at Meggernie. And damn him to Hades, he’d eventually picked up the quill and signed his name at the bottom of two duplicate agreements, next to Bruce MacGregor’s.

And now, in the aftermath, he felt sick.

Was the woman a witch? It was as if she’d woven an enchantment around him.

The MacGregor had also been stunned by Makenna’s efficiency, yet he’d made no move to stop her.

Bran’s gut clenched then, and he growled a curse. He was now locked into an agreement by his own hand. And he had the scroll tucked away inside his gambeson to prove it. He couldn’t even blame his father for this .

He would marry Makenna MacGregor, and the Mackinnons and the MacGregors would henceforth trade, share warriors, and send young men, including their own kin, to foster at each other’s strongholds. And should either clan require military support, they would travel to their aid.

Makenna had insisted both men sign, not with ink, but using their own blood.

The sting on the fleshy pad of his thumb now bore testament to what he’d done.

Scowling deeply, Bran turned right and made his way across the bailey to a small low-slung building next to the stables.

The infirmary. Upon leaving the clan-chief’s solar, he’d asked a servant to direct him to it.

He needed to think about something else for a short while, to distract himself from what had just transpired.

Ducking under the low lintel, he entered the dimly lit space. The pungent scent of herbs tickled his nose as he straightened up, his gaze traveling over rows of empty pallets to where Tadhg sat, propped up by a nest of pillows.

In one hand, he gripped a steaming cup of what was likely broth.

The woman sat at his side was nodding at something the warrior had just said. Carmen MacGregor, the clan-chief’s wife.

Bran’s step faltered. He didn’t want to see any of that family right now.

Hearing the thump of his boots on the wooden floorboards, both Tadhg and Carmen glanced his way. A moment later, Tadhg grimaced. There were dark shadows under the warrior’s eyes, and his face was slightly strained. Nonetheless, he looked much better than the eve before. “Mackinnon,” he grunted .

“Tadhg.” Bran made his way down the aisle between pallets, halting at the foot of the warrior’s bed. “On the mend?”

“I hope so.”

“The healer’s applied woundwort and wrapped his ribs with fresh bandages.” The clan-chief’s wife flashed Bran a reassuring smile. “He is on the mend.”

Bran nodded, uncomfortable now. An awkward silence then settled inside the infirmary.

Sensing his mood, the lady rose, a trifle stiffly, to her feet and pushed a curl of greying dark hair from her eyes. “I shall let ye lads talk without my flapping tongue intruding.”

Warmth rolled over Bran. God’s bones, where were his manners these days? “I’m sorry, Lady MacGregor,” he muttered. “I—”

“Don’t fash yerself.” She moved into the aisle and placed a motherly hand on his arm.

“I know when I’m not wanted.” She eyed him then, curiosity lighting in her dark-brown gaze.

Bran braced himself to be questioned, but instead, she nodded to Tadhg.

“I shall be back later … and if Cook’s in a good mood, there may be some shortbread in the afternoon. ”

Tadhg blinked. “Shortbread?”

“Aye … the best ye’ve had too.” With that, Lady MacGregor departed in a cloud of rose and musk perfume—the same scent her youngest daughter wore.

Alone with his warrior, Bran folded his arms across his chest. “They’re treating ye all right then?”

Tadhg gave a soft snort. “Aye … when they aren’t sticking me with a dirk.” He raised the cup to his lips and took a sip before sighing. “Good broth this. ”

Bran muttered an oath under his breath in reply, aware that the warrior—a man he’d grown up with at Dùn Ara—was now eyeing him over the rim of the steaming cup. “Something’s amiss?”

“Aye … ye could say that.”

Tadhg raised a dark eyebrow, inviting him to elaborate.

Frustration boiled over then, and Bran kicked at the stool next to him, sending it clattering to the floor. “I’ve nothing but shit between my ears!” he snarled.

Tadhg didn’t flinch. “Oh, aye?”

“By the saints … ye should have been born a man.” Makenna’s father crossed to the sideboard and poured two large goblets of wine.

She didn’t reply—in truth, she didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or insulted by such a comment. And that meeting left her exhausted.

Picking up the goblets, he turned and made his way back to where Makenna stood in front of the fire.

Like Mackinnon, who’d walked from the solar bewildered, her father wore a slightly glazed look on his face.

He handed Makenna her drink before shaking his head.

“I’ve never seen the like, lass … but such a victory deserves a toast.” He then held his goblet aloft, his green eyes glinting.

“To brazen, quick-witted daughters … ye have no need of a dirk or a sword, Makenna. Yer mind is sharper than any blade.” Ther e was respect in his voice, and surprise—for although her father had allowed her to serve in the Meggernie Guard, he’d done it as an indulgence.

He’d always underestimated his younger daughter, but he wouldn’t any longer.

Forcing a smile, she raised the goblet to her lips and took a sip. Wine was the last thing she wanted right now. She was still queasy from over-indulging the night before.

What have I done?

She’d been so caught up in salvaging the agreement her father had made, in putting Mackinnon in his place and securing the support her clan needed, she’d utterly cast aside her own wishes. If she’d kept her mouth shut, Mackinnon would likely have broken with her father.

Aye, things would have gotten ugly then, and blood might have been spilled. But now, instead, she’d made the relationship between the two clans watertight.

Hades, she’d even promised one of their sons would be fostered at Meggernie Castle.

“I think I might have gone too far,” she admitted huskily.

Her father harrumphed and took a large gulp of wine. “Nonsense. Ye were magnificent. Mackinnon slunk out of here like a beaten dog!”

Makenna’s pulse stuttered, and she inwardly cringed on her husband-to-be’s behalf.

She’d shamed him, and part of her was sorry for it.

All the same, his capitulation had surprised her.

He’d been so angry initially, but when she’d burned the document that his father had signed, something akin to respect had flared in his silvery eyes .

Suddenly, she’d been in control of the meeting. It had been a heady sensation, and she’d pushed her advantage. She couldn’t believe she’d had the nerve to take a seat at her father’s desk and write a new agreement. She’d never before done something so bold.

In the end, she’d written two copies of the same document, and both clan-chiefs had signed it in their own blood.

And now it was done.

For a moment, she’d spied an escape from this union—but then, she had been the one to slam the door shut in her face. Frankly, she felt like weeping, not toasting to their success.

Oblivious to her inner turmoil, the clan-chief strode to the table, where his copy of the agreement still lay.

“This is better than I could have hoped for,” he said, picking up the parchment and scanning it once more.

“Not only will I have military aid, but trade. Meggernie will prosper.” His gaze glinted then.

“The extra men will be useful when I deal with those devil-spawn Campbells.”

Makenna didn’t reply. She literally couldn’t. Her throat now felt as if a plum lodged there, threatening to choke her. She too wanted to take on their foes—but soon she’d be far from Meggernie.

Meanwhile, her father rolled up the agreement and secured it with a leather tie before carrying it across to an alcove in the wall.

There, he pulled out a key from a pouch on his belt, inserted it into a lock, and opened the iron lid before placing the valuable document inside.

He then firmly closed his safe box and deposited the key back in its pouch .

Turning back to Makenna, he flashed her a victorious grin. “Come, lass … let’s join everyone for the noon meal. We have happy news to share.”