Page 1 of The Chief's Wild Promise

1: A KNIFE TO THE THROAT

Southwest of Meggernie Castle

Perthshire, Scotland

Late April, 1319

THE JOURNEY HAD been uneventful—until they were within three miles of their destination.

It was close to dusk. The last of the sun was filtering through the woodland of sycamore, beech, and oak, and the sky above had turned indigo. Bran rode at the head of the company of forty men he’d brought from Dùn Ara. It was unseasonably cold, so he’d pulled his fur-lined cloak close. And as his horse traveled the narrow path between a thick press of trees and a tangle of hawthorn and elder, he silently cursed his father for making an agreement he’d felt obliged to keep.

Surely, a clan-chief could choose his own bride? However, just under four years earlier, Kendric Mackinnon made a pactwith the MacGregor clan-chief. And now, here his son was, about to be shackled to a woman he’d never met.

Bran’s belly tightened then, frustration clutching hard. His old man was still controlling him—even from beyond the grave. He hated that his life wasn’t his own. He was nothing but a pawn.

Nonetheless, he’d done his best to delay this moment. He’d left his arrival as late as possible. It was now the eve of Bealtunn. His plan was to marry the woman with a minimum of fuss and depart for home as soon as possible.

He didn’t want to linger at Meggernie.

The snapping of twigs underfoot yanked Bran from his brooding.

His chin jerked up as a host of warriors burst onto the path ahead of him.

Dirks gleaming in the gloaming, they rushed at Bran and his men.

“To arms!” he bellowed, swinging down from his courser and drawing his dirk. No sooner had he done so, when their attackers were on them.

The clash of steel rang through the shadowy woodland, followed by curses.

Fury ignited in Bran’s gut.

What devilry is this?They were within striking distance of Meggernie and should have been safe in its shadow. Instead, this wild mob had appeared. And a feral-looking warband they were, with long tangled hair, worn leathers, and weather-stained cloaks. God’s teeth, there were dozens of the bastards, rushing from the trees on all sides.

Teeth gritted, Bran ducked the swipe of a blade and kicked the feet out from under his attacker. Chaos had erupted on the path through the woods. The wagons following his men, drawn by feather-footed garrons, lurched to a halt. Meanwhile, the horses he and his men had been riding squealed, leaping out of the way of the struggling figures.

A hiss of pain cut through the air behind him—whether it was friend or foe, he wasn’t sure. An agonized grunt followed, although Bran was too busy fighting to risk a glance over his shoulder. He brought his dirk up sharply then, just in time to prevent a blade to the belly.

Hades, these bastards were out for blood.

Ducking under his attacker’s guard he jabbed hard, slicing open his arm. The warrior grunted a curse and reeled back. Bran spun on his heel then, to see that one of his men had indeed been felled and lay groaning a few feet away. He couldn’t stop to help him. Instead, he swung left, just as a cloaked figure rushed at him, longsword thrusting.

He side-stepped swiftly, wishing there had been time for him to unstrap his heavy claidheamh-mòr from behind the saddle. A dirk was all well and good in close quarters, but his attacker’s slender, lethal longsword made their fight decidedly one-sided. It was all he could do to fend off the slashing blade.

The warrior was smaller than him, their face hidden by a deep cowl, yet they fought viciously. Their duel continued, and the cloaked figure lunged.

Bran leaped backward, and as he did so, his foot caught on a tree root. The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, looking up at the trees and the darkening sky.

The following moment, he found the cold, sharp tip of a blade at his throat.

“Don’t breathe … if ye know what’s good for ye.”

Bran went rigid, not just because of the threat, but because the voice that had growled it was female. And as he stared up at his attacker, she raised her free hand and pushed back her hood. Cool moss-green eyes raked over him—and then she froze when her gaze reached his chest.

Staring up at her, Bran took in a strong-featured face, stubborn jaw, and full lips. She was young, no older than him, he reckoned, and under other circumstances, he might have found her comely.

But since this lass had just bested him, humiliation bit hard.

“Ye’re a Mackinnon.” Her words sounded more like an accusation than an observation. Of course, she’d just spied his plaid clan sash—a cross-hatching of red, blue, green, purple, and white. Earlier, it hadn’t been visible, for he’d wrapped his cloak about him to ward off the chill.