Page 12 of The Chief's Wild Promise
Both men’s gazes swiveled to her, pinning her to the spot, but she held fast, meeting her betrothed’s glittering stare now. “Ye were promised a MacGregor bride, Mackinnon … and ye shall have one. I urge ye to rethink yer hasty words … and to remember that an alliance between our clans doesn’t just benefit my father butyetoo.”
Mackinnon’s lip curled. His response made her long to leap at him and punch the sneer off his beautifully molded mouth, yet she throttled it. Instead, she kept her clan’s future planted firmly in her mind.
“Our feuding with our neighbors has taken its toll on us … butyestill haven’t rallied from yer defeat against the Macleans. Ye need allies too, or have ye forgotten that?” Color rose to his high cheekbones at this, but she pressed on. “Aye, news of how difficult things have been for ye of late has reached us. Ye are alone in the north of Mull. Yer people resent ye for kneeling to Loch Maclean … and ye have struggled to rebuild yer strength.”
Moving forward, she grabbed the document off the table and waved it aloft.
What are ye doing?She was starting to feel a little lightheaded and sick. But now she’d started on this course, she wouldn’t halt. This was for her people. Her father wouldn’t be happy that she’d interceded, yet he’d thank her afterward.Ye hope.
“This parchment has caused enough dissension between our clans.” With that, before either man could stop her, she crossed to the hearth and threw the document upon it. The dry parchment went up like a torch, burning bright for a few instants before crumbling to ash. Turning from the hearth, Makenna found both her father and Mackinnon looking at her as if she’d just lost her wits. “It’s time to write a new one.”
“Makenna—” her father began roughly, his eyes dark with censure.
“We need each other,” she cut him off, irritation surging through her. These men were like two stags in rutting season. Anger had made them both lose sight of what really mattered. “While we waste time arguing over this marriage, the Campbells bay like wolves at our door … and the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara are but a shadow of what they used to be. It’s time to take a fresh sheet of parchment and make a new accord … one that benefits usequally.”
“And how exactly?” her father rumbled. However, some of the anger had leeched from his voice. He, at least, was listening to her. Meanwhile, Bran MacKinnon’s glower could have cut through granite.
Drawing in a deep breath, Makenna thought swiftly. “The MacGregors will send four lads to foster at Dùn Ara each year, and the Mackinnons will do the same. We will also start trading between us. The MacGregors will provide mutton and wool … three times a year … while the Mackinnons will supply us with salted cod, smoked herrings, and oak.” She paused then, an odd excitement quickening in her breast. She’d never led a discussion like this before. “Andwe shall see it written down that each clan shall promise to come to their ally’s aid ‘without question’, should either of us ever call for assistance.”
Mackinnon made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat. “Enough of this rot, woman,” he muttered. “My father already—”
“This agreement,yeshall sign,” she interrupted him, her pulse racing now. “In yer own blood if that’s what it takes … as shall my father.” She drew herself up then to her full height, which unfortunately was considerably less than his, and eyeballed him. “AndIshall bear witness to it.”
6: A FORCE OF NATURE
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.