Page 13 of The Chief's Wild Promise

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. “Heison 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.” There 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.