Page 3 of The Chief's Wild Promise
Makenna MacGregor carried herself proudly. Despite that mud splattered the hem of her cloak, he could see that it was of fine weave. Her boots, too, were well made, and when she’d moved back from him earlier and her cloak parted, he’d seen that she wasn’t dressed like the grizzled warriors surrounding her. Instead, she wore a long leather surcote over a pine-green woolen kirtle. Both garments were split at the sides for ease of movement, and as she’d stepped away from him, he caught a glimpse of the thick leather chausses she wore underneath.
Aye, the woman was a warrior, but there was no mistaking that she was high-born.
Somehow though, she held onto her femininity. Her brown hair, threaded with auburn highlights, tumbled becomingly down her back, although she’d made another concession to practicality by braiding the sides and pulling them back into slender plaits so her hair didn’t fall in her face when fighting. And when she’d stood over him, Bran had breathed in the scent of an expensive perfume: rose, moss, and musk.
The lady was the greatest contradiction he’d ever encountered.
Bran’s lips compressed then. He’d been expecting a sweet, biddable, gently-bred bride-to-be—and patient too, he’d made her wait long enough—not a vicious shrew.
Ahead, the bower of sycamores drew apart then, making him drag his glare away from between Makenna MacGregor’s shoulder blades.
2: A MAN OF HONOR
MEGGERNIE CASTLE ROSE before them: a mighty tower house with mossy ramparts brushing the cobalt sky. Bran didn’t want to be impressed, but he was. There was no denying it, the seat of the MacGregors of Perthshire was fine indeed, and he found himself comparing it to Dùn Ara. He’d always been proud of his home, but now insecurity wreathed up.
Perched on the north banks of a meandering river, Meggernie’s lofty sandstone walls glowed in the gloaming. The last of the light was leaching from the world now, and Bran spied figures on the ramparts, lighting braziers. There were also sentries—many of them—keeping watch. Meggernie was well-defended, and it needed to be if they were expecting enemies on their doorstep.
Bran scowled. Even if the lasshadbeen telling the truth, Makenna and her rabble should have made sure they were dealing with Campbells before attacking.
Unlike his fortress, which perched upon a crag, this castle sat on the flat valley floor of Glen Lyon, in the heart of Breadalbane. From this distance, it appeared larger than Dùn Ara—big enough to house an orchard, garden, and a small community. It had a settled look, as if it had always been part of the land.
Indeed, Meggernie hadn’t been an easy stronghold to reach, for sprawling mountains surrounded it to the north and south, providing a natural defense from outsiders.
Bran fought a grimace. Dùn Ara’s setting was more remote and far less bucolic. Would his bride be disappointed when she set eyes on it?
Anger spiked through him then, although this time, it wasn’t directed at the MacGregors, his father, or at the woman who’d just tried to kill him. No, he was vexed with himself. Why was he comparing his fortress to this one? His crippling self-doubt galled him.
Ye’re a Mackinnon of Mull,he reminded himself as his fingers tightened around the reins.And equal to any other clan-chief in Scotland.
Yanking himself from his brooding, he caught sight of a huge mound of branches and twigs upon the wide meadow that stretched between the river and the woodland to the south. Of course, it was the eve of Bealtunn, and the locals had built a bonfire for tonight’s celebrations. After dark, the folk of Meggernie would guise themselves and gather around the fire, dancing, drinking, and singing as they welcomed the summer.
Bran hoped he wouldn’t be expected to join them.
The party of MacGregors and Mackinnons eventually clattered over the bridge spanning the river and passed through the large stone arch that led into the bailey beyond.The heavy stone walls swallowed them whole, and tension curled like an adder about to strike under Bran’s ribs.
Drawing up his horse in the cobbled bailey, he cast a suspicious eye around. Ire continued to churn in his gut. The fingers of his right hand itched to close around the hilt of his dirk.
Steady, man, he reminded himself as he swung down from the sturdy courser who’d carried him all the way from Oban.MacGregor didn’t invite ye here with murder on his mind.
Perhaps not, but after his betrothed’s behavior, he’d keep his guard up.
Behind him, the warriors he’d brought with him clattered into the bailey. The carts of weapons and supplies—most of which would be given to the MacGregor as part of their arrangement—followed. They rumbled under the portcullis, drawn by the heavyset ponies.
Two large archways spanned opposite sides of the bailey. Through one, Bran spied apple and pear trees that were newly in leaf, while through the other, he caught sight of neatly tended vegetable plots. Aye, Meggernie was a thriving community, and he found himself wishing Dùn Ara had orchards within its walls. Maybe he should—
He cut his thoughts off savagely. Cods. What was the matter with him this evening?
“Mackinnon!” A loud, hearty voice boomed off stone. Bran’s chin kicked up, his gaze swinging right to where a broad, stocky figure bounded down the steps of the tower house.
Bruce MacGregor was well into his fifth decade now, and running to fat these days, but he moved like a man half his age.Clad in chamois braies, a snowy lèine, and a leather vest, which his gut strained against, he had ruddy cheeks and a thick head of brown hair shot through with silver.
Bran’s jaw set as he met the older man’s gaze.
The MacGregor clan-chief’s moss-green eyes were warm. He grinned then, two deep dimples forming on either side of a wide mouth. “Och, I’d forgotten how bright yer hair is, lad. Ye’ll have no need to carry a torch when ye travel at night.”
This comment drew snorts of laughter from the other MacGregors around them, although the Mackinnon men knew better than to snigger.
Bran didn’t answer. He couldn’t care less what the clan-chief had to say about his hair. Flame-red, it ran through his family. Whatdidvex him though was MacGregor’s use of ‘lad’.