Page 40 of The Chief's Wild Promise
“Aye, a fitting one too,” Makenna replied, glancing over at Bran. He rode next to her through the woods. Ancient beech, oak, and ash formed a canopy overhead, with dappled light filtering through the greenery. She then gestured to the heavy claidheamh-mòr strapped behind his saddle. “And what did ye name yer broadsword?”
“I didn’t … it was my father’s.” He pulled a face. “Bonestrike.”
Makenna studied him for a few moments before answering, “Ye should have another sword forged. One that suits ye … one that ye can name yerself.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”
“The bond between a warrior and their blade is a vital one … a partnership.Bonestrikewas yer father’s, but ye are a different man and require a different sword.”
He gave a slow nod at this, his brow furrowing. “Ye have a point … I might do that.”
The trill of a skylark interrupted them then, an enchanting melody that made Makenna’s lips curve. How she loved the woodland around Meggernie. It was a peaceful morning, with hardly a breeze stirring the sweet, soft air.
Despite a long night of revelry, the rest of their company was in good spirits. Her father rode at the front, flanked by Alec on one side and Rae on the other. The three men were ribbing each other good-naturedly, the low rumble of their voices carrying through the morning’s stillness. Rae’s tension after her father had produced his quaich seemed to have eased.
A knot of warriors, quivers of arrows and longbows slung across their backs, followed. They’d brought half a dozen leggy deerhounds with them too, and the dogs loped alongside the horses.
Likewise, both Makenna and Bran carried longbows. This stag hunt would take them deep into the valleys at the feet of the southeastern arm of the mountains. And as they rode out of the trees and up a heather-strewn hill, Makenna caught sight of the sprawling mountain range before her and the mighty bulk of Ben Lawers. Those mountains divided her father’s lands from the long expanse of Loch Tay to the south. Unfortunately, though, the territory south of the mountains belonged to the Campbells of Breadalbane and ‘Black’ Duncan Campbell.
Every time her gaze rested on Ben Lawers, she couldn’t help but ruminate about the enemy.She still chafed about the fact that her father wouldn’t share his plans with her. After she departed for Mull, he’d deal with the Campbells, and not before. She felt shut out, pushed aside.
“It’s a fine country this,” Bran noted then. He admired the mountain range. “I can see why ye love it here.”
“I do,” Makenna agreed softly, even as something knotted deep within her chest. “I can’t believe I’ll soon be leaving.”
“Ye shall grow to love Dùn Ara too.” She glanced his way to find him watching her now. “My castle perches high upon a rocky outcrop above a sheltered harbor with woodland to our back and the glittering sea to the north.” Pride laced his voice, even as his lips curved into a hesitant smile. “My father added onto the original dùn. Its curtain wall is now five feet thick.”
“It sounds mighty,” she replied, unable to resist teasing him.
“It is.”
Makenna cut her attention away then. Suddenly, she was loath to speak of her new home, for it reminded her that she was abandoning her clan. She and Bran had passed a surprising night together—and discovered a passion that had left them both reeling—but that didn’t change the truth of things.
This was an arranged marriage, not for their personal benefit, but for that of their clans. Their union would hopefully make both the MacGregors of Meggernie and the Mackinnons of Dùn Ara stronger and forge a lasting relationship. Her happiness, or his, didn’t matter. They were both strong-willed too, and it was likely their marriage would be a stormy one.
A shadow settled over her, chasing away her earlier sense of well-being, and dimming the beautiful morning.
She glanced Bran’s way again, to find him looking ahead once more as he rode.His profile was proud, and the sunlight made his wavy hair look as if it were on fire. He was dressed in a lèine, chamois braies, and a leather vest this morning, although he’d also donned his clan sash. The brightness of it stood out. Seeing it reminded her of Bran’s arrival at Meggernie. He’d been so angry, so bitter—such a contrast to the night before.
Tension coiled under Makenna’s ribcage as her gaze slid over his chest. He’d worn that sash deliberately—to remind everyone here he was, and would always be, a Mackinnon. Aye, he’d drunk from her father’s quaich, but that didn’t mean they were friends. After their revealing conversation before coupling, she felt as if she understood him a little better.
“I met yer sister at Dounarwyse.”
His body jerked, his gaze swinging Makenna’s way. His eyes then narrowed. As she’d expected, this wasn’t a subject he wished to discuss. In truth, she wasn’t sure why she’d brought it up, only that she’d liked Tara and hadn’t forgotten the pain in her eyes. All the same, the stiffening of his spine challenged her. She couldn’t let it go now.
“Tara is a good woman … with a kind, generous soul,” she continued. “She wishes to be reconciled with ye. Why won’t ye bury the ax?”
His gaze hardened. “What lies between my sister and me isourbusiness, not yers.”
His tone was sharp, and Makenna lifted her chin as she eyeballed him back. “So, ye’ll not forgive her then?”
A muscle feathered in his jaw before he looked away. “No.”
And with that short exchange, the easy rapport between them shattered.It surprised Makenna that it had taken so little to stir up their earlier animosity. However, the trust they’d built overnight was clearly as fragile as thistledown.
She focused once more on her gelding’s furry ears, her belly clenching.Why did ye do that?
She’d known he wouldn’t want to speak of Tara. Not yet—not while things were so new between them. But she’d done so anyway and driven a wedge between them. For an instant, she’d enjoyed challenging him, yet the sensation had been fleeting.