Page 46 of The Chief's Wild Promise

Bran swallowed, trying to ignore his dry mouth and throat. The Campbells hadn’t given them enough to drink, although he wasn’t thinking about his own discomfort, but Makenna’s. He hated knowing he couldn’t shield her from harm.

She thinks I’m a tyrant.Aye, and he had only himself to blame for that. He’d come across as overbearing, and he was sorry for it.

The truth was he was forming an attachment to his feisty bride. Finding someone to care about after years of loneliness had made him act impulsively. He needed to ensure he didn’t lose her. He didn’t want to fail her, not like he had his sister. When Tara had returned to Dùn Ara after escaping her abductor, he’d stood by while their father had condemned and then humiliated her.

Was it any wonder she ran away?

Pushing aside painful memories, Bran tore his attention from his wife and glanced over at the man who’d tried to rape her. The night before, he’d noted that Tormod sat apart from the Campbells and didn’t interact much with his fellow warriors. The chieftain favored him though. The pair had ridden side-by-side for most of the morning, at the head of the band.

Tormod didn’t appear to notice Bran’s scrutiny. Instead, he whittled a piece of wood with a small sharp knife while staring at Makenna. His gaze was hot and hungry.

Bran clenched his jaw. How he longed to drive a dagger through that dung-eater’s eye.

And he made a silent promise to himself that he would.

Heart pounding, he stared down at his bound wrists. The rope had chafed the skin where he’d tried to loosen it. There was no getting free of these bonds.

The day before, Makenna had accused him of caring too much about the opinions of others. Perhaps he did. To many of his people, and the Macleans and the Macquaries—the other clans on Mull—he was the wet-behind-the-ears pup who’d crawled back to Dùn Ara after the Battle of Dounarwyse with his tail between his legs. Even years later, he burned with the humiliation of it.

Or hehad—until the Campbells of Breadalbane took it upon themselves to kidnap the MacGregor hunting party a day after his wedding.

Suddenly, none of that mattered. He couldn’t have cared less whether all of Mull hated him. He was too angry to care about anything but making the Campbells and Tormod MacDougall pay. The Mackinnon temper was something indeed. Cold and quiet, yet sharp as a boning knife. Mackinnons didn’t rant and rage. No, they bided their time, and when they struck, they went for the throat.

But until that time, he’d let the Campbells think he wouldn’t give them any further trouble.

The Campbells rode as if Lucifer himself were on their tail. A spine of mountains now reared up to the north.

Slung over the back of a horse, his body sore, his head aching, Bran did his best to keep track of their progress. Had someone picked up their trail yet? Was there a band pursuing them? Frustratingly, it was impossible to know, for the Campbells told their captives nothing.

They barely rested for the remainder of the day, and the shadows were growing long when they finally reached the southern edge of Loch Tay.

Fighting dizziness, Bran lifted his head to see high grey walls rising above a birch copse. Shortly after, they left the loch’s shoreline behind and climbed the hill up a narrow path, single file now, before riding through a scattering of shielings.

Bran lifted his head again to see men, women, and bairns gathering before their thatch-roofed cottages. They watched the chieftain and his warriors—and their captives—with nervous, cowed expressions. Campbell didn’t bother to acknowledge them as he rode by.

Neck aching from the effort of keeping his head raised, Bran shifted his attention to the fortress that loomed to his right. His gaze narrowed as he inspected it. The tower house was high—at least four floors—although the dark-grey stone gave it a gloomy look. A high wall surrounded the keep. The gate was open to admit them, a dark maw with the spiky teeth of the raised portcullis.

Finlarig Castle awaited them.

20: TORMOD’S PRIZE

MAKENNA WATCHED IN horror while her husband was pushed roughly into a deep pit.

The other members of her party quickly followed, grunting and swearing as they landed on each other.

Finally, only Makenna and her father remained outside the hole. She’d never been in a hall such as this one. What laird had an oubliette for prisoners in one corner of his hall? It sat next to a much shallower stone-lined pit that had an ominous-looking curved, worn stone in its center.

It looked suspiciously like a chopping block.

Makenna’s pulse went wild then, and she braced herself to be shoved over the edge as well. Two men held her by each arm, for they’d removed her bindings to bring her inside. However, the Campbell warriors merely closed the metal grate over the prisoners—the clang of iron ringing through the hall. They then pushed a heavy bolt home, locking it.

Heart thumping against her ribs, she watched Duncan Campbell move forward. He eyed both Makenna and her father before favoring them with a thin smile. “Welcome to Finlarig … a fine castle, is it not?”

Neither Makenna nor her father answered.

“Of course, the pit is too humble for a clan-chief and his daughter,” Campbell went on. “My men will take ye to private chambers on the upper floor … where ye will be brought water for bathing and some supper.”

“What do ye want, Campbell?” Bruce demanded. His eyes were a murderous green, and a vein throbbed in his temple.