Page 50 of The Chief's Wild Promise
“He sought to bring down the Macleans of Mull … to seize their lands for his own,” Rae added, his tone hardening. “To destroy and dominate … to rule over all of the isle.” He broke off then, letting his words settle for a few moments. “Is that what ye wished for too, Bran?”
The question was a slap across the face. A direct challenge. Bran’s first instinct was to hit back, to tell Rae that, aye, he believed in his father’s cause—that he’d wished to see the Macleans utterly crushed and driven from Mull.
But it would have been a lie.
“No,” he admitted eventually, his voice rough. “I never wanted that.”
“I thought as much,” Rae answered. “Ye aren’t like him.”
Bran curled his hands into fists, leaning his head back against the rough wall of the pit. Part of him wanted to snarl at Rae, to tell him he had no business making assumptions about him. But there was another part that craved to hear those words—for, in truth, there had always been a part of him that wondered if, despite everything, he wasn’t that different from Kendric Mackinnon, after all.
“And ye, Mackinnon?” Walker asked then. “We’ve all spoken of our regrets … or lack of them. It’s yer turn now.”
Bran grimaced, grateful that no one in this dark pit could see his expression. Regrets. He was still young, but he had already amassed too many. His sister was his biggest one, but he couldn’t talk of it here, with these men who were virtually strangers to him. It was too raw. Too personal.
Makenna knew though, which was why she’d dared raise the subject with him. And in return, he’d snarled at her—and now he might never have the chance to make things right.
He regretted that too.
“I wish I’d have had more time with my wife,” he admitted finally, even as his chest tightened. “I’d have liked to know her properly.”
Another silence fell then, the mood inside the pit even gloomier now.
No doubt, Rae and Alec were both thinking about their wives too. Bran had watched Rae interact with Kylie and noted also how happy Alec and Liza were together. They’d found their other half in each other, yet hadn’t even had the chance to say goodbye.
“Enjoying yer accommodations are ye, lads?” A goading voice intruded then from above.
Bran craned his neck upward to see Robbie Campbell’s leering face, ghoulish in torchlight, looming over the iron grate.
“Aye … the finest I’ve ever had,” Alec quipped, unable to help himself. “Why don’t ye come down and join us … there’s plenty of room.”
Robbie snorted a laugh. “I think not … ye lot reek like stags in rut.”
“We’re thirsty, Campbell,” Walker said, not bothering to disguise his irritation. “Why don’t ye stop yer empty blether and hand us down some ale skins.”
“Thirsty, eh?” Robbie drew back from the pit, and a rustling sound followed.
Moments later, something streamed through the grate.
Warm liquid splashed on Bran’s face, and he drew back in disgust. Meanwhile, around him, his companions cursed.
The whoreson was pissing on them.
Seated at the chieftain’s table, Makenna looked around for a weapon.
She’d been handed a wooden cup filled with wine, but there were no eating knives within reach, not even a wooden spoon that she could use. A banquet lay before her: a spit-roasted suckling pig stuffed with chestnuts and apples, pottage, breads, wheels of cheese, and an array of custards.
She had no stomach for any of it. Not while she and her father were hostages. Not while her husband and friends waited in that foul pit a few yards away.
Her father sat a few feet farther down the table, in between two huge warriors. Makenna was also flanked by men clad in chainmail and leather. Both men were heavily armed, and one of them had a knife wedged into the back of his boot. She longed to lunge for it, but since the warrior in question watched her like a buzzard, she didn’t dare.
After waiting a day—the longest wait of her life—they’d collected her from her bower and escorted her downstairs.
Like her father, she was freshly bathed and dressed in clean clothing. Servants had brought in a green kirtle that matched her eyes, with a wine-red surcote to wear on top. She’d initially refused to don the clothing. The servants had then disappeared before one returned with the news that her husband would have a finger cut off with every further refusal she made.
Teeth gritted, Makenna had done as bid. She couldn’t let them maim Bran.
And now she sat at the chieftain’s table, alongside Black Duncan, his wife, son, and two daughters. She was supposed to eat and drink, to pretend nothing was wrong. Likewise, her father sat rigidly upon the bench seat. She’d never seen him look so grim. His jaw was set, his mouth a thin, hard line.