Page 6 of The Chief's Wild Promise
Bran managed a tight nod of his own. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
“May I present my wife, Kylie.” Rae motioned to the woman beside him. He then gestured to the two young lads seated next to the woman—one auburn-haired, the other dark. “And these two are my sons, Ailean and Lyle.”
Bran’s gaze narrowed. He knew he should respond, but the words stuck in his throat.
“And I’m Liza … laird of Moy.” The dark-haired woman spoke then, not waiting for anyone to introduce her.
Bran stiffened, and he looked upon her with renewed interest, putting his rancor aside for a moment.
Of course. He should have made the connection. Aye, he’d heard of Liza Maclean. The tale about how her husband, the former chieftain of Moy, had tried to murder her by tying her up and leaving her on a rock in the Sound of Mull had circulated the isle the year before. She’d been rescued by pirates and had hired them to slay her husband and take his place. Shockingly, Loch Maclean had pardoned her and allowed her to rule as lady laird until her son came of age.
Suddenly, everything fell into place. Bran hadn’t realized that the pirate who’d saved Liza had been Alec Rankin, or that she’d married him. Still chewing over this scandalous tidbit, he noted that a lad of around six or seven sat next to Liza. He was dark like his mother yet with a solemn face.
Marking the direction of Bran’s gaze, Liza smiled. “This is my son, Craeg.”
He managed to summon the manners to incline his head to them both.He had no quarrel with this woman or her son, even if her first husband had fought against him at Dounarwyse. Even so, it was hard to remain civil. He felt cornered. Tricked. MacGregor would have known he wouldn’t want to see Maclean and Rankin, and yet he’d invited them to the wedding, nonetheless.
“I see ye have been reacquainted with auld pals,” a hearty male voice boomed behind him. “And met two of my bonnie daughters.”
Bran stiffened.His daughters?
He turned then, his gaze alighting on where the clan-chief approached, a woman on his arm. Two other couples followed, with Makenna sullenly bringing up the rear.
And when his gaze swept over the newcomers, he realized why Maclean and Rankin were here. They were married to MacGregor women.
MacGregor’s wife was an older, plumper version of Liza—a comely woman indeed, with a thick mane of greying hair that would have once been the color of jet. Despite that they’d just emerged from a bitter winter and wet spring, and everybody else was pasty white, Lady MacGregor’s skin was tanned light gold.
“I won’t expect ye to remember everyone’s names right away, lad … but allow me to introduce the rest of my family.” MacGregor went on. He seemed to have recovered from the news that one of his villages had been attacked—and the shock of learning that his daughter had tried to kill her betrothed—and his hearty manner was firmly back in place. Nonetheless, to Bran, it seemed a little strained, as if he was trying to force an atmosphere of good cheer. “This is my bonnie wife, Carmen.” He gestured next to the two sets of couples behind him. A group of bairns followed them—the eldest of whom looked around twelve summers, the youngest around four or five. “And here are my two other daughters … Sonia and Alma … their husbands,Connor MacFarlane and Rory Lamont … and their broods.”
Bran fought the urge to frown.
Sonia. That name tugged at a memory. It reminded him of something he just couldn’t place. A moment later though, it came to him.
His father had mentioned that name. He remembered other details too then. Hadn’t he been promised to theeldestof the daughters … to a lass named ‘Sonia’? Not Makenna. That didn’t make sense—but maybe he’d misheard his father. Both Sonia and Alma looked at least a decade older than him and were clearly wedded. Indeed, after meeting all five of MacGregor’s daughters, it was obvious that Makenna was the youngest of the brood.
Something strange was afoot here.
Bran’s skin prickled then.
Fortunately, he had a document in his baggage, one that his father and MacGregor had both signed. Since his father had explained the agreement he’d made to him, Bran had never bothered to glance at it over the years. In truth, he’d been loath to touch the cursed thing that bound him to a woman he’d never met. But as soon as he had a moment alone, he’d make sure to refamiliarize himself with the terms of their agreement.
His pulse quickened. Had he just discovered a way out of this marriage?
“And, of course … ye have already met Makenna.” The clan-chief’s dry tone caused an explosion of smothered coughs and smiles from around them.
Bran didn’t share their amusement. And neither did Makenna. His betrothed’s cheeks were flushed, her jaw set. She didn’t look any happier than him.
The lass had changed clothing since he’d seen her last though and tidied herself up. She now wore a becoming dark-blue surcote over a sky-blue kirtle. The garments fitted her small, compact form perfectly, accentuating the swell of her hips and the dip of her waist. Her hair was unbound, falling over her shoulders in glistening waves.
Aye, his betrothed was comely enough, although right now, Bran would have preferred to have wed the Bean Nighe herself.
They all seated themselves around the clan-chief’s table—a tight squeeze with so many present. Servants had added a trestle table at each end to accommodate everyone.
Once again, a familiar emptiness tugged at Bran’s insides. What would it have been like to have grown up with such a big family? All the same, he wasn’t sure he’d have wanted five sisters. Tara had been enough.
Trying to focus, he took the seat he was directed to. Unfortunately, he was between the clan-chief and his betrothed. Nonetheless, he was relieved to be seated far from Maclean and Rankin. He had nothing to say to either of them.
Serving lads appeared then, carrying huge tureens of what smelled like venison stew and baskets of oaten bread.