Page 67 of The Chief's Wild Promise

“It’s delicious,” the clan-chief replied.

“But ye have barely touched it.”

“Don’t fuss, my love,” he growled.

Makenna’s brow furrowed. Indeed, most of those at the chieftain’s table had nearly finished their meal, but the MacGregor picked at his. He’d also downed twice as much wine as everyone else.

She understood exactly how he felt.

Nearly a week had passed since Kylie and Liza’s departure, and restlessness within her grew with each day. They needed to act. Just the day before, she’d suggested they attack Finlarig in retribution. However, her father pointed out that such a move would likely bring the wrath of the Campbells who lived to the north of their borders upon them.

He was right, of course.

They hadn’t been idle though. Her father had put more men on the Watch and doubled the patrols around Meggernie.Makenna and Bran had led many of them. Her father no longer forbade her from carrying a longsword or doing her part to help defend the castle.

No Campbell would stray close without being spotted—and so far, none had.

Meanwhile, Carmen studied her husband’s strained face. Her dark brows drew together then. She was just about to say something else when a shout cut through the smoky air.

“Black Duncan is dead!”

Jolting, Makenna’s attention snapped right to where a warrior had just rushed into the hall. Breathless, he strode toward the chieftain’s table.

A stunned silence fell.

Makenna watched the man’s flushed face and bright eyes for a moment, until the full weight of his announcement sank in.

Dead.

Under the table, Bran put his hand on her thigh and squeezed. In response, she covered his hand with hers, gripping tightly.

“How?” the clan-chief rasped.

“The wound ye dealt him soured, MacGregor,” the warrior replied, drawing near. “They say he lingered for a while … and that his end was agonizing.”

Murmurs of approval rippled through the hall at this news.

All gazes shifted to Makenna’s father.

The MacGregor straightened up in his carven chair. And then, as Makenna watched, the tension he’d carried ever since their escape from Finlarig lifted.It was like seeing a sunburst chase away storm clouds. His vision cleared, his shoulders lowered, and the deep lines that had carved themselves on either side of his mouth softened.

Likewise, something deep inside Makenna’s chest unknotted. She glanced Bran’s way then, to find his gaze sharp, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A fitting end for the whoreson.”

Makenna nodded. She couldn’t agree more.

Next to the clan-chief, Carmen shifted uneasily, her night-brown gaze flicking from husband to daughter. Although the Campbell treachery had upset her, she hadn’t understood their hunger for revenge. She wasn’t a warrior like Bruce or Makenna. She didn’t understand the honor Black Douglas had stolen from them. Aye, they’d escaped with their lives, but not before he’d humiliated them.

Sensing his wife’s discomfort, the clan-chief reached out and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “It’s over, mo ghràdh. I can let this rest now. Vengeance is ours … finally.”

The long twilight began, a gradual lengthening of the shadows while the blue sky—for it had been a bonnie day—leached of color.

Makenna, who’d spent most of the afternoon up on the walls with the Guard before taking supper with her husband and kin in the great hall, slipped away and climbed the narrow, winding stairs to the roof.And there, she stood, leaning against the sun-warmed rock, listening to the gentle coo of the pigeons. There was a flat area on the doocot’s roof, where the birds sunned themselves in the last of the light.

Her gaze traveled south, to where the outline of Ben Lawers and its brethren rose against the horizon, and her lips thinned.

Robbie Campbell would be chieftain now. The man was a swine, although not half as dangerous as his father had been. He lacked Black Duncan’s cunning and malice. Even so, her clan would need to keep a close eye on their southern borders in the coming months—and years.

Every time Robbie caught a glimpse of his reflection in a looking-glass, he’d see the scar her father had dealt him.