Page 7 of The Chief's Wild Promise
The aroma was delicious, and Bran’s belly rumbled. Nonetheless, he couldn’t focus on the food. Not after the events of the past couple of hours.And meanwhile, that agreement was sitting in his bag upstairs, waiting to be read. He itched to get his hands on it.
“Yer warriors have had their injuries dressed, Mackinnon … and our healer is taking good care of Tadhg.” Carmen MacGregor met his gaze from where she sat on the clan-chief’s other side. Her voice was warm and heavily accented. Bran recognized the inflection, for he’d met a few foreign merchants who docked at Tobermory and Dùn Ara over the years. He’d wager the woman was Iberian. “All he needs now is time.”
Bran nodded, forcing himself to soften his expression a little. The woman was gracious, and he couldn’t bring himself to be rude to her. “Let us hope he’ll rally.”
“Och, he will, laddie.” MacGregor slapped him on the back, with such force that Bran nearly splattered hot stew over himself. “No hard feelings, eh?”
Bran bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from snarling at the clan-chief. The man was laying it on thick now.Laddie. Did MacGregor think he was a swaddled bairn?
And as for ‘no hard feelings?’ “Aye, well, we’ll see,” he muttered.
“How about a smile, eh?” MacGregor boomed in his ear. “This is no place for such a miserable face. Ye are about to wed my bonnie daughter!”
“Yer ‘bonnie daughter’ attacked me,” Bran shot back. “Why should I rejoice about our union?”
MacGregor snorted, brushing his comment aside. “It was but a misunderstanding … one Makenna is very sorry for.”
Bran had to hand it to him. MacGregor was doing a fine job of trying to blether his way out of a tense situation. It wouldn’t work though. He wasn’t appeased.
“She doesn’t appear sorry,” he answered coldly. It was true. The lass didn’t look remotely contrite. Instead, she sat next to him, her chin tilted at a defiant angle, her eyes slightly narrowed.
“Of course she is. Come, lad. Put it behind ye now.”
Bran glared at the clan-chief. His gut was in knots, killing his appetite. Farther down the table, he caught Alec Rankin’s smirk, and his temper flared bright once more.
“Does something amuse ye, Rankin?” he growled.
To his ire, the pirate’s smile merely widened.
4: FORGIVE AND FORGET
“THE WEDDING SHALL take place three days from today,” Makenna’s father announced, holding his goblet aloft. “Let us toast to that.”
Murmurs went through the hall as those present raised their drinks high.
Makenna followed suit, even as her pulse throbbed in her ears.
Three days. It wouldn’t matter if it were three months. Or threeyears. She didn’t want to marry Mackinnon.
She also didn’t want to be sitting here, lingering over a fine supper, as if the Campbells hadn’t just dealt them a savage blow. The memory of the smoldering ruin of Fortingall made it difficult to relax. How could she when there was reckoning to be had? And how could her father deny her something so important?
She took a gulp of wine and set down her cup before reluctantly picking up her spoon.She then dug it into the rich stew and stirred, watching as steam wreathed up.
Queasiness rolled over her. Indeed, she had no wish to remain here, eating her supper next to her surly husband-to-be. However, after her poor judgment today, her father wouldn’t suffer any more trouble from her. Reaching for the bread, she tore a chunk off and dipped it carefully into the hot stew. Around her, conversation flowed, as did the excellent Iberian wine her mother always served.
The mood inside the great hall was too buoyant for Makenna’s liking. Everyone was excited about the forthcoming wedding, yet it was also Bealtunn—and the people of Meggernie were looking forward to celebrating the transition between spring and summer. Nonetheless, her mind kept returning to what had happened at Fortingall. Those seated around her hadn’t witnessed the ruin. They didn’t realize just how brutal the Campbells had been.
Meanwhile, her betrothed’s pale, pinched face and smoldering silvery eyes all made his mood clear, as did his acerbic responses.
Makenna took care not to look his way as she focused now on getting through her meal. There was little space at the clan-chief’s table this evening—not with so many guests present—and she was sitting so close to her husband-to-be that their elbows kept bumping.
Unfortunately, the man seemed to favor his left hand, while she used her right, which meant they were getting in each other’s way. They satsoclose that she could smell him: a blend of leather, horse, and a spicy undertone that was purely masculine. Curse him, it wasn’t at all unpleasant.
If only her father would cease his ribbing. He continued to engage the younger man, meeting each growled answer with a grin or a back slap.
Makenna’s pulse quickened. He needed to leave Mackinnon be. He clearly thought that if he talked his ear off and plied him with food and drink, he’d forgive and forget.
But with each passing moment, her betrothed looked increasingly vexed.