Page 75 of The Chief's Wild Promise
“And I ye, Lady Mackinnon,” he answered.
“How have things been while I was away?” Bran asked then, his brow furrowing.
“Quiet enough,” Finlay replied. His gaze glinted then. “Yer cousin came calling a week after ye departed, but I sent him away.”
Bran’s eyes narrowed, and when he replied, his tone was flinty. “Good.”
The captain studied him curiously. “Yer last message was delivered a fortnight ago though … so we knew to expect ye. From yer letters, it sounds as if ye had an adventurous time in Perthshire.”
Bran snorted. “Ye could say that. Meet me in my solar after supper later … and we can give each other full reports over a cup or two of ale.”
The captain’s lips tugged up into another smile before he nodded.
Makenna was aware then that the barmkin had filled up. Cooks, kitchen lads, grooms, stable hands, and others had ventured out of the broch and numerous outbuildings to catch sight of the clan-chief—and his bride. Many of them eyed her, their gazes lingering on her unusual attire and weapons. She noted the sharpness of their stares, and the way some of the men surrounding them thinned their lips. One or two even smirked.
Aye, Bran hadn’t exaggerated the mood here.
Not remotely cowed, Makenna stared back boldly. She even rested her hand upon the pommel of her sword, drawing attention to it. She might as well start as she meant to go on.
They’d mind her, just as they would her husband.
“Fortune favors the bold,” Bran called out, also noting that they now had an audience. His voice was loud as he used his clan motto, echoing against stone. “As ye can see, I have returned to ye safely … as has my lady wife.” He paused then, his silvery gaze glinting as he stared the crowd down. “Ye will also mark that she carries weapons. I shall have ye know that Makenna is a warrior of note, and that if ye don’t wish to see the sharp edge of her blade … or mine … ye shall treat her with the respect she is owed.”
Makenna drew herself up, heat igniting in her belly. Aye, he’d shocked them now. Some of the women flushed, while the men dropped their gazes. Tension rippled through the barmkin.
“We have made a strong alliance with the MacGregors of Meggernie … one that will ensure our clan prospers,” he added. “We have also healed relations with the Macleans of Dounarwyse and Moy. No longer will we fight with our neighbors.”
Murmurs erupted at his admission, but Bran silenced them with a deft movement of his hand. “When I left Dùn Ara in the spring, many of ye wished I’d never return.”
Faces around him grew taut at these blunt words, but he ignored their reaction.
“Ye believed a man who’d make peace with his enemies isn’t fit to rule the Mackinnons … but ye don’t know what real strength is …realhonor. My father would have sacrificed the lot of ye if it meant he could rule all of Mull. He cared about only himself.” Bran paused then, his gaze narrowing as it swept over the now hushed crowd. “Know this … I’m not Kendric Mackinnon and nor do I wish to be. However, if ye mistake my decency for weakness, ye do so at yer own peril.”
“That was quite a speech ye gave out there.”
Bran flashed Makenna a grin as he led the way up a steep spiral stairwell. “It was long overdue. Did ye enjoy it?”
“Aye.”
“I wished to make myself clear.”
She smiled back. “Oh, ye did that. How does it feel?”
“Like freedom,” he replied. “Like I’ve finally laid my father’s ghost to rest.”
And he had. In truth, Makenna hadn’t expected him to be quite so forthright, or eloquent. Pride had warmed her chest as she watched him address his people.
Afterward, they’d left the stunned crowd behind and entered the broch, and Bran was now giving her a tour. He took her upstairs before they stepped onto the landing of the second level. Moving to the nearest door, he pushed it open and led the way into an imposing, if slightly intimidating, chamber. An array of weapons decorated the stone walls, and above the wide hearth, three glowering boar heads had been mounted.
Observing them, Makenna murmured an oath under her breath.
“Quite a sight, aren’t they?” Bran said with a shrug. “They’re my father’s trophies.”
Makenna grimaced.
“He even named them,” Bran went on. “The ugly one at the end, he called Loch. The middle one is Leod … and the other is Rae.”
She snorted a disbelieving laugh. “He named them after the Maclean clan-chief and his chieftains?”