Page 77 of The Chief's Wild Promise

Her life was busier than ever these days. When she wasn’t training with her husband or discussing the defense of the castle and the management of their lands, she was organizing servants and running the household. There was barely time to retreat to her solar or linger in her beloved rose garden in the afternoons, but she always made sure she did. It was easy to get swept away by all the things that needed to be done, but in the quiet moments, Makenna could put her thoughts in order. Spending time alone every day kept her calm, focused.

Reaching the forge, she ducked inside.

Bac glanced up from hammering yet another horseshoe as she entered, a grin splitting his sweaty red face. “Morning, Lady Mackinnon.”

She flashed him a contrite smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Och, it’s nae bother.” He stepped away from his anvil, rubbing a stiff muscle in his back as he did so. “I was behind on work this morning anyway.” He flashed her another wide smile. “However, yer commission is ready, as promised.”

Moving to the back of his forge, he picked up a sword sheathed in an embossed leather scabbard. Turning to face her, he then withdrew the blade from the case.

Steel glinted in the ruddy light of the forge, and Makenna’s breathing caught. She then murmured an oath.

Bac’s eyes shone with pride as he crossed to her and handed Makenna the longsword. Gripping its pommel, she tested its weight and balance. Then, stepping back, lest she catch the smith with its sharp edge, she made a few practice strikes and feints.

“What do ye think?” Bac asked eagerly. “It’s been a while since I crafted anything so fine.”

Grinning, she lowered the sword. “It’s perfect.”

When Makenna climbed up to the walls, she found her husband standing near the northern watchtower, looking out over the sea. He’d finished his discussion with Finlay. The captain had gone down to the barmkin and was now talking to the guards at the gate.

A brisk breeze had stirred the water up, white caps foaming now. Placing her hand on her rattling keys, she approached as quietly as possible before stepping up to his side.

Bran cut her a surprised look. “Where did ye come from?”

Makenna laughed, turning to face him.

He observed her for a moment, a quizzical expression flitting across his features. “What have ye got behind yer back?”

“A gift.”

“For me?”

“Aye, mo chridhe … would ye like it?”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Of course.”

Smiling, she brought the sword, encased in its beautifully stitched and worked scabbard, into view.

Bran’s eyes snapped wide. “Ye had a sword made?”

“Aye, Bac’s been hard at work on it since I arrived here … and luckily, the smith knows how to keep a secret.”

Her husband took the sword, his gaze still awed. “Bac used to forge weapons for the Mackinnons of Skye,” he murmured. “But these days, he insists he’s too old for such work.”

“I had to do some convincing,” she replied, noting the reverent way he held the blade. “Bac and I both agreed that ye needed a new sword. ‘Bonestrike’ doesn’t suit ye.”

Bran snorted. “That’s why it now adorns the wall of my solar,” he replied. “My father’s claidheamh-mòr never sat easily in my hand.”

“After watching ye fight, I knew a longsword would suit ye better,” she replied softly. “Ye are quick and light on yer feet … and this blade will help ye take advantage of yer speed.”

Flashing her a grin, he wrapped his fingers around the grip and drew the sword from its scabbard. The folded steel blade with its twin sharp edges gleamed in the bright noon sun. “Bac is a master,” he murmured, admiring the workmanship.

“Aye,” she agreed. “But now, ye must name this blade … what will it be?”

He stepped back from her and tested the sword. It whispered through the air. “It shines as if it were made of ice,” he said, his voice awed now. “And it will have a cold, vicious bite.” His gaze glinted then. “I shall name it ‘Winterthorn’.”

“Winterthorn,” Makenna tested the name out for herself. “A good choice.”