Page 31 of The Laird’s Wicked Game (Highland Scandal #2)

Southwest of Meggernie Castle

Perthshire, Scotland

Late April, 1319

THE JOURNEY HAD been uneventful—until they were within three miles of their destination.

It was close to dusk. The last of the sun was filtering through the woodland of sycamore, beech, and oak, and the sky above had turned indigo. Bran rode at the head of the company of men he’d brought from Dùn Ara. It was unseasonably cold, and he’d pulled his fur-lined cloak close. And as his horse traveled the narrow path between a thick press of trees and a tangle of hawthorn and elder, he silently cursed his father for making an agreement he’d felt obliged to keep.

Surely, a clan-chief could choose his own bride? However, just under four years earlier, Kendric Mackinnon had made a pact with the MacGregor clan-chief. And now, here his son was, about to be shackled to a woman he’d never met.

The snapping of twigs underfoot yanked Bran from his thoughts.

His chin jerked up. A moment later, a group of warriors burst onto the path ahead of him.

Dirks gleaming in the gloaming, they rushed at Bran and his men.

His reaction was immediate. “To arms!” he bellowed, swinging down from his courser and drawing his dirk. No sooner had he done so, when their attackers were on them.

The clash of steel rang through the shadowy woodland, followed by curses.

Fury ignited in Bran’s gut.

What devilry was this? They were within striking distance of Meggernie and should have been safe in its shadow. Instead, this wild mob had attacked them. And a feral-looking band they were, with long tangled hair, worn leathers, and weather-stained cloaks.

Teeth gritted, Bran ducked the swipe of a blade and kicked the feet out from under his attacker. Chaos had erupted on the path through the woods. The horses squealed, leaping out of the way of the struggling figures.

A hiss of pain cut through the air behind him—whether it was friend or foe, he wasn’t sure. An agonized grunt followed, and Bran whirled, bringing up his dirk blade just in time to prevent a knife to the back.

Hades, these bastards were out for blood.

One of his men had been felled and lay groaning a few feet away. But Bran couldn’t stop to help him. Instead, he swung left, just as a cloaked figure rushed at him, longsword thrusting.

He side-stepped swiftly, wishing there had been time for him to unstrap his claidheamh-mòr from behind the saddle. A dirk was all well and good in close quarters, but the slender, lethal longsword made their fight decidedly one-sided. It was all he could do to fend off the slashing blade.

His attacker was smaller than him, their face hidden by a deep cowl, yet they fought viciously. And as their duel continued, the cloaked figure lunged, attempting to get under his guard.

Bran leaped backward, and as he did so, his foot caught on a tree root. The next thing he knew, he was lying flat on his back, looking up at the trees and the darkening sky.

The following moment, he found the cold, sharp tip of a blade at his throat.

“Don’t breathe … if ye know what’s good for ye.”

Bran went rigid, not just because of the threat, but because the voice that had growled it was female. And as he stared up at his attacker, she raised her free hand and pushed back her hood. Cool moss-green eyes raked over him, freezing when she reached his chest.

Staring up at her, Bran took in a strong-featured face, stubborn jaw, and full lips. She was young, no more than three and twenty winters, he reckoned, and under other circumstances, he might have found her comely.

But since this lass had just bested him, humiliation bit hard.

“Ye’re a Mackinnon.” Her words sounded more like an accusation than an observation. Of course, she’d just spied his plaid clan sash—a cross-hatching of red, blue, green, purple, and white. Earlier, it hadn’t been visible, for he’d wrapped his cloak about him to ward off the chill.

“Aye,” he ground out, anger simmering. “Ye have yer blade at the clan-chief’s gullet.”

Horror bloomed in those green eyes. “Cods.” The curse came out in a wheeze. An instant later, she glanced around her. “Cease!” she shouted roughly. “It’s Bran Mackinnon and his men.”

Around him, the clang of steel and grunts of fighting faded away. Close by, someone was groaning, but Bran paid the injured little heed. Instead, he was too focused on glaring up at the lass who hadn’t shifted the tip of her sword from his windpipe.

He was close to letting his temper get the better of him. “Aye, so ye know who I am now.” He bit out each word, fury simmering. “Tell me who ye are.”

The young woman swallowed, her expression strained now. Then abruptly, she withdrew her sword and took a step back from him. “Makenna MacGregor, daughter to the clan-chief,” she replied curtly as she sheathed her sword at her side. “Yer betrothed .”

What have ye done?

Makenna moved farther back from the man she’d just bested. The Mackinnon clan-chief still lay on his back, his silver-grey eyes glinting dangerously. Her palm itched to redraw her sword, yet she stilled the impulse. She’d done enough damage. It was time to stand down now.

Even so, she didn’t offer him her hand. She could tell he didn’t want it.

The Mackinnon rolled smoothly to his feet and unfolded his lanky frame, rising to his full height. He then brushed leaves and dirt off his fine fur-lined cloak, his mouth pursed now, as if he’d just tasted something foul.

He was young—no older than her, with shaggy flame-red hair. His face was lean with a scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, although the bullish set of his jaw made anxiety flutter under her ribs.

He was vexed, and she couldn’t blame him. One of his men lay bleeding out on the ground nearby.

Da will be rabid.

She cleared her throat then. “We thought ye were Campbells.”

“Aye, well, if ye had waited, ye would have seen our clan sashes,” Mackinnon growled. “Why the devil would yer enemies stray this close to Meggernie?”

“They’ve grown bold of late,” she replied stiffly, even as fire burned in the pit of her belly. His thinly veiled disdain rubbed her up the wrong way. He had no idea how bad things were between the MacGregors and the Campbells these days. They’d long harried her clan, driving them out of the lands around Loch Awe so that her people had been pushed south. Those MacGregors who’d remained in the north were now Campbell tenants and treated cruelly by all accounts.

The feuding with their neighbors was one of the reasons why her father had made so many alliances with powerful clans through marriage. It was why she’d been promised to Bran Mackinnon.

Quietly simmering, she watched as the clan-chief turned from her and went to the fallen man, crouching next to him. “How are ye holding up, Tadhg?” he asked roughly.

“Bleeding like a stuck pig,” the big man grunted.

“We need to get him back to Meggernie,” Makenna said, forcing a briskness into her voice she didn’t feel. “There’s a healer there.”

“I’m sure there is,” Mackinnon replied between gritted teeth. His gaze swung around, piercing her like an arrow. “But Tadhg wouldn’t need assistance if ye hadn’t come at us like brigands.”

Makenna’s gaze narrowed, even as heat washed over her. Brigands. “Ye are speaking of the Meggernie Guard , Mackinnon,” she ground out.

The clan-chief stood up once more, surveying the men who’d gathered behind Makenna. His lip then curled. “Maybe, but ye look like a band of cutthroats to me.”