Her words silenced the crowd. Immediately those who objected to the custom yielded, allowing Colin to finish without further interruption. They might have acquiesced to her request, but anger and resentment still stirred in their hearts.

Makenna resumed her concentration on the flickering flames. They seemed to dance in time to “Ex Te Lux Oritur,” one of her father’s favorite clarsach tunes. The sounds of the lone harp echoing in the valley repeated in her head as did the images of her father being lowered into his grave.

Makenna was about to retire, when a loud bellow came from across the room. Immediately all eyes swiveled to its source. Leon MacCuaig.

“And if the English return, will the Dunstan clan continue to cower, refusing once again to fight?”

Makenna jumped to her feet and marched to the center of the room. The challenge issued was not a mere slight, but a huge insult, not only to Colin but also to every Dunstan present. More than that, it was unfair.

Under Alexander’s rule, the Dunstan clan had been loyal followers of William Wallace. When Wallace had defeated the English army at Stirling Bridge in 1297, almost every able-bodied Dunstan left to fight alongside him. Many of the men died at Falkirk, and those who didn’t, did so later in the continuous hit-and-run raids against Edward’s men. The few who had survived, including Dunlop and Drake, returned home only after Wallace’s capture and execution in 1305. In the following two years, Robert the Bruce began his rally for freedom. Alexander Dunstan had less than a handful of men left to protect his keep and was unable to send any to support Bruce’s campaign.

Everyone knew all that had been left of the Dunstan army were young men naïve to the horrors of battle, or worse, untrained farmers who had fought with Wallace and barely escaped with their lives. Colin had been working hard to rebuild the Dunstan army. Those who had spied on the training camps knew their numbers were now close to a hundred strong. Their force would continue to grow as more and more men flocked to Colin’s training and leadership.

Colin’s eyes locked on to hers. They gleamed the darkest of blues, and Makenna knew his anger had been ignited. He didn’t say a word, but she knew he wanted her to remain silent.

Earlier that day, the proud hellion of the Dunstan clan had managed to shake his core. During her father’s funeral, she again made her loyalty clear. Deirdre had refused to be confrontational with anyone. He had accepted her choice, not realizing how much he longed for the woman he loved to stand alongside him, openly declaring her devotion. Twice Makenna had risen to support him publicly. Tonight, he would stand up for her and her people.

Severing the brief connection with Makenna, Colin turned his attention to MacCuaig. “When the English return, the Dunstan clan will be ready. You have a McTiernay’s word on it.”

Colin’s cool, penetrating words sliced through the room. No one said a word. The time for discussions was over. These men either believed he was capable of his claim, or they didn’t.

Everyone watched in silence as Colin and MacCuaig remained standing. Minutes passed. To Makenna, Colin seemed to be growing larger, even more commanding, while Leon was beginning to sweat profusely.

Then the scraping of a chair filled the room. It came from Laird Boyd. “My father, Duncan Boyd, died fighting for Robert. And your brother, Conor, saved my life at the Loudoun Hill. The Boyds will stand behind the Dunstan clan as long as a McTiernay leads them.”

A second later, a wide, muscular laird stood. “As will the Crawfords. The English ready themselves even now to attack again.” He paused and then shouted with force, “Tutum te robore reddam!” Then, with deliberate calculation, he forcefully smacked his quaich down so that its contents sloshed onto the wooden table. “I will give you safety by strength,” he said, repeating his clan’s motto. “If McTiernay remains the Dunstan laird,” he added forcefully.

Crawford’s echoes were still bouncing off the walls when Laird Moncreiffe stood and added his vow of solidarity. One by one the men of the lead table pledged their support, each making it clear he supported Colin, not the Dunstans.

The few Dunstans present listened as each laird stood and spoke of the English’s impending retaliation against Robert, the new Scottish king. They needed protection. And for the first time, many realized that whether they liked the Highlander or not—they needed him and his allies.

MacCuaig stared at Makenna still standing in the middle of the room. Tonight had not gone according to plan, but then again, it had not been entirely unsuccessful. Several clans might have pledged their support to the new Highland laird, but many did not. Feeling the unstated backing of those seated around him, MacCuaig felt a sudden surge of power. Makenna might be married, but she was not forever lost to him.

“Can you all be so blind? You”—MacCuaig pointed at those around Colin—“so easily forget the old alliances, the long-standing promises. Makenna was supposed to be mine. The MacCuaigs will never support this Highlander, despite who is allied to him.”

Makenna watched as Leon turned to address the room with a semicrazed expression. “Did you not witness how he flouted our traditions with the burying of your laird? Today he pollutes our most sacred of rituals. What will he corrupt next? I tell you we can protect our own without the Highlander.”

Hearing enough, Dunlop interjected, “We stand behind our new laird. Don’t we, men?” Sounds from falling chairs and benches erupted and filled the hall as every Dunstan soldier present jumped to his feet. A deafening “Aye” was shouted from the crowd as each man leveled his attention upon the Lowlander who dared to insult their chief.

Makenna stood speechless, frozen as MacCuaig dissolved under their stares. Spinning around, he faced Colin and whispered something she could not hear. When done he headed toward the door, but stopped when he got to her side. His eyes slid down her thin frame. Then, loud enough for the room to hear, he said, “Take care, Makenna. The MacCuaigs will not help your clan in their hour of need.” He pointed across the room, but his eyes never left her. “Crawford, Moncreiffe, Boyd, and the others may back your husband, but their support is many days’ ride away. Only I will be able to save you.”

Colin saw red as sheer fury poured through him. “Leave now, MacCuaig, while you still can. One more word and I will consider it a challenge to be met here and now.”

For the first time since his arrival, MacCuaig felt satisfaction. Nothing had worked. He had challenged McTiernay’s honor, his clan, his Highlands. Makenna was his weakness. Ah, the joy he would get when he stripped her from Colin’s grasp and made Makenna his own.

Unfortunately, now was not the time. The Highlander was more skilled than most with a sword and currently surrounded by his newly established allies. Leon needed an edge, one that he didn’t have now. Soon, though, he would have everything owed to him. He just needed to be patient.

Makenna stared in shocked silence as MacCuaig bowed his head toward her and then to his table of potential comrades. She held her breath as he stormed out of the hall and ordered his men to prepare for immediate departure.

Exhaling, she felt relieved, but the sensation only lasted for a moment. Her eyes searched for Colin and widened the moment they locked with his. His gaze was blazing with fury and anger, and it was aimed not at the departed Leon MacCuaig, but at her.


Makenna had thought she had witnessed Colin’s anger many times since his arrival at Lochlen. She had been wrong. Never had she seen Colin truly mad.

Immediately following MacCuaig’s departure, Colin had ordered Brodie and Gorten to escort her to the Black Tower and wait for him in his chambers. Makenna had presumed Colin intended to make her stew for hours, but no more than ten minutes had passed when he charged through the door.

Makenna usually could disregard Colin’s imposing stature, but the raw fury roaring through him made her wish she were anything but its target.

She felt herself swallow heavily and shrink in fear. But just as she was about to retreat a few steps away from the path of his furious pacing, her inner voice called her a coward. “I have no reason to cower to you, Colin McTiernay. I have done nothing wrong,” she said to herself, this time making sure her mouth was closed.

Donning a mask of calm indifference, Makenna sauntered over to the basin and splashed some water on her face. The action was a deliberate show of ease, that she was not one of the Lowland lairds easily intimidated by his commanding presence. She patted her face dry and then faced him, arching a single brow.

Colin watched with incredulity as Makenna straightened her back, briefly assessed him, and then marched to the table acting as if he were not even there, let alone furious. He had no doubt that she was fully aware he was seething. Still, she offered no apologies, no requests for leniency, and no entreaties for forgiveness. The woman practically challenged his right to be angry.

“When were you going to tell me?” he roared.

“Colin, stop yelling at me.”

“I am not yelling. Whenever I do yell, there will be no mistaking it.” He had lowered his voice by several decibels, but it was definitely still loud.

Makenna watched as Colin resumed his pacing in front of the cold hearth. She had been about to light a fire when she had heard him order Brodie and Gorten and everyone else out of the tower just before he had stormed through the door.

Over the past few years, she had witnessed him in several moods, but never one like this. And all because of MacCuaig’s distorted sense of their relationship. Makenna decided to treat this argument with the level of intensity it deserved. None.