Page 14 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Before he could lead her away, a guard approached, bowing stiffly.

“My laird,” he said, voice low. “The Mackenzie prisoner . . . he refuses to eat or drink. He hasn’t touched a bite since his arrival. He says he would rather starve than eat from a Munro’s table.”

Cameron’s jaw tightened as he turned to her. “Stay here.” He released her arm. “I must see this stubborn prisoner. I will not have the third son of the Mackenzie laird die in our dungeon and start a larger conflict than we already face.”

“May I come with you?” Destiny asked boldly. “I might be able to help. I was always particularly good at managing my father’s creditors when they came calling.” At the confession, she could feel heat rise to her cheeks.

He nodded briefly before heading to the door. He paused for a moment and handed her a tartan shawl in the Munro colours.

At her hesitation, he replied, “To keep you warm. I will not have my bride catching a cold on our wedding day.”

She thought about refusing, but as the chill morning air touched her skin, she tossed the tartan wrap around her shoulders and followed him outside. Cameron showed her the training yard, the smithy, the stables. She tried to feign indifference, but her awareness of him grew sharper with every step. His stride was long, confident, his voice even and held a hint of pride when he explained even the smallest details of the estate. She should not have noticed the strength in his hands when he gestured, or the faint smile tugging at his mouth when young clansmen saluted him. But she did. And she chastised herself for it.

When he led her down into the dungeon, the cold stone stairwell seemed a mercy. At least here, her shivering could be blamed on the dampness.

Torchlight illuminated the small chamber, revealing two separate cells with iron bars between them. The Mackenzie prisoner was in the cell on the right. He sat on the cold stone floor, makeshift field dressings crudely bound to his chest and along his arm, soaked through with darkening blood.

When he raised his face to them as they entered the circle of light surrounding him, the strain of pain was unmistakable beneath his contempt. “Why have you come?”

“Perhaps we should let him starve after all.” Cameron’s reply was hard, clipped. He turned back to the stairs.

Destiny flinched at the cruelty. “Wait,” she blurted, surprising herself as much as him. “Let me try.”

He turned and studied her. “You think you can convince him to eat?”

She nodded, then moved to stand beside the cell, peering through the bars at the man inside. “I know what it is like to be separated from your kin. But if you wish to see them again, it is imperative that you maintain your health.”

“You’re a Munro too. Why should I listen to you?”

“Until but an hour ago, I was still a Gunn.” Destiny squared her shoulders. “Can I ask a question?”

“I am not going anywhere,” the prisoner said in a snide tone.

“Why were you trying to kill me and my kinswoman in the forest? My father claimed this marriage was to help merge our clans—Gunn, Mackenzie, Munro?” She should be angry at this man, but even though he had threatened her and Sorcha’s lives, she understood clan strife.

It had been going on for centuries. It did not make what he had done right, but she could forgive him for blindly following the ways of many Highlanders before him.

“It wasn’t personal. Not all of us Mackenzies want the clans to settle their animosity.” The man’s gaze shifted between her and Cameron standing behind her. “Those of us who attacked you want the warring between the Mackenzies and the Munros to continue until we crush them. We thought perhaps if we took away something the Munro claimed was his, we might yet prevail.”

“I am his, now.” Destiny’s words reverberated through the dank cell. “And as his wife and his ally, we have no choice but to try to find a sort of peace.”

The prisoner laughed. “The Mackenzies will never accept your marriage to the Munro to end our feud. There will be more blood. I promise you.”

A single shiver traced the length of Destiny’s spine at his words.

“That is enough,” Cameron said, stepping forward, his voice hard.

Destiny ignored him. “None of us can predict the future. But for now, at least protect your own life by taking nourishment so you can heal.” Her gaze settled on a small table outside the cell where a cup of broth sat. Someone had obviously brought it down here for the prisoner to consume. “I am certain your mother would not want to see you die in this way. Do you not wish to see your mother again?”

The prisoner’s brow furrowed. “I do,” he said with hesitation.

“Then drink some broth to prove it,” she challenged.

Destiny fetched broth and knelt by the cell again. She reached through the bars. When she lifted the spoon to the prisoner’s lips, Cameron’s gaze was on her, steady, intent, searching rather than condemning. She felt the weight of it all the same. He watched as if trying to unravel her purpose, to make sense of the care she offered and the resolve behind it. She ignored the flutter in her stomach, ignored the unsettling thought that his silence might not come from anger at her tending an enemy, but possibly from a need to understand why she chose compassion at all. Why she offered it so freely to a man who had tried to harm her.

When the prisoner finally drank the last of the broth, relief washed over Destiny, warm and steady.

She eased back, hands trembling slightly from the effort, and allowed herself one quiet breath before she went to get him a blanket. “To keep you warm.”