27 DEMANDING JUSTICE

"TARA?" JACK MOVED swiftly to his wife's side. "Are ye unwell?"

Tara shook her head, sagging against him. Her gaze swept to Loch and then Finn. "Donn has managed to extract the blade and staunch the wound … Astrid still breathes."

It hit Finn then that the grief upon Tara's face wasn't only for Astrid—but also for her kin.

Earlier, Tara had been told her father was dead and her brother captured. Aye, she'd forsaken her family and wed a Maclean, but that didn't mean she'd cast her father—the brute that he was—from her heart.

Donalda appeared at that moment, wiping her bloodied hands on a cloth. Her heart-shaped face was tired, her small mouth pursed. "Astrid is sleeping now," she announced.

Loch moved forward, toward the chamber. Both women stepped aside to let him enter. Jack followed at his heels, with Finn bringing up the rear.

However, the sight of Astrid lying upon blood-stained sheets, her chest bound with a thick bandage, made Finn stop short.

Hades, she looked so vulnerable and frail. It was hard to believe this woman had fought at his side on the water earlier. Her skill with throwing knives was indeed impressive, and she'd found mark after mark with ease. Astrid had a warrior's soul trapped in a delicate body.

She'd saved his life. He'd wanted to thank her, but there hadn't been time. And now, he might never get the chance.

Finn's chest constricted then.

If she died, he'd never be able to look her in the eye and apologize for his behavior the night before. She'd never know that he was sorry. Guilt had weighed heavily upon him ever since their talk on the beach, for he'd seen the anguish ripple across her face before she fled to her tent.

He hadn't meant to hurt Astrid, yet her honesty had panicked him.

He couldn't let anyone in, least of all her. The lass he'd once pined for. The lady he'd once loathed.

Donn rose to his feet then, from where he'd been adjusting the bandage, and faced the clan-chief.

"Will she live?" Loch asked, the slight quaver to his voice betraying him.

The healer stared back at him, his sharp-featured face haggard. "I feared the blade might have pierced something vital … but it did not," he replied, his gravelly voice carrying through the chamber. "However, yer sister has lost much blood, and there's a risk her wound might sour." He sighed then, reaching for a cloth to clean his hands. They were large and rawboned, farmer's hands, and yet they tended the sick and injured with infinite care. "All any of us can do now is wait."

Finn's breathing grew shallow at these words. He'd never been a patient man, yet there were some things he couldn't hurry.

Loch nodded, even if his face was still pinched with worry. "Stay with her, Donn," he said gruffly. "I have the Mackinnon prisoners to see to, but I will return as soon as I can."

A few feet away, Tara stiffened at these words. "Is my brother with them?"

Tara and Loch's gazes met and held for a few moments before he nodded.

A nerve flickered in Tara's pale cheek. "Then I'm coming with ye," she replied.

"Traitor." Bran Mackinnon's first words weren't directed at Loch, but the woman standing a few feet behind the Maclean clan-chief.

Observing brother and sister, Finn found himself silently impressed by Tara. Even exhausted and grieving, she held herself straight and proud, her chin high .

However, Bran's lip curled as he stared her down. The lad's fiery hair was tangled with mud and sweat, his fine hauberk was blood-splattered, and a deep cut marred his pale left cheek—yet he too stood tall, with that Mackinnon arrogance. Waiting at the front of the group of captives—a knot of bloody, injured men with bound wrists surrounded by pike-wielding warriors—he'd watched Loch's party approach with haughty defiance etched upon his face.

Quite a crowd had amassed before the walls. In the end, they'd all gone out to view the captives. Finn had followed Loch, picking his way through the chunks of debris that littered the barmkin and the bodies that were still being cleared away. The groans of the injured echoed against stone, while the aroma of stewing meat and baking bannock drifted out of the kitchens—a welcome scent after the rank odor of blood, sweat, and fear. However, once he'd left the barmkin behind, Finn smelled fear once more. Outside the broch, just a few yards away from the captives, the air was heavy with it.

The Mackinnon, MacGregor, and MacNab warriors bunched together, their faces pale and sweaty, as they awaited Loch's punishment. But their leader didn't appear concerned by the Maclean clan-chief's glare. Bran was too focused on his sister.

Tension pulsed between the siblings, yet Tara's gaze didn't waver. "We all made our choices, brother," she murmured.

A nerve jumped in his uninjured cheek. "Aye, and yers was to run off and shackle yerself to the enemy."

"Father didn't have my best interests at heart," she replied, even as her voice trembled. "So, I took my future into my own hands. Hate me for it, if ye will … but I refused to martyr myself to appease our father."

"Heartless bitch!" His silver eyes glinted now, his hands, bound in front of him, clenching into fists. "Our father is dead. Slain by a Maclean!"

"Not a Maclean actually," an arrogant voice drawled, interrupting their exchange. " I killed him."

All gazes swiveled to the tall blond man standing behind Loch's party with the rest of the crowd, Malcolm Macleod and the three Maclean chieftains among them.

"The name's Alec Rankin … Captain of The Blood Reiver ," he continued, his gaze fusing with Bran's. His mouth then curved into a goading smile. "Ye should have yer facts straight, should ye ever need to go hunting for revenge."

In reply, Bran's face screwed up, and he spat on the ground. " Pirate ," he snarled. "How much did they promise ye?"

"Enough."

A muscle worked in Bran's jaw, a sign that he was only barely keeping his temper leashed. Anger wouldn't help the lad right now though. Not while Loch was watching him with a narrowed gaze.

"Yer father managed to amass quite an army," the clan-chief spoke up then, drawing Bran's attention. "How is it that the MacGregors and the MacNabs assisted him so readily?"

Bran's mouth thinned as if he was considering refusing to answer Loch. Yet after a few moments, he grudgingly answered. "The MacNabs owed my father a blood debt from years ago … and in exchange for eight galleys and a host of warriors, he promised the MacGregor clan-chief a marriage between his eldest daughter … and me." Bran's silver eyes darkened then, hinting that he hadn't been pleased about the arrangement.

Loch nodded, taking this in. "My people would have me make an example of ye, Mackinnon," he said, his tone sharpening. "They'd have ye hanged, drawn, and quartered."

Tara's horrified gasp echoed into the afternoon air. "No!"

Loch ignored her, his gaze never wavering. "And as I look upon the devastation yer people have wrought, I'm inclined to agree with them."

Indeed, Dounarwyse's mighty curtain wall was pitted and scored, and the village beyond its walls razed to the ground. The fields had been trampled and spoiled too. It would take a long while for Rae Maclean to repair his broch and lands, and the past days had seen a great loss of life. The Macleans and their allies had emerged as the victors, yet this conflict had robbed them of much.

Bran's throat bobbed then, although the lad held on to his courage. Finn watched him closely, waiting for him to crack, for him to say he'd only been following his father's orders—for him to plead for his sorry life.

But he didn't .

Loch moved forward so that he and Bran only stood a couple of feet apart. "With ye dead, yer family line would be broken. Dùn Ara would be mine."

Bran visibly blanched at this. However, he still held his tongue.

"It would be only fair, wouldn't it?" Loch continued, his voice dropping to a threatening rumble then. "After all, yer father wanted to take my lands for his own. After Dounarwyse, Duart would have been his next target."

Bran swallowed once more, confirming his words.

Silence fell before the walls of Dounarwyse, and Finn marked the despair on the faces of the Mackinnon warriors. Tara was weeping silently now, and Jack had stepped close to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Jack's face had shuttered though, giving no hint of how he felt about the clan-chief's threats.

Tension rippled through the warm air, and Finn's pulse quickened. Even though he wasn't a Maclean, he shared the outrage of those gathered beneath the broch. He too wanted to lash out.

The faces of those in the crowd looking on were taut, as if they hungered for blood. Meanwhile, Malcolm Macleod watched the proceedings with a glint in his grey eyes, while the three Maclean chieftains glowered at the captives. Leod Maclean of Moy, a big, swarthy man, wore a pitiless expression upon his angular face. Next to him, Logan Black, the new chieftain of Croggan, watched the captives with a narrowed gaze.

Of course, Black's family had been killed by Mackinnon warriors. He'd sought reckoning for a while now and had finally found it. Almost—for the clan-chief's son still breathed.

"I've seen enough blood over the past years to last me a lifetime, lad ," Loch said, breaking the shivering silence. His eyes hardened now, his voice rough with menace. "Enough to sicken me … but my clansmen demand justice, and I shall give it to them."