Chapter 22 BRUISED PRIDE
“WHAT THE DEVIL have ye done?”
Loch Maclean’s voice lashed across the solar.
Craeg held his ground. “I’m prepared to accept the consequences for breaking this betrothal.”
“Are ye?” The force of Loch’s glare flayed him. At fifty winters, the chief of Clan Maclean was still formidable—tall and powerfully built. He had a presence that made men drop their gazes. “Ye break a formal betrothal. Ye dishonor a powerful ally. And for what? A lass ye barely know?”
The words stung, but Craeg kept his expression veiled.
“Hamish Macquarie sent men to murder her,” Craeg said, his voice steady despite the hammering of his heart. “His own daughter. Is that a man ye would have me bind myself to?”
“He gave ye a generous dowry … and promised his military support.” Loch moved from the hearth.
His solar was an intimidating chamber, much bigger than Craeg’s own back at Moy.
Tapestries depicting Maclean victories hung from the stone walls.
A massive oak table dominated the center of the solar, covered in maps and scrolls.
The scent of peat smoke, from the smoldering hearth, and old leather hung in the air.
“His alliance is important. The MacDonalds are making a nuisance of themselves again. He could help defend Moy from raids.”
Craeg stiffened. “I don’t need his protection.”
Loch snorted a bitter laugh. “None of us survive without allies, Craeg. One day, ye’ll understand how important that is.”
“And I’ll make others,” Craeg shot back, his temper rising now.
“And what about yer duty to yer clan?”
“Some things matter more.”
Loch’s mouth twisted. “Like what … love?”
Heat flooded Craeg’s face. “Like honor,” he ground out. “Macquarie ravished a Maclean woman … and sent men onto Maclean lands to kill one of our own. Ye can’t expect me to—”
“I expect ye to be a chieftain!” Loch cut him off, striding forward until they were nearly nose to nose. “I expect ye to put yer clan before yer own desires. To make the hard choices … even if they cost ye.”
It was hard not to flinch under the clan-chief’s wrath, but Craeg didn’t. He wouldn’t back down. Not about this.
“Ye married an innkeeper’s daughter,” he said quietly.
The effect was immediate. Loch stilled, color flushing across his high cheekbones. “What did ye say?”
“Mairi. Yer wife.” Craeg forced himself to hold his gaze. “Ye caused a scandal when ye married her. The Maclean clan-chief should wed someone of noble birth. But ye didn’t care, did ye? Ye chose her anyway.”
Silence descended. Loch’s jaw flexed, and for a moment, Craeg thought the clan-chief might strike him.
“That was different,” Loch said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Craeg was dancing on a blade’s edge here, yet he persisted. “How?”
“I wasn’t breaking a formal betrothal. I wasn’t dishonoring an alliance.”
“Ye were still putting love before duty,” Craeg replied. “So, don’t stand there and tell me I’m wrong for doing the same.”
Loch’s dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “Insolent whelp,” he rasped. “How dare ye—”
The door burst open.
Both men spun toward the intrusion. Finn MacDonald, captain of the Duart Guard, stood in the doorway, his lean face pale and strained. He was breathing hard, as if he’d sprinted up all three flights of stairs that led up from the inner courtyard.
“Greig has returned.” MacDonald’s voice was tight.
Loch scowled. “So soon?”
“He’s injured.”
Craeg’s pulse lurched. Injured?
Loch was already moving, shoving past Craeg toward the door. “How badly?”
“His left leg is a mess … sliced open from hip to knee. Donn is with him now.”
The clan-chief didn’t wait to hear more. He strode from the solar without a backward glance. Finn cast a sharp look at Craeg before following Loch.
Craeg waited until Greig was alone before visiting him.
It was time for supper; the aroma of roast venison and fresh bread wafted up the stairwell. Everyone was gathering in the great hall, but Craeg wouldn’t join them. Instead, he approached the door to Greig’s bedchamber and gently knocked.
“Come in.” A familiar voice, thin with pain, greeted him.
Pushing open the door, he entered.
Greig was propped up in bed. However, the sight of him made Craeg’s stride falter. His friend was normally like his father. Strong. He’d never seen him like this. Hollow-eyed and gaunt-cheeked. He lay upon the coverlet, wearing nothing but a long lèine. His left leg was thickly bandaged.
“I hear ye have been in the wars,” Craeg greeted him with more heartiness than he felt.
Greig snorted. “Dog-humping English bastard got me.”
Craeg eyed the bandage. “How bad is it?”
Greig grimaced. “The blade went deep … but the healer thinks he can save my leg.”
Relief barreled through Craeg. “I need a wine … do ye want one?”
“Aye … it’ll wash the foul taste of those god-awful herbs Donn gave me out of my mouth.”
Herbs.
Just one word, and yet Hazel’s face flashed before him.
Her chin high, her blue eyes luminous. He had to get back to her, had to convince Loch to give them his blessing.
However, he’d be wise to avoid his clan-chief this evening.
He needed to let him cool down after their argument.
Things had nearly gotten out of hand. Bringing up Loch’s marriage to Mairi had been a mistake, one that might have cost him dearly.
He’d go to see him in the morning, and when he did, he’d choose his words more carefully.
Crossing to the sideboard, he poured two cups of sloe wine. It was strong. Just the thing for taking the edge off pain or settling nerves. He handed a cup to Greig, watching as he lifted it to his lips.
The slight tremor in his friend’s hand made him frown. Up close, he marked the pallor under Greig’s ruddy tan. Taking a large gulp of wine, Greig swallowed, blinking as his eyes smarted. He then fixed Craeg with a look that reminded him of his father. “Donn tells me that I’ll be a cripple.”
The words were blunt, laced with simmering anger.
“A cripple?”
“Aye … a deformed creature who shuffles around with a stick.”
“I know what a cripple is,” Craeg answered, frowning. His gaze lowered to Greig’s leg. “Surely, ye will heal?”
“Aye … but I took the injury a few days ago … and Donn says the muscle and flesh have already started to knit. Poorly. If I’m lucky, I’ll walk with a bad limp and will need a stick.” His throat worked, betraying him. “If I’m unlucky, I’ll be bedridden.”
Silence followed these words.
Craeg’s chest tightened. He sank down onto the stool beside the bed, gripping his cup hard. “Christ, Greig. I’m sorry.”
Greig huffed a bitter laugh. “Aye, well. That makes two of us.”
Taking a gulp of wine, Craeg searched for words that wouldn’t sound hollow. But what could he say? That everything would be fine? That Donn was wrong and Greig would fully recover? They’d both seen enough battle wounds to know better.
His chest clenched then. Aye, this was the other side of war. Glory and honor were all well and good—until a man’s luck ran out. Until the enemy’s blade slipped under his guard. It was a sobering reminder.
“How was it this time?” Craeg asked finally. “With Murray?”
Greig sighed. “Brutal.” He stared down at his wine. “But things are going our way … Murray and Mowbray’s men are still laying siege to Dundarg Castle. I wanted to be there to see it fall.”
Craeg nodded. He’d heard that Murray had joined forces with Alexander de Mowbray. Together, they’d marched to Dundarg, on the Firth of Moray, where one of Balliol’s allies, Henry de Beaumont, resided. Longing flickered to life under his breastbone then, a warrior’s instinct.
For an instant—despite everything—he too wished he was at Murray’s side, fighting to end English rule.
“The plan was to come home a hero,” Greig said, bitterness lacing his voice now. “Not maimed.”
Craeg wanted to reach out, to grip his friend’s shoulder the way he would have done months earlier.
But something stopped him. They’d trained together, gotten drunk together, and chased lasses in alehouses, but all of that belonged to a different life.
Once, all he’d wanted was Greig and Ailean’s approval, to feel part of a brotherhood. They’d been part of his identity.
But no longer.
Now, sitting in this dim bedchamber, distance yawned between them. He hadn’t imagined that their reunion would be like this, that Greig would be so self-pitying and broken.
“Ye will heal,” Craeg said firmly. “And when ye do—”
“What then?” Greig cut him off, his eyes blazing now. “I’ll hobble around like some useless decrepit bodach? Watching from the sidelines while other men ride out to fight?” His jaw clenched. “That English prick should have killed me.”
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s the truth.” Greig drained his cup and held it out. “More.”
Craeg rose and refilled both their cups, disquieted by his friend’s churning anger. He understood why though. He too would be hollow-eyed and bitter in the same circumstances.
When he returned to the stool, Greig eyed him. “So, why are ye at Duart, anyway?”
Heat crept up Craeg’s neck. “I came to see yer father.” He hesitated then. “I’ve broken my betrothal to Isla Macquarie.”
Greig’s eyebrows rose.
“I’m marrying someone else,” Craeg added.
“Sly dog … ye have been busy in my absence.” His friend managed a wan smile then. “Well … who is she?”
“Her name’s Hazel. She’s a herb-wife from Lochbuie.”
Greig stilled. “Ye cast aside a chieftain’s daughter for a common healer?” His tone was incredulous.
Craeg frowned. “She’s Hamish Macquarie’s daughter.”
Confusion rippled across his friend’s face. “No, that’s Isla.”
“He has another daughter … one that grew up amongst the Macleans,” Craeg answered, shaking his head. “Three decades ago, Macquarie raped one of our women in a raid.”
Another silence fell in the bedchamber, this one brittle.
Eventually, Greig muttered an oath under his breath. “I thought Ailean was a fool when it came to the lasses … but ye have bested him.”
Craeg flushed hot. He didn’t like to be compared to Ailean in that regard. His friend had bedded half the serving lasses between here and Tobermory.
“All women want to do is tie ye down … own ye,” Greig went on, the hardness in his voice odd for someone so young. “And now ye’re about to let a healer make ye the laughingstock of Mull.”
Anger flashed through Craeg, making him sweat. “It’s not like that. Hazel isn’t like that. She’s—”
“Bonnier than a summer’s dawn? Sweeter than heather honey?” Greig’s gaze was pitying now. “She’s just a lass, Craeg. They’re all the same.”
“Hazel isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met,” Craeg ground out, even as his temper boiled.
He wanted to tell Greig that she’d calmed the restlessness inside him, had even quieted the lurking fear that his father’s blood would eventually show itself, but he checked himself. His friend would only mock him for it.
“They always are different.” Greig’s voice held a weariness that made him sound decades older. “Until they’re not.”
Craeg glared at him. This wasn’t how he'd imagined this conversation going. He’d thought Greig would understand and that he’d support him.
Once again, the gulf between them showed itself.
In just a couple of months, they’d grown apart, and now that Craeg’s hunger to lose himself in the chaos of battle had gone, he wondered if they’d ever really had much in common.
Greig observed him a moment longer before his expression softened slightly. “Ye have gone and fallen for her, haven’t ye?”
Craeg swallowed before managing a slight nod.
“How did Da react when ye asked for his blessing?”
“Badly.” He grimaced then, recalling the scene in the clan-chief’s solar. “I might have … accidentally … insulted him.”
His friend’s gaze widened. “How?”
“I reminded him that he fell for a woman far beneath his own rank … and wed her.”
Greig’s dark brows knitted together. Of course, they were talking about his mother. He didn’t appreciate it either. “I’m surprised ye aren’t now mumbling through the bloody stumps of yer teeth,” he replied, his tone cooling.
“MacDonald interrupted us.” His pulse quickened then. “But I’ll need to face him again. Tomorrow. I can’t leave without his blessing.”
“Then ye’ll have to humble yerself before him.” Greig studied Craeg for a long moment. “My father has the pride of a stag, and ye have sorely bruised it. If ye want his blessing, make him feel like he’s granting ye a favor … but that ye will accept whatever he decides.”
Craeg’s own pride bristled at the suggestion, but he forced it down. Greig was right. His approach this afternoon had been all wrong.
Raising his cup to his lips, he drained it before nodding.