Steel & Surrender (Sons of Mull #3)

Chapter 1

Duart Castle,

The Isle of Mull, Scotland

IT WAS SAID that everyone loved a good wedding.

Greig didn’t.

Weddings chafed him like wet leather. Everyone wore daft smiles, and the priest droned on forever. Folk acted as if such a day promised a blessed future. But that was nonsense.

It was just one day in a long life. A long marriage.

Even so, as he stood amongst the crowd of well-wishers, leaning heavily on his crutch, Greig had to admit that his cousin Maggie had never looked bonnier or happier.

She stood on the steps of the chapel in Duart Castle’s outer courtyard, her fine blonde hair—so much like her mother’s—fluttering in the crisp spring breeze.

And her husband-to-be, Rab, looked proud enough to burst. The man beamed, his eyes shining with love.

Greig fought a lip curl. Maggie was a sweet lass. As pretty as a nymph, yet she’d inherited her mother’s strong will. Rab would have his hands full. He almost pitied the man for looking so foolishly pleased with himself, as if wedding this woman was the answer to all life’s problems.

Bitterness coated Greig’s tongue, and he gingerly shifted position.

His left leg ached piteously today. It did that sometimes.

Nearly a year had passed since he’d taken the injury—since an English knight had slashed him from hip to knee—but it had healed badly.

In the mornings and evenings, when he dressed and undressed, he preferred not to look at the mangled flesh.

The scar was twisted, red, and angry. The sight of it made his gut clench.

He was the clan-chief of Mull’s firstborn son, destined to one day rule this mighty castle and this side of the isle. But his maimed leg made him feel unworthy of the role, as if somehow, he was going to let everyone down.

Swallowing hard, his gaze shifted from the happy couple to where the chaplain, Father Malcolm, still spoke.

He was new to Duart, replacing Father Hector, who’d died two years previously.

The old chaplain had been dour and bad-tempered, but he’d been here all Greig’s life.

It felt strange to have someone else fill his place.

Greig’s attention moved next to where his parents stood to his right.

They’d been wed well over twenty-five years, yet they were still as happy as they’d ever been.

Standing close, arms linked, they watched the ceremony.

His mother, Mairi, had tears in her eyes, while his father wore a pleased half-smile.

Loch Maclean had just passed his fiftieth winter, and he wore each one well.

Streaks of silver marred his thick black hair tied at the nape of his neck, and his handsome face bore grooves that hadn’t been there a handful of years earlier.

Even so, he was still strong and healthy, and Greig was glad of it.

He adored his father, looked up to him, wanted to equal him in everything.

Or he had, before the maiming.

Greig cut his gaze away. That was what made it hardest to bear. He was no longer his father’s equal, nor the equal of any warrior inside these walls.

He was a cripple. Good for little these days.

“Ye are the blood of my blood, the bone of my bone. I give ye my body so we may become one.”

Rab’s voice, rough with emotion, drifted across the crowd, making Greig focus on the ceremony once more. At least the chaplain had finished his interminable speech, and the vows were taking place. The words were powerful, and despite his cynicism, a chill prickled Greig’s skin. It was quite a vow.

Quite a promise.

In truth, he couldn’t imagine ever feeling that deeply about a woman that he’d make such a one. That he’d say such raw words before a watching crowd, that he’d lay himself open and make himself so vulnerable.

A hush settled as Maggie repeated the words, their hands bound together by a ribbon of red and green Maclean plaid. When the vows were done, the chaplain stepped forward and slowly unwound the ribbon.

“Ye are now husband and wife,” he said proudly. He glanced at Rab. “Go on … kiss yer wife.”

A roar went up in the crowd, men’s and women’s voices thundering against stone and lifting high into the pale-blue sky. Greig didn’t join in the applause, although his brothers, who both stood to his left, did. Alistair hooted and clapped wildly, his dark eyes shining, while Davy whistled.

“Come on, ye miserable bastard,” Alistair jabbed Greig in the arm with his elbow. “At least clap.”

Pulling a face, Greig propped his crutch against his side and half-heartedly joined in.

“It’ll be ye next, brother,” Davy teased, a wicked glint in his eye.

Greig snarled. “I think not. Ye aren’t dragging me up there to make a great fool of myself over a woman.”

Davy cocked a dark eyebrow. Of the three brothers, he resembled their father the most—dark hair tied at his nape and a sharp, hawkish face.

“Yer time will come, brother,” he said with a smirk. “As will all of ours.”

I have to get out of here.

The revelry following the wedding was in full swing, the shrill strains of a Highland pipe belting out a rousing skirl as men, women, and children whirled around the center of the Great Hall.

But Greig was done with it.

Gripping his crutch so tightly his knuckles creaked, he edged his way around the crowd. The rest of his family still sat at the chieftain’s table near the hearth, watching the dancing and enjoying goblets of wine. But he’d suffered the press of bodies long enough. It was time to escape.

He would have liked to grab a jug of wine on the way out, but maneuvering himself with the crutch was hard enough. He couldn’t manage carrying anything as well.

The reminder made anger curdle in his gut.

He truly was useless.

He couldn’t walk more than a few yards without this damn stick. God knew how he tried. His leg simply gave way beneath him. It had no strength. And if anything, the pain of late had worsened. The muscles seemed to be wasting.

Dread lodged in his throat.

What if one day he was confined to his bed?

There’d be no chance he’d become clan-chief then. What use would he be to his people—or to anyone?

Pushing his way into the entrance hall, he began the torturous climb up the spiral staircase.

Each step burned, yet he forced himself onward. If anything, the pain drove him. He took it like penance. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Up and up he climbed, four floors, to the narrow stairs that led to the Winter Garden. By the time he pushed open the door and hopped out onto the secluded space, he was breathing hard, sweat slicking his skin.

Originally built for a grandmother who’d died a few years before his birth, this was now his mother’s refuge. The garden had been lovingly tended. A terrace overlooked Mull’s rugged eastern coastline, with stone benches facing the sea.

Leaning heavily on his crutch—and grateful there were no witnesses—Greig limped along the flagstones between lavender about to flower and rosemary already blooming. Bees hummed lazily in the air.

He ignored it all.

Instead, he heaved himself up the last steps and slumped onto a bench, panting. There. He’d done it. It had taken so much effort to get here that he didn’t intend to move for hours.

He’d stay. Watch the sky darken. Watch the stars appear one by one. Only then would he return, when the revelry had died.

Until then, he’d keep his own counsel.

A sea eagle wheeled overhead. Once, the sight would have filled him with awe. Now, it stirred nothing. Only bitterness, frustration, impotent rage.

Rage at the hand fate had dealt him.

Better that the English shitebag had slain him on the battlefield than leave him with this half-life. He was diminished now, and everyone in Duart knew it.

Davy’s jibe about taking a wife still galled him. Since his injury, he’d stayed away from women. He’d once frequented The Barnacle in Craignure, where the lasses bestowed their favors freely, and he’d spent hot, reckless nights upstairs. But he hadn’t darkened its door since his maiming.

He didn’t want to see the pity in the lasses’ eyes. Or disgust.

And though he knew, as firstborn son, he would be expected to wed one day, the thought sat in his gut like a brick.

He remained there until his arse went numb and the air turned sharp, stinging his cheeks.

Only when boots scuffed on stone did he turn.

His gaze narrowed as Alistair approached.

“There ye are. I hoped I’d find ye up here.” His brother carried a skin of ale under one arm and two wooden cups in his hand. “I thought ye’d enjoy a drop or two.”

“No one invited ye,” Greig muttered.

Ignoring him, Alistair climbed onto the terrace, set the cups on the wall, and poured them both some bramble wine.

“Ma’s finest. Drink up. It looks like ye need it.”

Greig took the cup, swallowed deeply, and welcomed the burn of the wine. Autumn’s last batch. Warmth spread through him, easing the chill in his limbs.

“It’s been a fine day, don’t ye think?” Alistair said.

Greig grunted.

“It’s good to see Maggie so happy,” his brother added.

That much was true. They all loved their cousin. She and Rab would remain at Duart, their new quarters waiting in the guardhouse near her parents. Family close at hand.

Once, Greig had cherished that closeness. Now it felt suffocating. The more concern his kin showed him, the angrier he grew.

Sensing his mood, Alistair fell quiet. He settled down onto a bench opposite and they drank as the sunset set the western sky ablaze. The ridge line of Beinn Talaidh rose in a massive stone curtain against the firelit horizon.

At last, Alistair cleared his throat. “I shall climb Ben More one day, ye know? I’ve made myself a promise.”

Greig snorted. That admission had come out of nowhere. However, his brother still stared west. Mull’s largest peak lay in that direction, hidden by Beinn Talaidh. Years ago, he’d thought he might climb Ben More too. Before the war. Before the blade to his leg.

“Well then, ye should,” he replied. “Time passes swiftly. Opportunities must be seized … or they’re gone.”

Bitterness crept into the words.

Alistair shifted his attention from the horizon, studying him. “I’ve made a list,” he said finally. “Climbing Ben More is just one of the challenges I’ve set myself.”

Greig cocked an eyebrow. “A list?”

“Aye.” He pulled a folded scroll from his jerkin. “Finished it yesterday.”

“Let me see.” Greig couldn’t help it; his interest was well and truly piqued.

Alistair pulled a face. “Some things should be kept private.”

“Come on,” Greig pressed. “Brighten my day.”

His brother hesitated, and then, murmuring an oath, he handed it over. “Say nothing to Ma or Da … or Davy.”

“I won’t.” Greig unfurled the scroll.

The first item came as no surprise: Climb Ben More.

The second did though: Swim across the Sound of Mull. Alistair had always been the weakest swimmer of the three brothers.

“Ye’d better make sure one of us rows alongside ye, if ye plan to swim across the Sound,” Greig said with a rueful shake of his head.

“I’m no fool,” Alistair replied stiffly.

Greig read on. Spend a night in Tobermory and drink so much ye remember nothing the next morning.

He snorted. “Getting rotten drunk shouldn’t be hard.”

“Maybe not,” Alistair admitted with an embarrassed smile. “But I’ve never had such a night.”

Greig raised a brow. His brother’s revelation showed a new side to him. Alistair wasn’t as confident as he seemed.

Considering this, Greig lowered his gaze back to the list. Ride non-stop across Mull from Duart to The Western Cliffs. His mouth curved faintly. That would be exhilarating.

Then: Win a strength contest at a Highland Games.

Of course, Alistair was a fine rider and had won many horse races at games, but never a strength contest. He could understand why his brother welcomed the challenge.

Finally, he reached the sixth and last item on the list—and this one gave him pause.

Win the Forge Maiden’s heart.

Greig frowned. “The Forge Maiden? Ye mean Brìghde Boyd?” He spoke of the mannish young woman who ran her father’s forge. “Why the devil would ye want to win her?”

Alistair snatched the list back. “Brìghde is lovely,” he snapped. “It’s not my fault if her charms are lost on the likes of ye.”

Their gazes locked, and Greig marked the glint in his brother’s eyes.

Cods. He was soft on her.

“So, ye’ll do all this?” he asked after a pause, deciding he wouldn’t push things.

Alistair’s expression turned stubborn. “Aye.”

“They’re good goals … except the last.”

Alistair snorted and took a large swallow of wine before answering, “What happened to ye taught me not to waste youth.”

Greig tensed. “Indeed,” he murmured, cutting his gaze away to where the first stars now appeared in an indigo sky.

The two brothers drank in silence for a while after that, each lost in their own thoughts.

Alistair planning how he’d complete his list.

Greig brooding upon the cruel hand fate had dealt him.

“Promise me something, Greig,” Alistair said eventually, turning to him.

They’d consumed two more cups of wine, and his brother swayed slightly, his voice slurring a little too.

Greig glanced his way, irritated by the intrusion. “What?”

“If I die before I finish the list … ye’ll complete it.”

Greig snorted. “What rot, Al. Ye’ll live to a ripe old age.”

“Promise me.” Alistair’s expression turned fierce.

Greig sighed. He wasn’t in the mood to argue. If he agreed, his brother would let this foolish matter rest. They were both drunk, and by tomorrow, it would be forgotten. “All right … I promise.”