Chapter 3
“A TOAST TO my brother!” Davy slurred, lurching to his feet and knocking over the jug of ale in front of him. It spilled across the table in the hall’s center, and some of the men seated around him cursed, leaping aside so they didn’t get soaked.
But Davy was too deep into his cups to notice.
Swaying, he lifted his cup high. “Alistair was the best of us … steadier … wiser,” he shouted.
His hawkish features were flushed, his eyes glassy. Twisting, he then raised a cup to where his parents sat behind him. Loch and Mairi had been subdued during the dregy so far.
Davy was the only one amongst them who really got into the spirit of it.
The dregy would go on late into the night—feasting, drinking, and swapping stories. The revelry had already gotten rowdier as barrels of ale were rolled out into the Great Hall. Singing erupted then, echoing high into the rafters.
Seated beside the smoldering hearth a few yards away from his brother’s table, Greig didn’t join in. Instead, he took another draft of ale, his mood growing ever darker and more maudlin.
Unlike the burial, which was always a somber affair, the dregy was a time for the living to release the tension that had built up over the past days. It was tradition, and Greig understood its purpose, but the noise was getting too much.
“Why is it that such a good man should die so young?” Davy shouted above the singing, his voice cracking as emotion battered its way in. “Why?”
Bitterness flooded Greig’s mouth. Why indeed. But then, why did anything ugly ever happen? His maiming a year before had shown him how the world worked. And then the Bean Nighe had come for his brother.
But Davy was right. Alistair was the best of them. Greig was a shadow of the man he’d once been, and Davy was a young hothead. But Alistair had been steady.
“I should have been there.” Davy’s fingers tightened on his cup, his mood darkening in a flash. “To watch his back.”
Greig couldn’t help it; he shifted upon his stool, his gaze going to where his parents sat silently behind Davy.
Their father’s lips pursed at this comment, his dark eyes hollowed in the flickering light of the sconces burning on the walls around him.
Loch had sent his son out on that day, and no one blamed him for it.
Alistair had wanted to lead the escort alone.
He’d bid Davy to stay behind this time. At eighteen, their youngest brother was old enough to fight.
He and Alastair were close too; they did everything together.
Not on this occasion though. And just as well, or Duart would have been grieving the pair of them.
“It should have been an easy enough task,” Davy continued, his voice growing harsh. “Escorting a merchant cog to Mull. If it wasn’t for those dog-humping MacDonalds.”
Seated at the clan-chief’s right, Finn MacDonald shifted uneasily in his seat.
Greig’s aunt Astrid cut her husband a sidelong look before putting her hand on his thigh.
Of course, Davy wasn’t insulting all the MacDonalds, but the MacDonalds of Sleat, who hailed from the Isle of Skye, the ones who followed Callum MacDonald.
And Finn wasn’t from that group of the clan, but from the MacDonalds of Dunnyveg on Islay.
All the same, being a lone MacDonald in a hall of angry and grieving Macleans likely put the captain on edge.
Duart had been his home for a long time, and he’d married into the clan too, but there were still times when none of that mattered.
“They will pay for this,” Davy roared. “I swear it.” He shoved his cup high, ale sloshing over the side. “Let us all swear it.”
Everyone present, Greig included, lifted their cups high in a salute.
“Aye, revenge!”
The shouts shook the hall.
Moments passed, and then the piper in the corner struck up, rousing the tune once more. The mourners refilled their cups, and one of the warriors started singing tunelessly. Davy slumped back down onto the bench seat, as if grief had just barreled into him, robbing him of defiance.
Fingers clenching around his own cup, Greig cut his gaze away from his youngest brother and glared at the flickering flames. He wanted revenge as much as Davy did. It burned like a pulsing ember under his ribs.
How he wanted to make Callum MacDonald pay for what he’d done. He wanted to make him suffer.
The MacDonalds had plagued them increasingly over the last couple of years. Relations between the two clans had soured. Arguments over trade had escalated into something far more serious, but there was no going back from this.
They’d killed one of Loch Maclean’s sons, and they’d pay for it.
Greig’s gut clenched then. He’d shouted and raised his cup with everyone, and in that moment, he’d wanted to act just as strongly as Davy did. But in the aftermath, the truth of it settled deep into his bones.
Davy would take his revenge, as would his father. Both were able-bodied, able to fight, able to swing a claidheamh-mòr.
But Greig wasn’t.
He could barely walk.
He’d have to watch from the sidelines as the rest of his family avenged his brother.
A bystander.
Greig limped his way up the stairs, each step burning as usual, his stick digging heavily into the wood. The dregy continued behind him. His parents had already retired, leaving the drinking, singing, and storytelling to continue in the Great Hall.
Davy had just collapsed, sprawled across the table, snoring loudly. Greig had left him there to sleep it off.
All he wanted was his bed.
Nonetheless, he’d also drunk far too much, and it made climbing the stairs even harder. He hobbled his way up two flights of stairs, breathing hard as he made it onto the landing. His chamber was down a narrow stone passageway, just past his parents’ and Davy’s, and opposite Alistair’s.
Limping down the passage, he halted between their doorways.
And then, instead of pushing his way into his own chamber, he took a burning lantern off its hook on the pitted stone wall, turned, and opened the door to Alistair’s instead.
He hadn’t been in here since Alistair’s body had been brought back to Duart.
A dirk had punched his brother in the chest, but that hadn’t been what killed him.
Someone had held his head underwater until his lungs filled with water.
It was an awful death, and whenever Greig thought about his brother’s last moments, his gut twisted.
Mairi had gone into this chamber, had wept in here alone, surrounded by her son’s possessions. But the rest of them hadn’t joined her. And there was a part of Greig that didn’t want to be here now.
A canopied bed dominated the small bedchamber, similar to Greig’s own.
A wooden chest lay against one wall, and near the window stood a desk.
There was a small stack of leather-bound books upon it, for Alistair had liked to read, as well as a pile of parchment and a quill and ink pot. He’d enjoyed writing too.
He was far more of a scholar than either of his brothers.
The bed was made, as if waiting for Alistair to return. The air still smelled of leather and oak—faint, but unmistakably his scent.
For a few moments, Greig merely stood there, just inside the doorway, his gaze taking in the space. Alistair’s presence still lingered here, despite that he was now buried under six feet of earth.
Greig’s throat tightened.
He hadn’t wept since receiving the news.
He couldn’t. He was too angry, too enraged with everything and everyone. God. The MacDonalds. Fate. The world. All of them were to blame. He wanted to rip something apart with his bare hands, not snivel like a bairn.
And yet, right now, standing here, shadowed by his brother’s memory, his eyes started to burn.
Closing them, he squeezed his eyelids shut, willing the weakness to pass. When he opened them, he moved across, his stick thumping on the wooden floorboards, to the desk.
And there, in a pot next to the one containing the quill, he saw a rolled parchment.
Setting the lantern down, he reached out and took the scroll, untying the thin leather thong that kept it closed. The lantern glowed brightly, giving him enough light to read by.
Maybe it was a letter, for Alistair often corresponded with Nat Mackinnon at Dùn Ara.
But it wasn’t. As Greig’s gaze slid over his brother’s familiar slanted handwriting, his breathing grew shallow.
God’s blood.
His stomach dropped.
It was that damn list.
He’d almost forgotten about it.
Two months had passed since they’d sat up in their mother’s Winter Garden, drinking and watching the sunset, since Alistair had confided in him about the list of things he wanted to do before his days were up.
Greig’s heart started to pound hard as he scanned the list once more.
Alistair hadn’t done any of these things.
He’d talked about climbing Ben More that summer and had been starting to swim daily from Duart Bay.
Although his clumsy breaststroke had brought forth many teasing comments from Davy, who’d looked on from the shore.
To Greig’s knowledge, Davy didn’t know about the list—indeed, he’d been bemused by Alistair’s sudden interest in swimming.
It was a goodly distance across the Sound from Mull to Oban, and he needed to improve if he was ever going to complete that task.
Now, he never would.
He hadn’t even taken that trip to Tobermory and drunk the night away, the easiest of all of the challenges.
He’d waited too long.
Like all young men, he’d secretly believed death was something that happened to someone else.
Pain twisted in Greig’s chest. He’d once believed that too. He didn’t any longer.
Gazing down at the list, his vision blurred.
Hissing a curse, he squeezed his eyes shut once more, waiting until the wave of pain had crashed over him and ebbed away like a retreating tide.
Shite.
He’d made a mistake coming in here. He shouldn’t have nosed around in his brother’s business. He should leave before he found anything else that upset him.
Re-rolling the parchment, he stuffed it into his belt. He then picked up the lantern with one hand and, with the other, steered himself with his stick out of the chamber.
Entering his own room, he hobbled across to where a hearth burned. It was summer now, but the nights were still chill.
Breathing hard, he pulled the scroll free from his belt. His gaze dropped to his hand, to where his fingers now clenched into a fist around the parchment.
He could burn it. End it here.
No one would ever know what Alistair had wanted—what he’d hoped for.
But then, as heartbeats passed, he didn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to.
Promise me.
His brother’s words echoed in his ears.
They’d both been drunk, and Greig had agreed just to shut him up.
He hadn’t considered that he’d one day be called upon to do any of these foolish things.
Promise me.
Alistair’s gaze had been fierce. The fool. What a thing to ask, especially of someone with a maimed leg. Someone who couldn’t walk without a stick.
A cripple who couldn’t even carry his brother's coffin.
“Curse ye, Al,” Greig ground out between clenched teeth. “Ye should be still alive. Ye should be bringing a rose to the Forge Maiden and watching her blush.”
Aye, he’d mocked his brother for his interest in such an unfeminine woman.
He didn’t now.
Brìghde Boyd was a poor choice, yet if it would bring his brother back, he’d happily give the two of them his blessing.
But if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
“Ye should have given the list to Davy,” he continued, speaking to the hearth as if Alistair could actually hear him. “He’d do those things for ye. I would just fail.”
His hand lifted, his fingers flexing as the warmth of the fire flickered across them.
Best to burn it, to spare everyone. Best that no one knew.
Something stopped him.
It was as if a hand had just wrapped around his wrist and held it fast.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled.
Ye gave me yer word, brother. Does it mean nothing?
Greig stiffened. His hand lowered then, bringing the roll of parchment back to his side.
Life had stripped away everything from him in just the turn of a year. There were times when he went to bed wishing he wouldn’t wake up in the morning.
Yet he’d give anything to bring Alastair back, and this list was the only thing he had of him left.
He couldn’t burn it.