Chapter 4
GREIG DREW HIS horse up on the muddy track.
Then, gritting his teeth, he swung his leg over the saddle and gingerly lowered himself onto the ground.
Practice had taught him to avoid trying to put any weight on his left leg.
It had given way under him a few times now when dismounting, with humiliating consequences.
On his feet now, his boots sank into the sticky mud. Muttering a curse, Greig squinted up at the brooding sky. He’d been caught in a rain shower when he headed out for his ride, and then, as was often the way on this island, the rain had passed, and the sun had broken through.
Now another front was sweeping in. He could see it boiling across the sky from the direction of the mainland.
He was about to get thoroughly soaked.
Turning, he leaned down and ran a practiced hand along Tàirneanach’s leg to his fetlock, picking up a heavy, feathered hoof. He then breathed another curse. It was as he’d expected. Tàirneanach’s gait had just become uneven, favoring his off foreleg. The gelding had thrown a shoe.
“Great,” he muttered, lowering the gelding’s leg. “All I bloody need.” He took his stick down from where it was strapped behind the saddle. Moving up to his mount’s head, he caught the reins and led him forward. “Looks like a slow walk home.”
Tàirneanach snorted and tossed his head, bit jangling.
The gelding, a dark roan, had been with him for years now, even before he’d followed Andrew Murray’s cause and left Mull for a spell.
After returning home, badly injured, he’d occasionally visited Tàirneanach in the stables.
However, for a long while, someone else had exercised him.
Until one day, injured or not, Greig decided he’d had enough of sitting around.
Mounting was always tricky. He placed his left foot in the stirrup and pushed off with his right leg. He used a mounting block in the outer courtyard to get on his stallion’s back, yet it was still an ungainly sight. As such, he preferred to climb into the saddle when there was no one watching.
The first drops of rain spattered down.
“Here we go,” Greig muttered.
And sure enough, after a few moments, the tempo increased, and then the heavens opened. Icy needles of rain swept across the hillside.
God’s teeth. It was supposed to be summer. The past two years had brought warm—hot even—days, but this summer was proving to be cool and grey. It was as if the weather knew that the Macleans of Duart grieved.
How could the sun shine when Alistair was gone?
Greig’s mood had been dark for a while now, but his brother’s loss just made his unhappiness all the sharper. This morning, he’d hoped a ride out on Tàirneanach might ease the tightness under his ribs. That it might shift the boulder that sat in his gut. But it hadn’t.
If anything, being alone upon the hills had only stripped away the distractions, leaving him with the full ugliness of his thoughts.
And as Greig walked home in the rain, its fury battering against him, he wondered what the point of anything was. The question haunted him now, circling endlessly in his mind like a crow.
This thought was his bleakest yet.
He thought of his family, of those who served the Macleans of Duart.
Would any of them miss him? He imagined not.
What use was a broken heir who could barely walk without a stick?
Even his two closest friends, Craeg and Ailean, wouldn’t grieve him for long.
They’d both found their paths in life, but he’d been poor company for a while now.
Glowering and grumpy. Sharp-tongued and bitter.
A burden to everyone around him.
Perhaps it would be better for everyone if he simply disappeared.
His heart kicked hard.
He’d never considered the idea of taking his own life.
To him, it signaled weakness. No matter how hard things got, one didn’t give up. Or so he’d once thought.
But he had given up, hadn’t he?
Each day since the battle had carved something from him—his strength, his pride, his future—until he scarcely recognized himself anymore.
His existence had no meaning, and Alistair’s death had been the final straw.
His younger brother had been everything Greig no longer was: charming, whole, easy with people, beloved. It should be Greig in that grave beneath the yew trees, not Alistair.
What would he do? Throw himself off the cliffs outside Duart? Slash his wrists with his own dirk? Walk into the sea and let the icy water drag him under? But even as he considered ending things, his pulse hammered.
No, it wasn’t as easy as all that. For all his misery, some stubborn part of him still clung to life.
A memory stirred then, of his mother weeping helplessly over Alistair’s body when they’d brought him home. He could still hear the sound she’d made—that raw, broken keening that had seemed torn from the depths of her soul.
Did he want to hurt her like that again?
Did he want his father to bury another son?
Did he want Davy to carry his coffin too?
No.
Accepting this was like swallowing a bitter plum, and he trudged on, each step harder than the last. Despite that he leaned heavily on his stick, his injured leg throbbed with each stride.
Rain streamed down his face, but slowly his breathing steadied.
Then, through the curtain of rain, he spotted Duart in the distance—the dark bulk of the castle rising above the village, smoke curling from hearth fires below. Home. His family was there. His people.
They were grieving too. Even the villagers looked hollow-eyed these days. And whether Greig liked it or not, they would look to him now.
He straightened a little at that thought, tightening his grip upon the stick. The darkness still lingered inside him, deep and hungry, but he would not let it devour him today. He could endure a while longer. He had to.
Jaw set, he took a fork in the track and led Tàirneanach toward the village.
His horse needed the smiddy.
The forge sat on the southern edge of the village, a low, long, windowless building next to a bothy where the blacksmith’s family lived. And as he approached, he heard the rhythmic clang of metal striking metal.
The sound carried across the damp air in steady, relentless beats. Smoke curled from the forge chimney, and Greig inhaled the scent of burning charcoal and scorched iron.
As usual, Brìghde Boyd was hard at work.
Unlike Alistair, Greig hadn’t made many visits to the smiddy over the years. The castle had its own weaponsmith who forged all the weapons the castle needed. However, Brìghde made everything else.
He limped on, the rain slackening now. It was moving on as suddenly as it had begun, and by the time Greig tied Tàirneanach up to the railing outside the forge, the sun warmed his wet hair.
The weather was as capricious as a beautiful woman today, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it rained again before he got home.
Then, pushing himself forward with his good leg and steadying himself with his stick, he hobbled over to the forge doorway. Above it hung the blacksmith’s trade sign. Four upward facing horseshoes—supposedly to keep ill fortune from entering from any direction.
The blacksmith hadn’t seen or heard his approach yet.
Inside, the forge glowed orange-gold against the gloom.
Brìghde stood before the anvil, sweat sheening her temples despite the cool day, sparks flying around her with every swing of the hammer.
The muscles in her forearms flexed beneath rolled sleeves as she worked the heated steel with fierce concentration.
He knew at a glance—for, as a bairn, he’d often watched the weaponsmith at Duart work—that she was making a sgian-dubh, or ‘hidden knife’, a wee blade that slipped neatly into a boot or clothing. A useful weapon indeed.
Greig hesitated then, about to hail her. He just wanted to get Tàirneanach’s shoe replaced so he could go home, but something stopped him.
Win the Forge Maiden’s heart.
He dragged his gaze down the lass from the crown of her head to her heavy, soot-covered boots.
What was Al thinking?
Brìghde was taller than any woman he’d ever seen.
She easily stood at six feet, almost as tall as him.
Her body was strong—broad-shouldered, short-waisted, and narrow-hipped—with not much of a bosom to soften her shape.
She wore a heavy woolen kirtle and a soot-covered apron.
Her rolled-up sleeves were fastened in place with arm rings, and she’d looped her skirts into her belt.
Underneath, he caught a glimpse of long, strong legs encased in thick woolen hose.
His gaze rested on her face. It was pale with broad cheekbones and a straight, proud nose. Her hair was long and fine, and so pale it almost appeared white. She’d braided it down her back.
There was nothing soft about her, nothing that fit the shape of what a woman ought to be.
His brother had singular tastes.
He cleared his throat then, and Brìghde’s chin jerked up, her gaze swiveling to him. Cool grey eyes settled upon him, a fitting color for a blacksmith, he thought: the flinty hue of iron.
She hesitated, her lips parting as if she thought he was someone else, and then tension rippled through her strong frame. Her face paled.
“Apologies if I startled ye,” he said gruffly, “but my horse has thrown a shoe.”
Recovering, she nodded, straightening up from her work, and put down her hammer. Her gaze roamed over him then, no doubt taking in his wet, bedraggled appearance. “Did ye retrieve the shoe?” Her voice was low, with a husky edge.
He shook his head. “Didn’t see when he lost it.”
“Right then.” Turning from him, she moved over to a bench where a collection of premade horseshoes hung on the wall, of varying sizes from a garron to a plow horse.
Without asking him the size of the beast he rode, she plucked a horseshoe down and approached him. “Let’s have a look then.” A brittle pause followed. Then, as if remembering her manners, she added, “How fares yer mother?”
Greig inclined his head at the question. “As well as can be expected.”
Brìghde nodded, gaze lowering. “I’m sorry for yer loss,” she murmured.
Something deep in his chest tightened. “Aye … thank ye.”
Greig stepped aside to let her pass, and as she did, he caught her scent.
Ash and iron.
And something surprisingly feminine.
Lavender.
Perhaps Brìghde Boyd hadn’t forgotten she was a woman after all.
Wordlessly, he watched as she walked toward Tàirneanach. The horse saw her and gave a welcoming whicker.
“Which hoof is it?”
“The off fore,” Greig replied.
Picking up Tàirneanach’s hoof, she scraped it clean with a small knife, trimming away the rough edge before checking for any remaining nail stubs. She then set the shoe upon the hoof, judging the size. Her gaze narrowed as she inspected it. “Right,” she murmured. “Just needs a little shaping.”
Setting his hoof down on the wet ground once more, she made her way back into the forge. Greig moved into the doorway to watch her work. Grabbing a pair of tongs, she picked up the horseshoe and thrust it into the glowing forge, looking on as the metal heated.
“I thought ye were yer brother for a moment there,” she admitted, not meeting his eye.
Greig raised an eyebrow. “Davy?”
They looked similar, he supposed, although Davy was more lightly built and didn’t walk with a stick.
“No,” she said, glancing his way, her eyes shadowing. “Alistair.”
A beat of silence pulsed between them.
Heat flared in his gut. The forge suddenly felt too hot.
He hadn’t heard his brother brought up so lightly since the burial.
Who did this woman think she was?
The blacksmith stilled then, marking his reaction. Unease flickered across her face. “If I’ve said something amiss—”
“Ye have,” he cut in.
A blush rose to her cheeks, and she swung her gaze away. Drawing the glowing horseshoe from the fire, she hammered it into shape on the anvil, the blows sharp and fast. She then collected a handful of nails and a small hammer and moved past him again.
The shoe now fit perfectly.
Brìghde worked with deft precision, holding the nails between her lips as she hammered each one in.
And all the while, Tàirneanach stood, tail swishing, unbothered.
He was a placid beast—although it was said that even the most skittish horse allowed the Forge Maiden to shoe them.
She was a skilled farrier. Before his accident, Greig had been able to shoe a horse well too.
However, now, with his leg so weak, he wouldn’t be up to the task.
He marked the skill of her movements. There was a confidence in her work that she lacked when speaking to him.
Once all the nails were in, Brìghde bent and clinched the protruding nails flat against the hoof to make sure the shoe was firm.
“That should hold,” she said, giving the shoe a final, decisive tap.
“Right,” he said, digging into his coin purse. “How much do I owe ye?”
The sky was growing ominous again, and he was eager to be on his way, eager to leave Brìghde Boyd behind. Just the sight of her had reminded him of his brother and that cursed list.
And now that she’d brought up Alistair, anger still smoldered deep in his chest.
God, he was so angry these days. Full of rage with no outlet.
He’d wanted to unleash it upon her when she’d spoken of Alistair, had barely held his tongue. But although she’d spoken out of turn, it was pointless to rail at this woman. It wouldn’t bring his brother back.
“An iron penny should do it.”
Her tone was cool now, business-like. And when he handed over the penny, her gaze was wary, as though she expected him to lash out again. He caught the glint in her eye then.
She didn’t like him.
The feeling’s mutual, he thought sourly, as she stepped aside, allowing him to approach Tàirneanach once more. He liked his women feminine and gently spoken, not burly and blunt-tongued.
“Thank ye,” he said ungraciously. “We’ll be on our way.”
He moved around to Tàirneanach’s nearside and prepared to mount—not an easy feat without a mounting block. Meanwhile, the smith disappeared back into her forge almost at once, the ringing of her hammer beginning again moments later.
Dismissed already.
Greig’s lips pursed.
Aye, he’d told himself he would honor his promise to Alistair, but wooing the Forge Maiden would be taking things too far.
His brother’s ghost would just need to forgive him for it.