Chapter 6
GREIG WAITED UNTIL Davy had finished sparring with the warrior and was walking back to the armory, blunted blade in hand, before he approached him.
Gripping his stick hard, he pushed off, moving faster than he should. Hot pain lanced through his left thigh, but, teeth gritted, he hobbled toward him. “Davy,” he called out. “Can I have a word?”
His brother stopped, wiping the sweat off his brow with his forearm as he turned to face him. “Aye?”
“It’s time I improved my fitness,” Greig said without preamble. “I wish to train with ye.”
He’d hesitated before seeking out his brother, but no longer. It was time to face this head-on. Summer was slipping away—June and July had slid by without him even noticing, and suddenly, it was August—and he was still doing nothing.
Grief still hung like fog over Duart Castle. But with each day that passed, Greig’s restlessness increased. He tired of skulking in the shadows, of getting under everyone’s feet. He wanted a purpose.
It was time to finally face Alistair’s list.
He wouldn’t be going near the Forge Maiden again, but he could swim the Sound of Mull. He could take part in a strength contest. Maybe, with some real effort, he could even climb Ben More. But he needed to get his strength back, and he longed to swing a sword again.
The brothers’ gazes locked, and then Greig marked the way Davy’s dark eyes shadowed. “Is that a good idea?” he said, his voice lowering. “Yer leg’s still weak.”
Anger punched into Greig’s gut. “Aye, it is … but it’s not going to improve with me sitting around like an old man, is it? I’ve still got two good arms. I can still swing a sword.”
“But yer balance—”
“It’ll improve,” Greig cut him off. “I need to use my body, Davy, or I’ll waste away. Will ye help me, or not?”
Their stare drew out, and then Davy slowly nodded. “Very well. When do ye want to start?”
“This evening,” Greig replied. He’d already thought this through. He didn’t want anyone else to know about his decision, and he didn’t want to be humiliated publicly either. “We’ll meet with wooden swords in the Winter Garden … just before dusk.”
Davy nodded once more.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Greig warned.
His brother inclined his head. “So, ye want yer reckoning too?”
“Of course, I do,” he shot back, his voice tightening.
He wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way Davy trained every day, readying himself to strike back at the MacDonalds of Sleat. He talked of little else but revenge these days and had argued with their father just a couple of days earlier, accusing Loch of not doing enough.
It had been an unfair accusation and untrue.
The clan-chief had called upon his allies on the isle. The Macleans of Moy, Croggan, and Dounarwyse now sailed the Sound regularly, patrolling the shipping lanes between Oban and Mull, to ensure they were never caught unawares again.
But for Davy, it wasn’t enough. He wanted action. He wanted blood.
Something flickered across his brother’s face then. Worry.
“Ye can’t fight with us, brother,” he said, his voice roughening. “Ye realize that, don’t ye? It’s too risky.”
Heat washed over Greig. His fingers tightened around his walking stick, even as he throttled the urge to whack his brother with it.
The wee shite.
He wouldn’t take it.
“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” he growled
They were all bullheaded, the Maclean males.
The three brothers had brawled often enough over the years, and Greig had lost count of the times as bairns when their father had smashed their heads together for fighting.
But the thought that his younger brother, eighteen summers old and full of himself, would dictate to him enraged him.
“I may be lame, but I still know how to fight,” he ground out. “And when I get strong enough, I’ll knock ye on yer arse.”
Their stare continued for a heartbeat longer before Davy’s lips quirked. “Fighting words. Thought ye’d lost that.”
Greig stared back, his anger ebbing. So had he.
But now, he’d thrown down the gauntlet. He had to prove to everyone, including himself, that he meant it.
Or he could end up eating his words.
A breeze feathered across Greig’s face, pulling at the hair he’d tied back at the nape of his neck. Squinting in the bright sunlight that sparkled off the Sound, he angled Tàirneanach down the track toward the small sandy crescent.
There was a beach closer to the castle—Duart Bay, a wide swathe that formed an excellent crescent for landing boats and swimming—but the path down to it couldn’t be traversed on horseback, and his leg wasn’t up to the walk.
As such, on his way back from a long ride on Tàirneanach, he had succumbed to the urge and turned off here for his first swim since before his maiming.
There was no one about. As a bairn, his father had warned him many times about the perils of swimming alone.
But Greig Maclean had long since left childhood behind.
If he was taking risks, he knew it. And he’d taken plenty worse than this in his life so far.
If the sea claimed him today, then so be it.
Seized with a recklessness that reminded him of how he’d once been, he drew his gelding up on the sand and carefully dismounted. Then, tethering Tàirneanach to a sea lupin bush that grew on the edge of the beach, he set about undressing.
His dirk belt hit the sand. He then heeled off his boots and yanked his lèine over his head, dropping his braies. He stepped out of them and stood naked under the kiss of the sun. The breeze held a chill edge, whispering in as it did from the Sound itself, but the sensation was invigorating.
He didn’t look down at his maimed leg. He tried to avoid looking at it whenever possible. Instead, he limped heavily down to the water.
Gritting his teeth, he moved forward, pushing through the pain that shot up his left thigh into his groin.
This wasn’t going to be easy, but he was ready.
His change in attitude surprised him. It had stolen over him in the past couple of weeks.
Ever since he’d started sparring with Davy.
They’d fought a few times up on the terrace of the Winter Garden away from prying eyes, and on all occasions, his brother had bested him easily. Yestereve, he’d knocked Greig flat on his arse. His leg had throbbed all night afterward. However, he hadn’t complained. He’d asked for this, hadn’t he?
It was humiliating to move so slowly. His arms, too, had lost strength over the past year, while Davy was in peak condition. It was hardly surprising his brother bested him. All the same, he didn’t like it. His pride stung that every bout ended the same way. The smugness on Davy’s face galled him.
He’d beat him, he vowed.
That task wasn’t on Alistair’s list though.
The water’s chill bit at his ankles as he waded in, his thigh burning as his leg met resistance. Teeth gritted, he stumbled on, slowing as the water deepened, and then, sucking in deep breaths, he dove underwater.
The cold hit him like a slap, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and when he surfaced, he was gasping.
He started to swim then, a dog paddle at first, and then a lazy breaststroke that propelled him swiftly through the water. And as he moved and his body got used to the cold, a smile tugged at his lips.
It was the first time he’d felt like smiling in a long while.
But being able to swim again was exhilarating, to say the least. At first, he didn’t use his legs much, but then, as he swam in a wide circle around the sheltered bay, he slowly began to kick, and as he did, relief suffused him. His thigh wasn’t paining him, no more than usual anyway.
He could do this.
Once he had built up his fitness, he planned to swim longer distances, this time with Davy rowing beside him. But for the meantime, he’d start here.
He continued to propel himself through the water, using the breaststroke, in circles until his breathing grew ragged and his thigh started to throb in protest. And then, breathing hard, he rolled onto his back and floated there like a starfish in the glittering water.
The sky arched above him, gulls shrieking.
On land, he was broken.
In the water, he was almost whole.
For a few moments, he felt light, unfettered, and then his thoughts drifted to other matters—and his smile faded.
Things weren’t good at home at present. Davy spoke of nothing but revenge.
His mother drifted the halls of Duart, as pale and drawn as a wraith.
And his father was in a permanent ill temper, spending hours sequestered away in his solar, writing letters to his allies, or out with Finn and the Guard, training.
Davy’s accusation that he wasn’t doing enough had hit home, and Loch Maclean grew increasingly restless with each passing day. Greig understood it. He too felt the same frustration and anger.
There’d been no word from the MacDonalds of Sleat since that attack.
The silence was ominous, and every Maclean at Duart couldn’t help but suspect that this was just the beginning.
Greig’s rare buoyant mood dissipated then, and with a grimace, he rolled onto his front and swam back into shore.
Getting out of the water proved much harder than he’d thought, though. He stumbled and then fell—and then was forced to emerge onto the shore on his hands and knees.
Satan’s turds. His cheeks burned, despite that he didn’t have an audience. He was so weak, so feeble, and he hated it.
Panting, he pushed himself up onto his feet, and then, limping badly now, he struggled through the soft sand to where Tàirneanach awaited him.
A short while later, he was dressed and riding back up the track to the well-worn path between Duart and Craignure. The afternoon was waning, the light turning gold, and the breeze eased a little, as it often did as evening approached.
Greig decided to set a leisurely pace back to Duart.
He’d pushed Tàirneanach, and himself, hard for most of the day, building up stamina for the ride he planned to do in the next couple of days, from Duart to The Western Cliffs in one go.
He’d never attempted it before, although before his injury, he wouldn’t have thought twice about embarking on the challenge.
Now, however, he wondered how well he’d fare.
Tàirneanach, nonetheless, was fit, strong, and more up to the challenge than he was.
He was brooding on this, wondering if he’d been a fool to embark on Alistair’s list, when he spied travelers ahead on the path.
A woman and a feather-footed garron with wicker baskets strapped to its back stood talking to a burly, fair-haired man.
The woman was tall, and as he drew closer, he caught a flash of white-blonde hair in the afternoon sun, braided down her back.
His lips thinned.
Brìghde Boyd.
And the man talking to her was Ian Maclean, a tenant farmer who worked a run rig outside Duart village.
But they weren’t conversing. They were arguing.
Ian stepped in closer, and Brìghde shifted back, caged against the garron’s barrel-like flank. Neither of them had seen him, for their gazes were locked.
And as Greig looked on, Ian reached up and tried to stroke Brìghde’s cheek.
Her hand flashed up, gripping his wrist. An angry flush bloomed upon her cheeks. “Enough of that.” Her voice, tight with anger and an edge of panic, echoed down the path. “I’ll tell ye again, Ian Maclean, I do not wish—”
Ian stepped closer still, his free hand coming up to grip her shoulder.
“I enjoy a few games as much as the next man, but enough now. Ye’ve led me on a merry dance these past couple of years, but no longer.
Enough. Yer brother will soon take yer place at the forge …
it’s time for ye to find yerself a husband.
And I can offer ye what ye need.” His voice grew rough then.
“I’ll take the kiss ye’ve owed me for a while now. ”
He lurched forward then, his mouth crashing down on hers.
With a muffled cry, Brìghde twisted hard, driving her shoulder into his chest.
She was taller and stronger than other women, but he, too, had muscles forged from hard labor.
Even from a distance, Greig could see he was overpowering her.
And he didn’t appear to have any intention of stopping.