Chapter 8
STICKING HER HEAD outside to view the misty grey dawn, Brìghde frowned. The fog was thick, the air cool and damp. It wasn’t the best weather for any outdoor pursuit.
She heaved a sigh then.
Over the past couple of days, she’d started to regret offering to go hill walking with Greig Maclean. Learning about his intention to fulfil his brother’s wishes had moved her so much that she’d blurted out the words without thinking.
He’d agreed, aye, although with little grace.
“Brìghde!” her mother called from behind her. “The bannocks are ready.”
Retreating indoors, Brìghde took her place around the hearth with her family, breaking her fast as she always did with a wedge of bannock fresh off the griddle, slathered with butter and honey. Suddenly, all was right in the world.
As Brìghde sat in the chapel inside the outer courtyard of Duart Castle listening to the earnest drone of Father Malcolm’s voice, the bannock sat like a brick in her belly.
Greig sat up at the front with his family.
The clan-chief and his kin always arrived last at the chapel. Greig had cast her a quick glance as he walked past, leaning heavily on his stick. Jaw set, dark brows knotted together, he was an intimidating sight.
Brìghde clenched her hands into fists on her lap then. What had she been thinking? He hadn’t asked for her help. She’d overstepped … again.
After Mass ended, she returned to the forge and reluctantly saddled her garron. And as she did, she berated herself.
This is ridiculous.
He probably won’t even turn up.
Grumpy now, she mounted Sradag and rode up to the gates, where she waited.
And to her surprise, Greig emerged from under the portcullis astride his muscular roan courser soon after.
Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, she forced a tight smile. In truth, she felt a trifle ridiculous upon her pony. Sradag was a sturdy fellow and carried her easily enough, yet she was too tall for him. “Ready?”
Lips pursing, Greig nodded.
His response irked her, and without thinking, she asked, “Don’t ye wish to go?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Aye, she thought, reining Sradag around. But ye’ll be poor company.
They rode west, skirting around the village and making their way toward Beinn Talaidh. The ridge inched toward them, broad-backed and sprawling, its rounded summit lost in low cloud today.
Since Greig had little to say, Brìghde focused on the unfolding landscape.
Even the grey morning couldn’t dull its beauty.
Beinn Talaidh’s slopes rolled outward in heather and coarse grasses, a wash of dusky purple heather at present.
Darker scars of rock broke through the soft earth in places as they rode, and thin burns threaded their way down the hillside.
As the land rose higher still, they drew up their mounts and hobbled them before continuing on foot.
It was slow going, and Greig appeared even lamer than usual. Without his stick, he wouldn’t have been able to walk far at all. He struggled up, often stumbling on the stony ground.
It wasn’t long before he was forced to stop and rest his leg.
Brìghde didn’t mind.
Nonetheless, his grumpiness was starting to get on her nerves. He’d barely uttered a word to her since they’d set out. His expression was now thunderous, as if it were her fault he was so badly lamed.
She could have cut the air between them with a knife and wasn’t sure how to ease things.
“We don’t have to go much farther, if ye don’t wish to?” she said finally. The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could pull them back, for anger sparked in his peat-brown eyes.
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Don’t fuss, woman.”
Brìghde’s gaze narrowed. She didn’t appreciate his tone.
After he’d come to her rescue, she’d told herself she’d misjudged Greig Maclean. But now, she realized her earlier opinion of him had been the right one. Injured or not, he was ill-mannered.
Ignoring her, Greig grabbed his walking stick and pushed on, boots crunching on loose stones as they made their way upward.
However, ten yards on, he halted, and when she reached his shoulder, she saw he’d closed his eyes tightly, sweat beading on his brow.
“Ye’re in pain,” she observed. “We should stop.”
“Very well,” he ground out, his shoulders slumping.
The defeat cost him.
“Ye don’t have to put yerself through this, ye know?” she pointed out gently.
“I do.” His eyes opened then, his gaze spearing hers. “I gave him my word.”
Their stare drew out for a long moment before Brìghde nodded.
No, she didn’t like him much, but she admired his grit and his loyalty to his brother. They were both worthy things. Alistair had been a good man, and Greig was keeping his memory alive. And despite his ill temper and snappish responses, she could see just how much he was suffering.
He hated being this weak, and she didn’t blame him.
She too would be devastated if she were so badly lamed. Indeed, she wouldn’t be able to work as a blacksmith, and her family would starve.
“Very well then,” she huffed. “If ye are hell-bent on torturing yerself, we can meet again, next Sunday, and try to get a little farther up this slope.”
He nodded, lips thinning.
They turned then and slowly made their way down the hill.
“To ready yerself, I suggest ye start trying to walk without yer stick … at home at least,” she said, daring to give him some advice. “It will help yer balance and help build strength.”
He gave a non-committal grunt. “I have been,” he replied. “I—”
His foot slipped—his words cutting off.
And then he was gone.
A cry ripped from Brìghde’s throat.
He rolled all the way down, landing heavily on his belly on coarse grass, just yards away from where their mounts waited.
He didn’t move.
“Shite,” she gasped.
Dreading the worst, Brìghde hurried down the slope, her boots sliding on loose shale.
Dear God, had the man snapped his neck?
Heart thumping, she lowered herself to her knees next to him and then reached out, squeezing his shoulder.
“Greig,” she said, her voice catching. “Can ye hear me?”
“Aye.” His response was muffled.
Relief hit her so hard her hands shook. “Are ye hurt?”
“Don’t know.”
“Can ye move?”
He ground out a curse. “Give me a moment, would ye?”
Relief curdled into irritation.
Releasing his shoulder, she sat back on her heels and watched as he pushed himself up onto his elbows and then into a sitting position.
His hands were bleeding from where he’d used them to break his fall, and he had a scrape on the underside of his arm, but he could have fared much worse.
“Thank the Lord,” she breathed. “I thought ye were dead.”
He cut her a dark, simmering look, wincing then as he started to pick fine gravel from his palms.
“I can do that.” Brìghde reached out to take his wrist, but he jerked back, holding up a hand to forestall her.
His rudeness made her belly harden. “I was only trying to help.”
“Aye, well, don’t,” he growled. “And don’t ye dare tell anyone about this.”
“Ye are serious?”
“About what?” Greig panted as he crested a swell of cold, briny water.
“Swimming to Oban.”
“Aye,” he gasped.
Earlier, they’d ridden up to Craignure, and then Greig had started his swim from there.
They were now returning to the port village. Davy rowed beside him, sweat gleaming on his brow.
Today’s challenge was a good stretch to swim. However, it was only half the distance between Mull and Oban. And judging from how his lungs now burned, he wasn’t quite ready.
“Why?”
Greig didn’t reply. He was too out of breath to hold a conversation at present, and something held him back from telling Davy about Alistair’s list.
He wasn’t sure why exactly. After all, he’d spilled news of it to Brìghde.
But with Davy, it was different. They were brothers. They both had their own relationship with Alistair. His two younger siblings had always been thick as thieves. It surprised Greig that Alistair had chosen Greig to confide in about the list. It didn’t make sense to him.
A rogue wave hit him in the face then, and he blinked water out of his eyes, doggedly pushing on. His left thigh was throbbing now. This was hard—and he’d probably embarked on this swim before he was ready—yet he welcomed the grueling challenge.
He wasn’t going to let it beat him.
Humiliation still pulsed in his chest every time he recalled the hill walking disaster a few days earlier.
He’d been rude to Brìghde. A churlish bastard. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself.
It was bad enough to be this weak, this diminished, without having her witness it.
They were supposed to meet again this coming Sunday, to try again.
Greig wasn’t sure whether he would.
“Ye are a tough bastard, I’ll give ye that,” Davy added when it became clear Greig wasn’t going to give him an answer. “It was about time ye stopped sulking and did something.”
Irritation speared Greig through the chest. Lucky for Davy, he was too busy at present to snarl at his brother.
Davy made it sound as if he’d turned a corner. The truth was though that he wasn’t doing all of this for himself, but to honor Alistair.
Inside, he was still just as wretched. Still angry.
Breathing ragged, he pushed on.
They rounded the last headland then, and there in the distance, Greig caught a glimpse of white sand beaches and the wooden jetty that thrust out from the shore. A ferry bobbed on the tide, a stream of people disembarking, as small as ants from this distance.
Craignure.
Thank Christ.
He’d reached his limits.
Clenching his jaw, Greig focused on cleaving a path through the breakers and toward the pale strand that now beckoned to him.
Davy stopped talking too as he kept pace with him.
A short while later, Greig’s knees hit sand.
Swallowing a sob of relief, he clawed his way forward and crawled up onto the beach.
He was so exhausted that he didn’t even care that Davy witnessed his ungainly arrival. Flopping onto his back on the tideline, he stared up at the cloudy sky. The world wheeled around him. His pulse roared in his ears.
He was vaguely aware of Davy jumping into the shallows and hauling the wee boat onto the sand next to him.
“Good job,” he said, amusement lacing his voice. “Although ye look done in.”
“I am.” With a stifled groan, he rolled onto his side and then pushed himself to his feet. It wasn’t the easiest of feats, but he managed it without going down on one knee.
And Davy knew better than to try to help him.
His balance had improved over the past days.
Aye, he’d taken Brìghde’s advice and deliberately put his stick aside when moving around the castle. It made him even slower than before—and getting up the stairs to his bedchamber was an ordeal. He turned the air blue with his curses every time he did it.
Nonetheless, he’d noted that he was starting to move a little easier.
Limping across the sand, he retrieved his clothing from a growth of sea lupins and hauled on his braies.
Two young women passed by then, on the road that led along the wharf. They wore homespun kirtles and carried baskets of wool on their backs.
Their gazes raked over him as he reached for his lèine. Blatantly admiring.
He glanced their way, and they hurried on, giggling and whispering together.
Davy snorted. “Still catching lasses’ eyes, I see.”
Greig cut him a glower that lacked force. It was hard to be grumpy when he’d just completed that swim. He had a way to go before he’d be able to swim the Sound, but he’d made a start, at least.
All the same, the lasses had only seen him naked from the waist up.
Their gazes wouldn’t have been so admiring if they’d seen his twisted leg.
His mood darkened then, as if a shadow had just slid across the sun.
As if sensing the change, Davy gave his shoulder a gentle shove. “Come on … let’s get ourselves a drink at The Craignure Inn.”
It was tempting—they had to return there anyway to collect their horses from the stables—yet Greig hesitated.
He’d achieved something important today, and didn’t want to let anger and despair back in.
He didn’t want to have a drink at the inn and then return home. Instead, he wanted to push things a little further—to chase away the shadows.
Meeting Davy’s eye, he favored him with a half-smile before gesturing to the ferry still bobbing at the jetty nearby. “No, wait. That boat’s bound for Tobermory shortly,” he said. “Let’s take it.”
His brother raised his eyebrows. “Tobermory?”
“Aye.” Greig’s smile slid into a grin. “Fancy a night of hard drinking?”