Chapter 9
“WHAT HAPPENED TO ye?”
Brìghde straightened, her gaze fixing on Eòghan’s split lip.
Blood trickled down his chin.
She’d sent him out with a pail to fetch more water from the village well, but he’d taken much longer than expected. Indeed, she’d been about to down tools and go and fetch him when he returned.
With a busted lip.
“Nothing.” Her brother’s voice was surly as he set the pail down hard, water sloshing over the rim. “I tripped.”
“Ye did not.”
“I did.”
Brìghde placed her hands on her hips and faced him. “I didn’t come down in the last shower, Eòghan Boyd. Ye were in a fight, weren’t ye?”
His expression turned stubborn. The Boyds were a bull-headed lot. Brìghde too. She wasn’t going to let this go.
Approaching him, she put her hands on his shoulders and fixed him with a hard stare.
Lord, the lad was growing like a weed.
When had he gotten so tall? If he continued at this rate, he’d reach her height within a year.
For so long, he’d been her wee brother, but things were shifting now. These days, he learned smithing at her shoulder—and had proved a quick study.
She hated to admit it, but her father was right.
It was time. And if she were honest, she’d deliberately delayed taking him on as an apprentice, for she’d known that, when the time came, he’d take her place as the blacksmith of Duart.
She wasn’t looking forward to that day.
“Tell me.”
Eventually, he muttered something under his breath. “Ian Maclean and his friends were drinking near the well … outside the alewife’s brewhouse,” he began before cutting his gaze away. “I heard them talking about ye.”
Brìghde stilled. “What were they saying?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Aye, it does. Out with it … or I’ll go there now and ask them myself.”
Her brother’s chin jerked up, alarm flaring in his grey eyes. “Ian was boasting … how he’d bedded ye.” An angry flush rose to Eòghan’s cheeks. “He said crude things, Brì. I called him a filthy liar … and he hit me.”
Heat surged through her—sharp, blinding. For a moment, she couldn’t breathe.
How dare he?
“Right.” She released Eòghan’s shoulders and stepped around him. “He’s not getting away with this.”
“Brì!” Panic cracked her brother’s voice. “This is why I didn’t want to tell ye.”
“Stay here … and start on the next hinge,” she ordered, even as anger pulsed in her belly. “I’ll be back soon.”
Scooping up the iron poker from next to the hearth, she stalked from the forge.
Ian and his friends were still there, drinking at rough planked trestle tables in front of the brewhouse, a cottage with a thatched roof and smoke drifting from its vent.
Located at the heart of the village, just off the market square and only a few yards from the low stone well, the alewife’s bothy formed a focal point for locals, especially on fine afternoons like this one.
The cottars who worked the run rigs around the village had finished for the day and gathered to drink before they returned to their wives and families.
The door was open, as always, to beckon customers; the familiar smell of yeast and the sour odor of fermenting grain hit Brìghde as she strode across the dirt-packed market square, cutting through where fowl pecked.
Both men and women sat out in the sunshine upon low stools, overturned buckets, and logs, cups of freshly brewed ale in hand.
Conversations faltered as she approached.
Ian rose to his feet. “What are ye going to do, Brìghde?” he called out. “Clobber me with that poker.”
Her fury burned brighter still at his mockery.
This was a new side to Ian. For a long while, he’d played the role of keen suitor, charming on every occasion their paths had crossed. She’d never trusted his honeyed tongue though, especially since he’d often tried to undermine her.
However, after their meeting on the road back from Craignure, things had changed.
He no longer visited her at the forge—a relief—and when they did see each other, he ignored her.
She’d hoped he’d just nurse his bruised pride in silence, yet she should have known better.
She’d spurned him, and then Greig Maclean had humiliated him. And Ian wasn’t going to let the slight pass.
This was his revenge.
“Maybe,” she replied, halting before the drinkers. “If ye don’t take back the lies ye have been spreading about me … if ye don’t apologize for bloodying my brother’s lip.”
Ian snorted, putting down his cup of ale and pushing past his friends to approach her. “The lad shouldn’t listen in on other people’s conversations.”
Laughter rumbled behind him, and Brìghde’s cheeks grew hot.
Her fingers flexed around the poker.
Stopping before her, Ian met her eye boldly. “He was worth the trouble though,” he said, his voice lowering. “If it brought ye to me.”
“Admit yer lies,” she said, loudly so everyone present could hear.
She was no high-born lady, but such rumors damaged a woman’s reputation.
If word got out that Brìghde Boyd liked spreading her legs for him, she’d have no end of trouble.
This was a tiny community—tight-knit. Words could wound.
Brìghde didn’t want a husband, not yet, anyway, but such whispers could ruin her chances of any decent man approaching her.
Ian stepped closer still.
His arrogance galled her.
“I think not.” His voice had dropped to a whisper now, as if they were indeed lovers, sharing a moment.
Her gaze narrowed. “What’s yer game?”
His full lips tugged into a smile, and then he dared place his hands lightly on her shoulders.
Sniggers behind him made her already hot cheeks burn like forge embers.
“Face it, Brìghde … I’ve just sullied yer reputation. Everyone now knows how eager ye were for me … how ye begged for it.”
She jerked in shock. “What—”
“Aye, I’ve told them about it all.”
“But ye made the whole thing up.” She choked out the words, mortification prickling her skin.
“It’s yer word … against mine, lass.” His fingers flexed against her shoulders. “Come on … it’s time ye stopped fighting this. It’s not right for a woman of yer age to be running a forge. Ye need a man’s protection.”
She stilled, meeting his gaze squarely now. “And that man is ye?”
His smile widened. “Aye … ye will help me farm our land and bear me strapping sons.”
Her pulse slowed. He had it all planned out; whether she was willing or not didn’t seem to matter. All that did was that she conformed. That she knew her place.
Calmness settled over her then, and she forced her lips to curve into a half-smile. “Ye will be my protector then, Ian?”
His chest swelled. “Aye.”
He took another step closer, his grip on her shoulders tightening. “Ye are mine, Brìghde … ye always have been.”
A heartbeat pulsed, and then she moved—her knee slammed upward, straight into his groin.
Ian grunted, releasing her shoulders and reeling back.
She watched then as the color drained from his face. Eyelids fluttering, he sank to his knees.
Behind him, some of the drinkers cheered, while others choked on their ales.
Brìghde’s gaze swung to them. “Ian Maclean lies.” Her voice cut through the noise. “If ye believe him, ye’re fools.”
That quietened them down.
She looked back at where Ian clutched his injured groin, groaning like a winded carthorse.
She’d kneed him hard, had put every bit of strength into it.
Aye, she’d brought the poker with her, but the weapon had been to give her courage.
A knee to the cods was the right punishment for such slander.
“Bitch,” he wheezed.
Brìghde ignored him. “Make sure ye tell yer friends and families about what ye witnessed here,” she told the drinkers, stepping back now. “But tell it right.”
Tobermory,
Northern Mull
The noise inside The Bonnie Badger was raucous. Deafening.
The perfect spot to drink the night away.
Greig and Davy sat at a table in the center of the floor, playing knucklebones with a group of Mackinnons. They’d arrived shortly before dusk and eaten a supper of greasy mutton and coarse bread.
Greig had lost count of how many ales they’d downed.
Surprisingly, he still felt remarkably sober.
Davy, though, had a glazed look in his dark eyes.
Two of the Mackinnons were arguing now, one accusing his friend of cheating. Taking the opportunity to focus on his brother, Greig leaned close. “Glad ye came?”
“Aye.” Davy lifted the fresh tankard of frothy ale the comely serving lass had just delivered to their table.
Greig had marked the way his brother’s gaze tracked the young woman as she went from table to table.
He’d also noted the smiles and lingering glances she’d been giving Davy all evening.
Once they’d finished drinking, Greig would stumble to his bed—in the room he’d rented in this establishment—but Davy would be sleeping elsewhere.
Good for him.
He meant it too.
He didn’t want to let a woman see his maimed leg—and wouldn’t be taking anyone to his bed in the foreseeable future—but that didn’t mean he couldn’t wish his brother well.
“No better place for drinking than Tobermory,” Davy slurred.
Reaching out, Greig gripped his brother’s shoulder. The drinking had lowered his guard. Suddenly, he felt emotional. “We’ve not done this enough, have we?”
Davy inclined his head, surprised. “No … ye always preferred to go drinking with Craeg and Ailean. Yer wee brothers just embarrassed ye.”
Greig winced at that. Davy’s words hit like a well-aimed quarrel. But they were true. “I was a clodhead,” he said, raising his tankard and taking a large swallow.
“Aye … ye were,” his brother agreed. “But we loved ye, nonetheless.”
Greig’s chest constricted. It was just the ale talking, yet Davy’s words touched him, all the same. “Ye asked me earlier why I’m pushing myself … why I’m set on swimming to Oban,” he began. “The truth is, it’s because of Al.”
Davy stilled. “Aye?”
Greig’s pulse quickened. He hadn’t meant to tell Davy about this. But after spending the day together, he felt closer to him than he had in years. His brother needed to know. “Did ye know he left a list?”
Davy shook his head, gaze narrowing.
“Well, he did … a few challenges he set himself. One was to swim to Oban.” Greig paused then. “Another is to drink the night away in Tobermory.”
Davy’s night-brown eyes guttered. “He never said.”
The words sat heavily between them.
“Aye, well … it was on Maggie’s wedding day. He showed me the list … made me promise that if something ever happened to him, I was to complete it in his stead.”
Their gazes locked for a long moment, and then Davy’s eyes filled with tears. Jaw flexing, he looked away, struggling to master himself. “Did he sense his end was coming?” he asked roughly.
Greig tensed. He hadn’t considered that. “I don’t think so … he’d drunk a lot of wine … it loosened his tongue, that’s all.”
“But to write such a list—”
“He was a dreamer … we always teased him about that. Remember?”
Turning back to Greig, Davy nodded, although his gaze was still shadowed. Full of pain.
An ache rose under Greig’s breastbone. Speaking about Alistair hurt him too—yet it also felt right. Their brother deserved to be remembered, in stories and fond memories, not just vows of revenge.
Davy took a draft from his tankard. Around them, the game of knucklebones resumed, although they sat this one out. “What else was on his list?” he asked eventually.
“To ride from Duart to The Western Cliffs … I did that last week. Climb Ben More, win a strength contest at the Harvest Games … and swim the Sound, of course … those three will have to wait until next year though.” He hesitated then, on the brink of admitting that winning the Forge Maiden’s heart was also on the list. However, he swallowed the words.
Davy’s lips quirked. “And ye’ll do it all … stubborn goat that ye are.”
Greig nodded, determination hardening inside him. “I will.” He held his tankard out then, meeting Davy’s eye once more. “Here’s to Al.”
Davy’s throat bobbed. He nodded and held up his tankard. The pewter cups thudded together. “To Al.”
They drank in silence then, each retreating into memories of their brother. Regrets of moments lost. Chances that would never come twice. But that was the nature of life, wasn’t it? A man’s choices dictated his path.
Greig was about to suggest another round of ale when rough voices from a nearby table carried across the din.
“… told ye—they’re rattled.”
“Aye? Didn’t look it when I was down the Sound last—”
“They’re watching it now. Every bloody crossing.” A pause. “Harder to slip through.”
Someone ground out a curse. “Let them watch. Won’t stop what’s coming.”
Greig’s gaze slid to Davy.
His brother had heard it too. He’d gone still, head angled slightly toward the voices.
At the next table, four MacDonalds lounged deep in their cups, talking quietly, but not quietly enough.
“… chief’s gone to Dùn Ara, hasn’t he?”
“Aye. Trying to sway them.”
One of them scoffed. “Mackinnon? He won’t turn.”
“Don’t be so sure. There are old grudges there. Doesn’t take much to stir them.”
“Mm.” A bench creaked. “Maclean’s still grieving at the moment … would be a good time to strike.”
“Aye, kick him while he’s down.”
A short, ugly laugh punctured the noise inside the alehouse. “And the Mackinnons might be more willing to help than ye think.”
A pause followed, then the scrape of a cup on wood. “I’m ready for a good fight, lads. Anyone else?”
Heat flooded through Greig’s veins, and he deliberately set his tankard down on the table. He then cracked his knuckles before meeting his brother’s eye once more. “They want a fight. What say ye, Davy … shall we give them one?”
His brother nodded. His gaze had sharpened, the effect of the ale dissipating under the anger that now burned in his eyes.
Rage Greig shared.
“I’m going to shove their teeth down their throats,” his brother growled.
“Right.” Greig pushed himself to his feet. His thigh protested, but he ignored the twinge. If he caught the MacDonalds by surprise, it wouldn’t matter. “Let’s get to it.”