Chapter 10
“WHERE THE DEVIL have ye two been? I was about to send out a search party.”
Standing next to Davy in their father’s solar, Greig weathered Loch Maclean’s penetrating stare.
They’d just returned from Tobermory, a bit worse for wear, after taking the ferry back to Craignure and then picking up their horses from The Craignure Inn.
Upon entering the outer courtyard at Duart, they’d left their mounts with the stable lads and gone straight to the clan-chief.
“In Tobermory,” Greig replied brusquely. “We stayed over at The Bonnie Badger and heard a group of MacDonalds boasting about how their chief is currently a guest of Bran Mackinnon … and how he plans to get his loyalty.”
His father’s expression turned grim.
“Bran won’t turn on ye,” Davy said, although doubt tinged his voice.
The clan-chief dragged a hand down his face and turned from his sons, his gaze focusing on the hearth that burned low a few feet away. Although it was nearly midsummer, the day was grey and cool. A light rain had started to fall as the brothers rode back to Duart from Craignure.
“Men remember old grudges,” Loch replied, his voice lowering. “Longer than they admit.” He looked up then and glanced across at his sons once more. His lips pursed. “What happened to ye two anyway?”
Greig flashed him a hard smile. “We thought we’d teach those MacDonalds some manners.”
His father raised a dark eyebrow. “Well, they made a mess of ye both.”
Davy snorted. “Just scratches. Trust me. They got off far worse.”
Loch grunted. “Glad to hear it.”
Greig smiled before wincing as his split lip pained him.
They both looked as if they’d been trampled by sheep.
Davy’s left eye was swollen closed and blackened, his nose broken, and Greig’s cheek had a bruise blooming upon it, but they’d won that fight.
Greig had limped his way out of The Bonnie Badger’s common room, leaving the four MacDonalds groaning and bleeding on the floor.
Highly satisfying.
He ached everywhere, but beneath it, pride burned. He’d stood his ground. His first fight since his injury.
He glanced down at his skinned and bruised knuckles. His head was sore from drinking too much ale the night before, yet that trip to Tobermory had been worth it in more ways than one.
He had completed another task on Alistair’s list—however, it was more than that.
He and Davy had shared some time together, and something had altered between them, a closeness forging that hadn’t been there before.
It was as if Alistair’s absence had created a void, one that had drawn his two remaining brothers together.
“Callum MacDonald can be highly persuasive when he wishes,” Loch said then, heaving a deep sigh. “And God knows what he might offer Mackinnon to try and buy his loyalty.”
Greig’s gut tightened at these words. Upon leaving Tobermory, he’d been sure Bran Mackinnon would throw MacDonald’s overtures back in his face, but his father’s concerns had him worried too now.
Their father had ruled long enough for him to trust his judgment.
“So, what are ye going to do?” he asked finally.
Loch muttered a curse under his breath. His wolfhound, sensing his master’s dark mood, gave a low whine and pressed close. Reaching down, Loch stroked its wiry head.
“One thing’s certain, I’m not going to sit on my hands here in Duart.
If MacDonald has made Mackinnon any offers, I want to know.
And if it comes to it, I’ll better them.
” His dark eyes glinted. “I’ll have my men ready the Claidheamh na Mara, and we’ll head up to Dùn Ara tomorrow morning.
I’ll take Finn with me, and ye too, Davy. ”
His gaze swung to Greig then, pinning him to the spot. “While I’m gone, Greig … Duart is yers.”
Greig nodded, warmth suffusing his chest. He welcomed the responsibility.
Seeing his reaction, Loch’s expression turned searching. “Over the past year, I have let ye be, son … have given ye time to heal … to grieve” —he paused then, lifting his hand and rubbing his chin—“but ye are stronger now, and ye need a purpose. I’m giving ye the role of Marshal of Duart.”
Greig stilled, eyes widening.
An instant later, his gut hardened, the warmth in his chest dousing.
His father had just handed him much responsibility. Too much.
Loch’s last marshal had just stepped down from the role due to ill-health, and Greig had expected him to choose one of the seasoned warriors from the Guard.
A marshal was the clan-chief’s senior military officer, charged with the defense of Duart. Greig would train warriors, oversee arms and horses, and would have judicial and enforcement duties. He could shoulder all of those responsibilities, yet there was one that was beyond him.
Heat rose to his cheeks. They all knew it.
“But what about when the time comes to lead yer men into battle?” he asked, throat suddenly tight. “Ye know, I—”
“I won’t ask more of ye than ye can give.” His father stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “And I wouldn’t ask this of ye, if I didn’t think ye were capable.”
Brìghde waited outside the gates of Duart Castle, astride Sradag.
A fortnight had passed since their last climb. The week before, Greig had sent word that he couldn’t join her. The clan-chief had been called away on urgent business, and Greig was needed to watch over the castle in his absence.
Brìghde hadn’t been surprised he’d begged off. What had surprised her, though, was that he’d actually sent word. After that disastrous trip up into the foothills of Beinn Talaidh, she’d been sure he’d never join her again.
But a couple of days earlier, another lad had paid her a visit, telling her to wait for him this Sunday.
And so, here she was.
It was yet another cool day. However, at least there wasn’t rain, and mist didn’t shroud the peaks of the grey granite curtain that rose to the west. It was a good morning to go hill walking.
Greig hadn’t been present earlier at Mass—and she was beginning to think she’d be riding out alone when a heavyset courser appeared under the portcullis.
Approaching her, Greig gave a brusque nod. “Ready?”
She nodded back, marking the scab on his lip and the fading bruise on his cheek. “Let’s go.”
Side by side, they pushed their mounts into a canter and skirted the village. As it was Sunday, the run rigs on its periphery were empty this morning. Folk had returned home after Mass and were now preparing a hearty noon meal.
But Brìghde and Greig would eat later. She’d wrapped up some bread and cheese before going out, and as Sradag carried her west, the week’s tension unknotted in her back and shoulders.
They rode in silence for a while, and this time, Brìghde didn’t bother to try to engage him in conversation. Not after their last trip together.
Of course, she understood why he’d turned up this morning. Even if he started training for the climb now, he wouldn’t manage it until the following year. Some parts of Ben More were steep and rough indeed.
Eventually, Greig cleared his throat and swung his gaze her way. “I have another item on Alistair’s list completed … the easiest of the challenges he set himself.”
“And what was that?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her. This list that Alistair MacLean had left behind him was intriguing indeed. It saddened her too, for he had been a man of hopes and dreams and hadn’t been able to achieve any of them.
Life could be so needlessly cruel.
“Alistair always wanted to spend the night drinking in Tobermory, so Davy and I did just that,” Greig went on, his hand lifting then, his thumb skimming across his bruised cheek to his scabbed lip. “And of course, a good night’s drinking isn’t complete without a brawl.”
Brìghde snorted. “Men,” she huffed under her breath.
She couldn’t understand why they liked fighting so much. Her father had been the same as a younger man before he lost his sight. He’d gotten into a few brawls over the years, especially at gatherings after he’d had a skinful of ale. And he’d taught her how to fight too.
“If ye’re a woman in a man’s profession, ye need to know how to look after yerself, lass,” he’d told her. “Soon I’ll be no good to ye. I won’t be able to protect this family. And until Eòghan gets old enough, it’ll be up to ye.”
Brìghde’s mouth thinned then as she thought of her confrontation with Ian nearly a fortnight earlier. Aye, her father had taught her well. Nonetheless, she’d been on edge ever since, waiting for Ian to strike back. Surely, he wouldn’t be so easily defeated?
However, as yet, he hadn’t made a move.
“So, what’s next on the list?” she said, focusing on her companion once more.
Greig looked rested this morning, less drawn and severe. His shoulder-length black hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and his dark beard neatly trimmed, emphasizing his strong jaw.
Her belly fluttered. He was an attractive man, indeed; a rougher, slightly more dangerous version of Alistair. A man with more sharp edges. Nonetheless, it was hard not to respond to his masculinity. How many lasses had lost their wits over him? More than a few, she reckoned.
“I plan on swimming the Sound of Mull in the spring … from Duart Bay to Oban.”
Her brow furrowed. “Don’t tell me ye’re going to swim on yer own, all that way?”
“No, I’m not a fool,” he replied with a snort. “Davy will row alongside. If I get into trouble, he’ll help.”
Brìghde nodded, relieved that he was taking precautions.
Even so, it seemed a great distance. She’d only crossed to Oban by ferry once with her father a few years ago to pick up supplies.
That stretch of water was cold, with strong currents, and could easily churn up in bad weather. It was quite a task.
“Well, we’d better get ye used to climbing hills too,” she said, focusing on why they were out here this morning. “Ben More awaits.”
They were nearing the foothills of the great mountain’s smaller cousin now, riding amongst the fading swathes of purple heather.
“I’ve been walking without my stick more often,” Greig admitted then, “and it’s helping.”
She smiled. So, he had listened. “That’s good,” she replied, making sure she kept her tone business-like. He seemed to prefer it. “Ye should find the climb easier then.”
He glanced her way. “Ye deserve an apology, lass … I’ve been like a boar with a sore head of late. Ye didn’t deserve the sharp edge of my tongue last time we attempted this climb.”
Brìghde stilled at these words. His voice was gruff, yet sincere, and she wasn’t sure how to reply. “It’s forgotten,” she murmured, cutting her gaze away, embarrassed.
Fortunately, Greig left his apology there.
Drawing up to the same point they’d stopped on the last occasion, they hobbled their mounts and then began the climb.
Greig had brought his stick with him again on this occasion—a good idea, because the ground was rough.
The farther they climbed, the looser the soil became, covered in places with stones that made the going more treacherous.
And this time, she noted that Greig didn’t tire so easily.
“What other challenges are on yer brother’s list?” she asked, slowing slightly so that he caught up with her. She didn’t want to go too far ahead, just in case his leg betrayed him.
“Just one after Ben More,” he panted. “Alistair wanted to take part in the Harvest Games and win a strength contest.” His face screwed up then. “I plan to enter next year … although I haven’t even begun training for that one.”
They climbed farther, scaling the first slope and then another. Greig stopped at the top of the second one, sweat gleaming on his face now, leaning on his stick as he caught his breath.
Brìghde said little. This time, she wouldn’t ask him if he wanted to turn back. She’d let him be the one to make that choice.
But the man was tough, and after a short rest, he pushed on, his stick digging into the stony ground with each stride.
And eventually, they reached a narrow shelf, a lookout that sat under the deep shadow of Beinn Talaidh.
“That’s it,” Brìghde said, flashing Greig a grin. “Ye made it.”
He’d done it. Not far—but much farther than before.
He glanced her way, his mouth curving. “Aye, but I was slow,” he said, his voice ragged with exhaustion. “Next time, I want to climb higher and faster … stop fewer times.”
Their gazes met and held before Brìghde smiled. “Ye will.”
She glanced around her then, taking in the vista. Despite the color of the sky—the hue of smoke, the sun hidden behind cloud—there was no denying the majesty of the view. The land rolled away to the east, and there in the distance perched Duart Castle against the sea.
“This is my favorite place on Mull,” she admitted softly. “It’s where I come when I need to think, when I need to escape.”
Realizing what she’d just admitted, she stiffened.
And when she glanced Greig’s way, she found him watching her.
“Escape?” he asked. “Why’s that?”
She snorted, cutting her gaze away. “I enjoy my trade … I’m proud of it.
But from dawn to dark, I’m working. I barely have a moment to breathe.
” She paused then, her belly tightening.
That was why she stole time to work on that iron ring.
She needed something for herself. “Sometimes, it feels as if my life doesn’t belong to me. ”