Chapter 11
“IF YE WANT to ready yerself to enter the Games next year, I can help there too.”
They were halfway back down the hill when Brìghde made the offer. She’d been thinking about it ever since they left the viewing point, and had decided she would stick her neck out. She wanted Greig to fulfil his brother’s wishes, and she wanted him to be ready.
“A smiddy has a lot of heavy objects close to hand,” she added with a smile, “perfect for testing yerself.”
Greig didn’t reply immediately, and Brìghde wondered if she’d overstepped. Again.
Nervousness fluttered up then. She sometimes forgot herself. This man was the clan-chief’s firstborn, after all. She was far beneath him, yet she often spoke to him as an equal.
She kept expecting him to reprimand her for that—but, as yet, he hadn’t.
She braced herself then for him to tell her he didn’t need her assistance, but to her surprise, Greig nodded. “Go on.” He hesitated then. “Can we try now? Sunday’s quiet.”
Brìghde nodded. “There’s a yard behind my forge. It’s private enough … a good place to train.”
They rode back to Duart village, heading toward her family’s bothy and the forge that sat next to it.
Luckily, her family lived on the outskirts of the hamlet, and there had been few folk about as they’d ridden in.
However, Brìghde did notice Flora, the widow who lived next door to her family, who was getting in the washing, stare at them as they approached.
Brìghde’s stomach sank.
Flora had one of the biggest mouths in Duart.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have made that offer.
Aye, she probably shouldn’t have, especially after that trouble with Ian. She didn’t need any other whispers circulating about her.
By nightfall, half the village would have them wed.
Too late now.
Hitching Sradag and Tàirneanach up to the rail outside the forge, they went inside.
Brìghde led the way through the forge, past wooden benches and walls where her tools all hung.
She noticed that Greig had left his stick strapped to the back of the saddle when he’d followed her inside. He was limping heavily, for the hill climb had tired him, but the man was stubborn. And she admired him for it.
“Ye’ll need to work up to that,” Brìghde said, nodding to the heavy iron anvil as they passed. “But it’s best to start with something lighter.”
Greig grunted, following her out back into a small grassy yard encircled by a high wooden fence.
Brìghde and her father had built this fence to keep thieves out, for under the covered area at the back of the forge was where they kept their supplies—iron and the more costly steel.
She couldn’t risk having anyone take it, or she’d be ruined.
Once they reached the yard, she set about gathering some lengths of iron and tying a sturdy strap of leather around them.
“What’s this then?” Greig asked, watching her work.
“It’ll be easier on yer back if ye grip the strap and lift,” she explained, focusing on making sure her knots were tight. She didn’t want any of the iron bars coming loose and crushing his foot. “I can gradually increase the weight, but let’s see how ye go.”
“Brìghde.”
A figure appeared in the open doorway then. Eòghan had spotted her return and come to investigate. Her brother’s grey eyes flew wide when he spied Greig standing over her. “Maclean,” he said hurriedly, favoring the clan-chief’s son with a respectful nod. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
“It’s all right, Eòghan,” Brìghde waved him off. “I’m just assisting Maclean with something. Can ye leave us for a bit?”
Curiosity flickered across her brother’s lean features, and his lips parted as if he was about to question her. However, a stern look from Greig sent him scurrying away.
“I’m sure Eòghan wouldn’t judge,” Brìghde assured Greig with a smile, rising to her feet. “But I imagine ye’d rather not have people staring at ye while ye train.”
“No,” Greig replied with a frown.
The stern look on his face made her wonder if he was regretting this idea of hers.
Moving forward, he took the leather strap she handed him, sliding his hands down so that he gripped it halfway.
“Bend yer knees. Keep yer back straight,” Brìghde instructed.
She’d watched enough stone throws and caber tosses over the years to understand how important that was. Her father had competed every year and won more often than he lost.
Nonetheless, Greig cut her a sour look.
“Stop glowering at me, Maclean,” she muttered, her temper fraying. “I’m only trying to help.”
His lips pursed, but he held his tongue. Instead, he actually did heed her, straightening his back and bending his knees. She noticed, however, that he kept his weight on his uninjured side. She frowned. That could cost him in competition, for as the weights got heavier, he risked unbalancing.
Nonetheless, she wasn’t about to point that out—not yet anyway.
Instead, she looked on as he lifted the bundle of iron bars.
“Ye made that look easy,” she said with a rueful smile. “Ye’re stronger than I thought.”
He shrugged. “Good to know.”
She moved back to the lean-to and retrieved some more iron bars, including them in the bundle.
Then she bid him to lift those. She’d doubled the load, and he still managed, although his arm muscles quivered slightly, the veins on his forehead standing out as he lowered and raised the weight a few times.
Breathing hard, he then set it down on the ground.
“Well done,” Brìghde said with a smile. “Do ye want to try something heavier?”
He cut her a sharp look. “Ye like to push me, don’t ye?”
She held his gaze. “Only because ye are a man who likes to be pushed.”
His dark eyes glinted. “I don’t know about that. But go on, add a bit more iron … and let’s see how I fare.”
She did. The bundle was heavy now. Brìghde would struggle to lift it properly.
She watched Greig ready himself, widening his stance slightly, bending his knees a little deeper, and flexing his fingers on the leather strap.
Then he lifted.
The weight rose from the ground and got halfway up before his weak leg suddenly gave way under him.
And with a gasped curse, Greig collapsed.
The bundle of iron slammed into the ground, narrowly missing his foot.
Without thinking, Brìghde rushed forward and put out a hand to help him.
“Don’t,” he snarled. “I can manage.”
“I’m sure ye can,” she cut back, her own anger rising. God, this man was so cantankerous. How did his family put up with him? “But I can still offer ye help, can’t I?”
He glared at her, pushing aside the hand she stretched out to him once more.
“I’ll be all right,” he muttered. “My leg sometimes does that. Without any warning, the damn thing just gives way.”
“That muscle’s seizing,” she said, studying his leg. “No wonder it fails ye.”
A nerve flickered in his cheek.
Sighing, Brìghde hunkered down so that their gazes were level. “Do ye massage it?”
“No,” he snapped.
“Well, ye should.”
His gaze narrowed, warning flashing in his eyes once more.
Brìghde sighed. “Look. A wound like that—one that’s damaged the muscle—needs help to recover properly. Ye should have someone massaging oil into it regularly … especially after exercise.”
His lips pursed. “Hazel Maclean gave me an oil last Samhuinn with goatweed in it. Bid me to massage it into my leg, but I haven’t bothered.”
“Why not?”
He pulled a face. “It seemed pointless.”
Brìghde exhaled sharply through her nose. The man really was impossible.
She’d heard of the woman who had married Craig Maclean of Moy.
Hazel’s knowledge of herbs and healing was something special.
Their union had scandalized the whole island.
A humble herbwife becoming a chieftain’s wife wasn’t something that happened every day.
Her father had even visited Hazel years earlier in the hope she might be able to help his failing sight.
However, there was no herb that could do that.
Making a decision, Brìghde rose to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere,” she ordered him, ignoring the glare he cut her. “I’ll be back soon.”
With that, she left him sitting there in the grass.
And when she returned a short while later, a small clay bottle clasped in one hand, Greig hadn’t moved. He sat there, leaning back on his hands, his face upturned to where the sun had broken through the clouds and now bathed the small yard.
For a few instants, she observed him. His proud profile. The brief, unguarded moment.
Slowing, she cleared her throat to warn him she’d returned.
His eyes flicked open, shoulders stiffening.
“Drop yer braies and let me rub some of this on,” she said, holding up the bottle. “This too has goatweed in it … the herb will help loosen the muscles and make them less inflamed.”
Greig jolted as if she’d just jabbed him in the ribs with a poker.
And then, to her surprise, a blush rose to his high cheekbones, visible even under his swarthy coloring. “I’m not showing ye my arse, woman,” he growled.
Brìghde laughed. “For God’s sake, the lèine ye wear will cover yer modesty. And I promise not to look at anything but yer leg.”
She paused then, meeting his gaze in deliberate challenge.
Surely, he wasn’t prudish about such things?
Moments passed, and then Greig muttered a curse under his breath. “Christ’s blood, ye’re vexing.”
“No more than ye are,” she muttered under her breath.
Glowering at her now, he lay down flat on his back and unlaced his braies before pushing them down to his knees. Underneath his leather jerkin, he wore a long linen lèine, and it did cover his groin.
Just.
Brìghde made sure to keep her gaze averted from that area, though, just in case the tunic slipped and revealed more than she was ready to see.
Moving around, she knelt next to him, her gaze settling on his injured leg.
She stilled, her breath catching.
By the saints.
It had been a nasty wound—leaving him with a disfiguring injury. She was surprised he still had his leg, surprised it hadn’t been the end of him.
And it hadn’t healed well.