Chapter 11 #2
The scar slashed down, appearing under the hem of his lèine and running down the side of his thigh, almost to the knee. The flesh and muscle there had healed in twisted knots. It was ugly, but she didn’t shrink away from it. Instead, compassion tightened her chest.
This man had to deal with much. No wonder he was so angry and bitter.
And although she’d bullied him into letting her massage his leg, she realized just how vulnerable he was making himself.
He needn’t worry though. She wouldn’t betray his trust.
Keeping her gaze averted from his, for she could feel him watching her—waiting for her to mock him—she unstoppered the bottle of oil and poured some onto her palm.
Then she smoothed the oil gently over his thigh and the knots of scarring and muscle.
A thigh should have been smooth, but his wasn’t. The flesh had healed in ridges and knots, the muscle pulled wrong beneath the skin.
Lifting the edge of his lèine, she slid her fingers over the end of the scar across his hip, and then gently she began to massage.
Her father had always told her she had healing hands.
Over the years, Breac Boyd had injured himself repeatedly, lifting things that were too heavy for him. A bad back was the most common of his ailments, and she’d spent many an eve kneading out the knots in his muscles.
She worked gently at first, testing and exploring the injury.
Greig loosed a sigh, and she glanced his way for the first time, noticing that his eyes had shut.
“That feels better,” he murmured. “A relief.”
“Aye, it will at present, but I’m going to start massaging a little deeper now,” she warned. “It’ll hurt a bit, but it will help.” She hesitated then. “Are ye ready?”
His eyes opened, his gaze fastening on her. “Go on then.”
And so, she began to press deeper, working into the knots.
Greig hissed between his teeth, his body stiffening under her care.
“Hold still,” she said, “and try to relax into it.”
He made a strangled sound. “Christ’s blood, woman. If I didn’t know better, I’d think ye’re enjoying hurting me.”
She snorted a laugh. “What makes ye think that?”
“As revenge? I’ve not exactly been charming toward ye, have I?” He paused then. “I apologized earlier today … but quickly forgot my manners afterward.”
Brìghde’s lips curved as her fingers pressed in once more, and a groan of pain rumbled from his throat. “But ye are a man who has endured hardships of late.” She paused then. “And ye will be my clan-chief one day.”
She slid her fingers into the part of the scar that was the most knotted and began to massage there too.
His face went rigid, his eyes screwing shut. Sweat gleamed faintly on his brow, and he shuddered with each kneading motion.
“Aye … one day,” he ground out. “My father has just made me Marshal of Duart.”
Surprise flickered through her at this admission, yet she didn’t cease the massage. “That’s an honor.”
“Aye … let’s hope I don’t let him down.”
Brìghde inclined her head. That was unlike him. A crack in his walls. Self-doubt wasn’t something she associated with Greig Maclean. “Ye won’t,” she assured him, digging her fingers a little deeper.
There was something satisfying about working on his leg and feeling the muscles bunch and then soften under her hands. The proud fool should have had someone do this every couple of days for him. He likely would have been in far less pain as a result.
And aye, there was a little vindictive pleasure in her.
There was a strange satisfaction in it—having him squirm beneath her hands.
She continued to massage his thigh and hip until finally he choked out, “Stop. That’s enough. Do ye want to see me beg for mercy?”
Now, that would be something, she thought wryly. Sitting back on her heels, Brìghde wiped her fingers off on the grass. The sharp herbal scent of goatweed drifted between them.
Greig’s eyes opened, and their gazes met once more.
“I know it hurt,” she said softly, “but it’ll feel better afterward. Ye’ll see.”
He gave her a look that told her he didn’t believe her. However, he didn’t break eye contact. “Ye certainly know how to humble a man, Brìghde Boyd.”
Her lips quirked. “Hopefully, Ian Maclean agrees with ye. I had another run-in with him a week ago and had to make sure he wouldn’t be spreading any more rumors about me.”
Greig’s expression darkened. “Rumors?”
Heat rose to her cheeks. She didn’t want to fill him in on the details. “Let’s just say, he decided to sully my reputation.”
He inclined his head, brow furrowing. “What did ye do to him?”
“Kneed him in the cods. Hard.”
Greig winced. “I hope ye had an audience.”
“I did … and I made sure they knew he’d been spreading lies.”
Greig nodded. “Ye did well.” His gaze narrowed then. “If he troubles ye again though … come to me.”
Brìghde stilled, surprised.
She was used to fighting her own battles. Her brother, bless him, did his best, and her father could no longer be her protector. She wasn’t used to anyone looking out for her.
And yet, Greig Maclean had just offered to.
It unbalanced her.
Suddenly, she became aware of just how closely they were sitting, of the fact that the man’s braies were down, and that if anyone came upon them right now, it would look as if they’d just interrupted a tumble.
The warmth in her cheeks increased, while heat coiled low in her belly.
It was the first time Greig had roused such a response in her.
Aye, she’d noticed before now that he was a virile, attractive man, but his personality had grated so badly that it had masked her growing attraction.
But she felt it now, and it flustered her.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, yanking her gaze away from his and pushing herself to her feet. “But hopefully, he’s learned his lesson.”