Chapter 12
GREIG REACHED ACROSS the table and helped himself to a thick slice of coarse oaten bread. “Yer trip to Dùn Ara was a success, then?”
To his left, his father nodded, dark eyes glinting. “I should never have doubted Bran.” His lips quirked. “He’s a good friend. He said that Callum MacDonald looked as if he’d just swallowed a bitter plum when he left.”
“The whoreson did his best to bribe him by any means possible though,” Davy added. “Luckily, Bran wasn’t interested.”
“What did he offer, then?” Greig asked, glancing his brother’s way. Davy’s sharp-featured face was tense. Hungry.
“Men, boats … weapons,” his brother replied. “He even tried to broker an alliance through marriage.”
Loch’s lips pursed. “MacDonald must be desperate indeed. His only daughter is barely fourteen, and he was keen to promise her to Mackinnon’s only son, Nat.”
Greig sighed, uneasiness shifting in his gut.
He was relieved to hear that the MacDonald’s trip to Dùn Ara had yielded nothing.
But at the same time, it seemed that their enemy was determined to find a way into Mull, a way to weaken the strength of the Macleans of Duart.
And although he’d been thwarted this time, instinct told him that the man would try again.
His stomach tightened then, reminding him that such thoughts weren’t good for digestion.
Picking up his cup of wine, he took a sip. “This is good, Ma,” he said, glancing his mother’s way.
Mairi, who sat silently next to her husband, favored her firstborn with a tight smile and nodded.
“It’s the first of this year’s plum wine,” she replied, her voice husky. It always sounded strained these days.
Over three months had passed since Alistair’s body had been brought back to Duart. But his mother still grieved as if it happened just days earlier. The flesh had melted from her bones.
It was the noon meal, the day after the clan-chief’s return from Dùn Ara, and they sat at their family table next to a smoldering hearth at one end of the Great Hall.
Loch’s warriors lined long trestle tables nearby.
The thud of wooden trenchers and cups, the rumble of conversation, filled the space.
But Mairi barely seemed to notice. These days, her dark eyes gazed inward.
“The summer’s been poor this year,” she added. “I was worried the wine would be sour.”
Greig smiled. “It’s not.”
However, the sight of her gaunt face tightened something in his chest. He worried for her.
“And so, what’s next?” he asked, deliberately shifting his focus once more back to his father.
To his surprise, he found Loch watching him steadily, his expression thoughtful.
“Mackinnon’s loyalty is assured,” the clan-chief replied.
“And Bran has assured us too that, should it come to conflict between the MacDonalds and the Macleans, he will fight at our side. He sees MacDonald’s behavior as a threat not just to the Macleans of Duart …
but to all of Mull.” Loch nodded then to where the Captain of the Guard sat farther up the table before he glanced Greig’s way once more.
“Finn’s bringing on more warriors … and as marshal, ye are going to help train them. ”
Heat ignited in Greig’s belly, and he nodded.
His father had no idea how much being included in these things mattered to him.
Over the past months, he’d fallen silent while his father and brother spoke of plans, training, and war. Of course, the future belonged to them—not to him.
But that was gradually changing.
Next to him, Davy flashed their father a hard smile. “We’ll show those bastards what happens when ye mess with the Macleans of Duart.”
Loch grinned back. “Aye, son.” He met Greig’s eye once more then. “Nothing to report in my absence, then … no trouble?”
Greig shook his head. “There was a squabble amongst the cooks that had to be dealt with, but for the most part, it was quiet.”
Loch nodded, although his attention didn’t shift from Greig, and it was difficult not to feel uncomfortable under his intense scrutiny. He became aware then that the others at the table—his mother, Davy, Finn, Astrid, Maggie, and her husband—were all watching him now.
His skin prickled. Had they been discussing him when he was out of the room? He had no proof, only the nagging sense that words had been shared between them. About him.
“Ye are looking brighter these days,” his aunt Astrid piped up with a smile, shattering the tension. “There’s more color to yer cheeks. Ye take Tàirneanach out regularly now. And Davy tells me ye’re planning to swim the Sound of Mull in the spring.”
Greig cut Davy a sharp look. His brother avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the piece of bread he was buttering.
Traitor.
Greig hadn’t forbidden Davy from saying anything to their parents, but he had hoped he’d keep his mouth shut.
“I’m trying to get fitter, stronger,” he said, fighting to keep his irritation from showing.
He paused then, embarrassment prickling his skin under their stares.
God, he hated being the center of attention like this.
He couldn’t help it—part of him wondered if they thought his father had handed him too much responsibility.
Did they believe Loch had given him the role of marshal out of pity?
His temper simmered at the thought.
Pity was the one thing he could not stand.
“I’ll also be entering the strength contests in the Harvest Games next year,” he announced then. “And climbing Ben More when I’m stronger.”
His father nodded slowly. And in the depths of his night-brown eyes, Greig thought he glimpsed approval.
“I know ye’re wanting to test yerself,” Mairi spoke up then, a groove etched between her dark eyebrows, “but promise me ye’ll be careful when ye swim the Sound. It’s a long haul. The water is freezing, and ye know the currents are dangerous.”
“Don’t worry, love … ye know the lad’s half-selkie,” Loch said, placing a reassuring hand on his wife’s shoulder. However, the worry in Mairi’s eyes didn’t soften.
Greig sighed. “Aye, Ma … I know. And, aye, I’ll be careful.” He favored her with a reassuring smile then. “Don’t worry. Davy will be rowing alongside every inch of the way. If I go under, I’m sure he’ll dive in and retrieve me.”
Across the table, his younger brother snorted.
“Don’t grip the hammer so hard,” Brìghde instructed, stepping close to her brother and adjusting his fingers on the smooth oaken handle. “Ye’ll end up with a sore wrist and shoulder if ye continue fisting it like that.”
She paused then, flashing him a half smile.
“Ye need to let the tools do the work … not ye. Don’t fight the hammer. Let it fall and rise. Feel the rhythm.”
Eòghan’s brow furrowed. Fortunately, he didn’t mind taking instruction from his elder sister. She’d thought he might chafe or rebel, or even argue with her.
But the opposite was true.
He was eager to learn, eager to improve.
Stepping back, she watched as he swung the hammer once more, easing into a familiar rhythm. And this time, he loosened his grip, and the hammer bounced off the metal.
He was making a set of steel eating knives for a local family. It was a project she’d let him take complete control over. If he continued to improve so quickly, she’d have time to finish off the ring she’d been working on.
However, as she watched him hammer the glowing metal into shape, she felt a pang.
He was good, her brother.
She had to admit it.
Barely a moon had passed since Eòghan had begun his apprenticeship in earnest, and he was progressing fast. His muscles were developing too.
He was still long and lanky, but judging from his huge appetite these days—one their mother constantly complained of—he’d be filling out soon.
His shoulders already seemed to have broadened since he’d begun work with her in the forge.
Her chest tightened.
Not long now, she realized. Not as long as she’d told herself.
Soon she’d be forced to step back. And then everyone would look to her to find herself a husband.
Panic fluttered up at the thought, and she moved over to the bench behind Eòghan. Picking up a tool, she peered at the ring she was engraving. She worked directly under a lantern and needed the light to catch the detail.
Her brow furrowed then. She’d been attempting a thistle, but it wasn’t turning out as she hoped. It didn’t look like a thistle at all—more like a misshapen bannock. Her lips pinched together. Maybe I should start over.
Her mind wandered once more to her situation as she tried to reshape the design, picking away at the soft iron.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to wed or to have a family of her own. She wasn’t against the idea at all. But the problem was that Duart Village, and even the castle itself, had a limited number of men. And thus far, not one of them, besides Ian, had tried to woo her or shown any interest.
Her mother told her she couldn’t afford to be too fussy.
However, when Eòghan stepped fully into the role of smiddy, she’d have no choice but to look for a mate.
“Good to see ye’re learning yer place.”
Brìghde’s chin jerked up, her gaze slicing right to find a familiar and unwelcome figure standing in the doorway.
Ian. The man had stayed away for a long while, and his absence had been appreciated indeed. But now, he was back.
Heat ignited under her ribs as she tucked the ring away. Of course, he wanted her to bite back. Hot words surged up her throat, yet she swallowed them. She wouldn’t give the bastard what he wanted.
Instead, she’d stay on guard.
“Did ye want something, Ian?” she said, aware that Eòghan had stopped hammering. He now fixed the farmer in a glare.
With a lazy smile, Ian held up a long wooden handle with one hand and a wide flat iron blade with the other.
“My hoe snapped earlier this morning,” he said. “Let’s see if young Eòghan here can fix it.”
Frowning, Brìghde approached him. She then thrust out a hand. “Give it to me, Ian. Let’s have a look.”
He hesitated. “I said Eòghan—”
“Hand it over … or ye can go elsewhere.”
Their gazes locked, and a challenge glinted in his blue eyes before he reluctantly did as bidden.
Brìghde examined the blade, her thumb tracing the jagged break.
“I can fix this,” she said, stepping back and moving toward her forge. “Come back later for it.”
“Why don’t ye give this job over to the lad?” Ian asked, not moving from the doorway. “Word is he’s got talent … that he’ll be better than ye soon enough.”
Brìghde shrugged as if his comment didn’t bother her, didn’t vex her.
But it did.
“It’s not a contest,” she replied.
Meanwhile, she didn’t miss the glower her brother cut Ian.
Aye, he knew what game the man was playing. He was trying to undermine her.
For some reason, it mattered to him that she knew her place.
Her belly hardened.
And these days, she knew exactly where he thought her place was.
Under him.
Never, she thought grimly.
“The job will get done, Ian,” she said, stepping up to the fire. “I’ll see ye later.” She then turned her shoulder toward him.
“I wasn’t making a request, Brìghde,” Ian replied, his tone sharpening now. “Eòghan will fix the hoe, not ye. Do ye hear me?”
Brìghde turned to face him. “Excuse me?”
“Enough, Ian,” her brother muttered, moving to her side. “Keep talking, and I’ll put ye on the floor.”
Putting a calming hand out on her brother’s arm, Brìghde fixed Ian with a long, hard look.
“Ye don’t issue orders here,” she said, enunciating each word carefully.
“And if ye’ve got a problem with a woman smithing for ye, then I suggest ye take this hoe and go for a walk to Craignure.
There’s a male smiddy there who’ll do yer bidding.
” She paused then, unable to resist the dig. “Frankly, ye’d be doing me a favor.”
Anger smoldered in his eyes. “Careful, Brìghde,” he murmured. “Folk are already talking” —he halted there and glanced over his shoulder to ensure no one was listening in— “about ye and Greig Maclean.”
Heat rolled over her. A moment later, anger sparked. Aye, Flora’s tongue had been wagging as she feared.
“I care not,” she replied coldly. “There’s no story there, anyway.”
Ian’s jaw hardened. Then, without another word, he turned and stalked off.
“Mannerless dog,” Eòghan growled next to her. “Ye should have thrown that broken blade at his fat head.”
Brìghde pulled a face. “Believe me, I was tempted.”
She took a pair of tongs down from the wall before thrusting the broken hoe blade into the heart of the fire. Glancing her brother’s way, she marked the deep furrow between his eyebrows. “Don’t worry about Ian … I can handle him.”