Chapter 13
The Sound of Mull, Scotland
Nine months later …
THE COLD RIPPED the breath from Greig’s lungs and drove straight into his bones. Each stroke forward was a victory.
He’d known the swim from Mull to Oban would be hard. But he hadn’t reckoned on just how tough it would be.
Just how much it would test his mettle.
He’d trained for this for months, even braving the freezing water during the winter, gritting his teeth through the pain and cold.
Just to ready himself for this moment.
The worst of the weather was now behind them, and May had arrived. He was stronger now. Fitter. The time had come for this challenge.
He and Davy had set off shortly after dawn. They’d chosen the day especially. It was a rare still one. The Sound was glassy, and for once, a cold breeze wasn’t gusting in. And although the air wasn’t hot, it still carried the softness of early summer.
Greig had struck out from shore in an easy breaststroke, using his legs to propel him forward. His thigh had strengthened a lot lately. On Brìghde’s advice, the year before, he’d called upon Donn, the local healer, every couple of days to massage the oil Hazel had given him into his leg.
And it had helped—a lot.
He was moving more easily, and although the massage itself hurt like the devil, his leg felt stronger in the aftermath.
Brìghde—damn her—was right.
Even so, swimming the Sound was his toughest challenge yet, and he made sure he didn’t push himself too hard in the beginning. He needed to make it all the way across—and the shadowy outline of the mainland, shrouded slightly in mist this morning, seemed like a world away.
Davy rowed next to him, the splash of his oars on the water shattering the stillness.
“Ye picked a good morning for it,” his brother panted.
They’d been traveling a while and had reached what Greig supposed was the halfway point. The water was freezing, and he pushed himself a little harder now just to keep his blood pumping.
And his mother’s warning was right. He could feel the currents pulling at him, despite that the sea was peaceful this morning. Fortunately, he was a strong swimmer. Someone less confident would flounder out here.
Pushing the worrying thought aside, he cleaved his hands through the water. “Aye,” he puffed. “I wanted to wait.”
“How are ye faring?”
Greig didn’t look Davy’s way. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed upon the misty horizon.
He couldn’t lose his focus or his rhythm.
“Well enough,” he grunted out the words. He wouldn’t waste his energy on conversation.
“Aye, well, tell me if ye think ye might get into trouble,” his brother answered, a warning edging his voice now. He knew just how stubborn his elder brother was.
Greig didn’t reply. Instead, he concentrated on his breathing.
With the water this cold, it punched all the air from his lungs and made it difficult to draw breath. That was the way many folk ended up drowning, he’d heard. The cold got to them, seized their lungs, and they sank like a stone.
But he’d been ready for it, and he’d been practicing, and so he drove through the cold and focused on breathing slowly and deeply.
And inch by inch, furlong by furlong, he moved across the Sound.
Eventually, the misty horizon grew sharper. At a distance, it seemed veiled in blue, but as they drew closer, the detail of the wooded hills behind the port of Oban became much clearer, and he spied the town itself, hunched on the edge of a wide bay.
Birlinns and merchant cogs came and went from the busy port.
One of the merchant vessels passed by less than a mile from where he swam—a clinker-built, single-masted cog that drifted slowly, its sail barely catching this morning.
Voices carried across the water—shouts, laughter, disbelief.
Aye, the crew had seen him and no doubt thought he was a madman.
He probably was.
What was Al thinking, adding this challenge to the list? His brother hadn’t been able to swim more than ten yards without floundering. It would have taken him years to build up to this task—and even then, he might not have made it farther than halfway across.
Ye might not make it either, Greig reminded himself.
Fatigue now pulled at him.
He was reaching the limits of his endurance.
He could feel the burn of his muscles and lungs, the cold that drilled deep into his bones. His movements were less fluid now, weaker.
Aye, he was starting to struggle.
Teeth clenched, he swam on.
He had nothing to prove to anyone else, but he refused to fail himself.
Or Alistair.
And he’d get to the other side, even if it killed him.
Duart village,
The Isle of Mull
Brìghde stopped hammering and cursed under her breath. The curve of the horseshoe was wrong again.
She’d messed up two already this morning.
It was difficult to concentrate, to focus on mundane tasks—when she kept worrying about Greig.
He’d worked hard, even braving the sea in the coldest months to rebuild his strength. Through rain, sleet, and bitter winds, he’d never once suggested giving up.
The man had a will of iron.
Over the winter, they’d continued their hill walking, climbing the foothills and lower slopes of Beinn Talaidh each Sunday, except when the winter snow made such trips dangerous.
And she had a collection of weights in the yard behind her forge, where Greig practiced lifting.
She thought he might have lost motivation over the long, bitter winter, but he’d surprised her.
He was determined to carry out his brother’s wishes.
She glanced then over at where Eòghan plunged a glowing iron blade into the slack tub. A hiss followed, and steam billowed. Sweat shone on her brother’s brow.
“How’s that horseshoe?” he asked without looking up.
Brìghde snorted. “Almost done.”
He did cut her a glance then, a pale brow lifting. “Yer mind is elsewhere today.”
She pulled a face, embarrassed that she was so transparent.
Eòghan focused on his work once more, and she watched as he set the blade back on the anvil and began to hammer again.
Brìghde’s gaze dropped to the blade, scrutinizing its sleek shape.
He’s good.
Her gaze lingered then upon the iron ring on Eòghan’s hand, the thistle engraving catching the forge light. Aye, she’d finally managed it after weeks of failed attempts and muttered curses.
Eòghan had been delighted with his gift and surprised that his sister had been developing a craft in secret.
Since then, she’d made her father a ring with an anvil and a small silver brooch for her mother—something pretty she could pin onto her favorite blue wool shawl.
Finishing the horseshoe, she hung it on the wall and pulled out her latest project. A silver ring.
Her pulse quickened. She’d been working up to this piece.
For someone special.
She cast a look over her shoulder at the glowing hearth.
There were more horseshoes to be made, but he was right; she was distracted today.
She needed something creative to focus on.
She didn’t want to think about Greig plowing through deep, cold water, battling with the currents, pushing himself harder than he should.
All to keep a promise.
Curse him, she shouldn’t admire him as she did—or care so much about his wellbeing— but, somehow, Greig Maclean had become part of her life. She’d found herself looking increasingly forward to seeing him each Sunday, and frustrated when the weather or his responsibilities as marshal kept him away.
His company was the best part of her week.
And that worried her.
He was becoming too important. She’d offered to help him out of respect for Alistair, but with the passing of time, her motivation had shifted.
Somewhere along the way, she’d started to like Greig.
And the thought of him dying made her belly twist.
Enough fretting, she chided herself then. The man’s as tough as tempered steel. The Sound of Mull won’t beat him.
Flexing her fingers around the engraving blade, she bent over the ring and resumed work.
The Sound of Mull
The last stretch to Oban felt the longest, possibly because the cold and exhaustion had slowed him down. Greig’s movements were weakening, growing less sure. His fingers were losing feeling now, clumsy in the water.
He spluttered then, blinking furiously as salty water went up his nose. Christ, it stung.
Davy had gone quiet, although the rhythmic splash of the oars kept Greig going. He sought to keep in time with it, pushing beyond the pain and exhaustion, detaching himself from his body.
All the while, though, he could sense Davy watching him, waiting for the moment he’d flounder and go under and need to be rescued.
But raw stubbornness set in then.
He could do this.
He could swim the Sound of Mull from one coast to the other.
Eventually, something would beat him. He might fall from his horse, take a tumble down the stairs, end up with a dirk in his belly, or shit himself to death from the flux.
But his end would not be today.
He would not let the water take him.
And with one last surge of determination, he plowed on with a renewed burst of speed, his arms pushing through the water, his legs thrusting out behind him.
And there before them, Oban drew closer and clearer still.
He angled not toward the busy wharf area—where sailors, merchants, and locals bustled, and where women hawked fish, their cries echoing across the water—but to the shore just south of the wharf, to where the water lapped at shingle.
Closing his eyes shut as exhaustion pulled him down, he pushed on.
And then, when his knees hit pebbles, all the strength seemed to go out of his body, and he went under.
But he didn’t care.
He clawed his way forward, choking on icy, briny water.
He was vaguely aware then of a splash next to him.
And then strong hands grabbed him by the arm, hauling him upwards.
Snarling a curse, Greig shrugged his brother off and lurched forward, sprawling like a landed fish on the sand.
“Stubborn prick,” Davy called after him. “Ye’d rather drown than let anyone help ye.”
Greig didn’t reply. He couldn’t.
He was done.
Rolling onto his back, heaving in each lungful of air as if it were his last, he stared up at the blue arch of the sky.
And then, as the water lapped at his feet and gulls cried overhead, he let out a wheezing laugh. His arms trembled, and his lungs burned, but none of that mattered.
He’d done it.