Chapter 15
SEATED UPON AN upturned barrel, Brìghde watched Greig slowly lift the strapped bundle of iron bars. It was his heaviest load yet. “Back straight.”
His jaw flexed. A few months ago, he might have snarled at her, but not now. Instead, he concentrated on lifting the weight. Both knees bent, thighs trembling under the strain. He heaved upwards.
The bars shifted slightly against each other, threatening to throw him off balance.
“Slowly,” she warned, her chest tightening with anticipation. “Maintain control.”
And he did. Inch by inch, sweat glistening on his face now, he lifted the weight until it reached his waist and then held it there for a heartbeat.
“That’s enough,” Brìghde murmured, “or ye’ll strain something.”
Hissing between his teeth, he slowly lowered the bundle, his breath gusting out of him as it thudded onto the grass.
“Ye did it!” Brìghde said then, a smile splitting her face as she clapped. “That’s the heaviest thing ye’re likely to lift at the Games. Ye’ve the strength for it now. The rest is endurance and skill.”
Breathing hard, Greig straightened up, and then a rare, disarming smile tugged at his lips.
Brìghde’s breathing stilled.
Watching Greig Maclean smile was like seeing the sun emerge after days of dull grey.
She’d known he was handsome. She had eyes.
All three of the Maclean brothers were striking.
They'd taken after their father in looks—tall, swarthy, broad of chest and shoulder.
Greig was strong and masculine, with an arrogance that could both vex and intrigue.
But his smile was something else.
It softened the harsh lines of his face, crinkled his eyes at the corners, and revealed even, surprisingly white teeth.
Her pulse leaped.
Oh dear.
It wouldn’t do her any good to notice such things.
Initially, each meeting with Greig ended up either frustrating or angering her.
His sharp tongue, his grumpiness, his intolerance and pride all chafed.
But when she’d started helping him train the year before—when she’d been bold enough to insist she look at his leg and massage it—something had changed between them.
Or, rather, in her.
In their meetings of late, she’d felt increasingly more aware of herself and of him.
She found herself smoothing her hair before meeting him now—thinking of how she looked.
Foolishness. A man like Greig Maclean would never look twice at her.
She needed to remember the way he’d cast his gaze over her that day when his horse had thrown a shoe. The scorn in his eyes.
She was no dainty lady. She felt like an oaf compared to most women, towering above them, meeting the eye of even the tallest of men.
Her father had teased her once, saying that their family clearly hailed from the Norsemen, and that she was a Valkyrie—one of the battle maidens from old Norse tales.
Perhaps she would have been, but in her world and her time, women didn’t fight.
They didn’t wield a sword and stride into battle with their menfolk.
And although most of the time she kept up a wall around herself and told herself she cared not what everyone else thought, there were times, like now, when it suddenly mattered.
Too much.
Unaware of the turn her thoughts had taken, Greig wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and stretched his back.
“How’s the leg faring?” she asked, forcing herself to concentrate. No good would come of such thoughts. She had to shut them down.
“It feels strong today,” he admitted.
She smiled. “That’s good, Greig.” She paused then, her smile widening. “I still can’t believe ye completed that swim to Oban … ye are a legend.”
She meant it too—even a few weeks on, all of Duart was still abuzz after his feat, and she’d felt ridiculously proud of his achievement.
He shrugged, seeming almost a trifle embarrassed by her praise. “It was on Alistair’s list, and so I had to do it.”
“So, only two more challenges remain,” she replied.
“Aye … just two.” To her surprise, his gaze shadowed then, and he cut it away.
Frowning, she studied him. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head. “No,” he replied gruffly. “I was just thinking about Al. I thought completing the list would bring him closer.” He pulled a face then. “But it doesn’t. It just reminds me he’s not here to see it.”
“It still matters,” she replied earnestly. “They are yer brother’s wishes, and ye honor him.” She paused then. “I’d say he’s watching over ye, Greig. Cheering ye on.”
Greig snorted a laugh, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. “Aye, well … I can’t let him down … not now.” He paused then. “Do ye mind if we meet twice a week until the Games … just to ensure I’m ready?” He glanced her way once more. “After ye have finished work for the day, of course.”
“Can ye spare the time?” she asked, even as something treacherous tightened in her belly.
Of course, she didn’t mind. The opposite, in fact.
She welcomed being able to see him twice a week. Sometimes, Greig wasn’t the best conversationalist, letting long silences stretch between them. But she didn’t care. She’d never been a woman to prattle anyway.
And when they did talk, their conversations were interesting, revealing. Greig didn’t waste words. Everything that he said held meaning, and she liked that about him.
Oh Lord, she liked too many things about him these days.
This was no passing fancy. And that made it dangerous.
Just two more months until the Harvest Games. After that, he would have no reason to spend time with her.
And she would have no excuse to see him.
Disappointment flickered up, but she viciously quashed it.
No. Her heart was foolish, and she’d entertained this weakness too long. It was time to be practical.
“So,” she said, rising from the upturned pail, “June is upon us … are ye up to facing Ben More?”
Her gaze met his in a direct challenge, and he grinned back. “Aye, next Sunday it is.”
A light breeze snagged tendrils of hair from Brìghde’s braid as she rode alongside Greig.
They’d set off early this morning, both forgoing Sunday Mass to make an early start. Climbing to the summit of Ben More and then returning home in one day would be quite a task, made possible only by the fact that the sun rose early and set late in the summer.
Brìghde stifled a yawn. She’d barely slept the night before, tossing and turning in her cot by the hearth, her mind too active to let her rest, her nerves strung tight.
Climbing Ben More wasn’t for the faint-hearted.
She’d done it just over three summers earlier with her father.
He’d been determined to climb it one last time, to see Mull before his sight was taken from him.
It had been a grueling climb for them both.
She was older now, possibly even fitter and stronger than she had been, and Greig had prepared for this day too.
But the challenging climb wasn’t what set her nerves on edge.
Today was a milestone. It signaled the beginning of the end of a time that had been bittersweet. A time she would cherish until her dying day.
“Ye’re deep in thought this morning.”
Greig’s voice drew her from her brooding.
They’d ridden west, skirting Beinn Talaidh, and were leaving the low ground now, riding up the lower slopes of Ben More.
Above them, the mountain loomed, a dark shape against a cloud-streaked sky.
It was possible to complete this part on horseback.
The ground was springy underfoot, and although there were patches of bracken that nearly reached waist height, they easily avoided them.
The swathes of heather weren’t yet in bloom.
“Just readying myself for our task,” she answered, cutting him a sidelong look.
Greig looked dangerously attractive this morning. His dark hair was secured at the nape of his neck. He wore a loose lèine with a padded gambeson on top, for the breeze had been cool as they set off. His lower half was clad in a pair of chamois braies tucked into well-worn hunting boots.
As always, he carried a dirk at his hip. Every Highland warrior did, even if he was traveling somewhere safe.
He’d rolled up the sleeves of his gambeson and lèine, revealing muscular, tanned forearms dusted in dark hair. And she found herself eyeing the masculine lines of his arms, her mouth going dry.
He caught her looking then, his lips quirking.
Embarrassment flushed over Brìghde, and she cut her gaze away. Hades. She had to stop doing that.
“Worried I’m not up to it?” he teased.
The man seemed in good spirits this morning. At least one of them was.
“Of course not,” she huffed. “Ye’ll likely make it to the summit before me.”
He laughed. “I always like a challenge. Let’s make a wager.”
“And what will the winner receive?” she asked, arching an eyebrow at him.
He shrugged. “Something small, a token. Let’s say the winner buys us a round of ale at the alewife’s tomorrow afternoon to celebrate.”
“Very well,” she replied. “Although I should warn ye, I too like to win.”
His dark eyes glinted. “Good. A worthy opponent.”
Something caught his gaze then, and he pointed behind Brìghde. “Look.”
Twisting in the saddle, her gaze alighted upon the rise of a hill to the south.
A red stag stood there, broad-chested and magnificent, his russet coat burnished gold by the morning sun. Vast antlers crowned his head like the branches of an ancient oak, and he watched them in still silence.
Brìghde’s breathing caught, her skin prickling. “What a beauty,” she whispered.
“Aye,” Greig murmured. “And by the look he’s giving us … these hills belong to him.”
Her lips curved. Indeed, the stag’s look was imperious. “In that case, we shall move on.”
They did, urging their horses into a canter and continuing west.
The land was changing now. They’d left the easier going behind and ridden through heather moor, where the slopes steepened, and the land grew wilder. The heather grew thicker here.
A short while later, they drew their mounts up. Finding a slightly elevated spot, they secured their horses to some bracken and then began to climb on foot.
Ben More now reared overhead, its rocky summit sharp against the blue sky.
Cool air feathered against their cheeks, yet the sun shone on their backs as they climbed.
The slope tilted sharply upward then, and it wasn’t long before the grass gave way to rock-studded ground. Loose stone crunched under their boots, gravel shifting.
Brìghde was relieved to see that Greig had brought his stick with him. Walking around Duart Castle without aid was one thing. Climbing a mountain was another. She could have done with a stick herself, even during this first slog.
Up and up they climbed, and suddenly, the land opened wide around them, the sky suddenly huge.
There were fewer plants up here. Instead, short grass, lichen, and bare rock surrounded them, and a sharp breeze stung their cheeks, pulling free strands of hair from where Greig had secured it and whipping them across his face.
The slope steepened sharply, forcing Greig to pause more often now, breath rasping, his stick biting into the ground.
Both panting, they halted there for a short while, taking gulps from their ale skins and catching their breath.
“It’s beautiful up here,” Greig said then, his voice rough as he got his breath back.
“It is,” she agreed, looking out at where the rest of Mull rolled away from them. “But wait until ye see the view from the top. It makes ye feel as free as an eagle, as if nothing that happens in the world really matters … not up here.”
He shot her a surprised look.
“What?” she said, tensing. “Did I say something strange?”
“No.” He smiled. “Just didn’t take ye for a philosopher.”
“Ye mean I’m too busy hammering steel to notice a beautiful sunrise or wonder why we’re here?” she challenged.
His smile turned sheepish. “Aye … I’m guilty of that.”
Her stomach tightened. She appreciated his honesty, yet at the same time, it frustrated her.
“Ye think we’re so different?” she replied, her voice tight now.
She wished to point out then that his mother, Mairi, had come from common stock. She was the daughter of an innkeeper, and when her father had died, she’d taken over running The Craignure Inn. But that hadn’t prevented the clan-chief from losing his heart to her—from taking her as his wife.
Years on, all the locals—Brìghde included—still marveled at how strong and happy and enduring their union was. Surely, that was proof enough that there was more that united them than separated them?
She pointed none of this out, though. It would only vex him, and she didn’t want to sour things. Not today.
“Ye’re right,” he murmured, shifting his gaze out to the view once more, his brow furrowing. “I can be an arrogant prick sometimes. Comes with being Loch Maclean’s firstborn, I suppose.” He winced then. “Although life has tried to kick it out of me.”
“It hasn’t succeeded … not yet, anyway,” Brìghde teased, punching him lightly on the arm. “Ye’re still as conceited as ever, Maclean.”
Snorting a laugh, he tucked his ale skin back into his belt and turned, chin lifting as he viewed the final ascent that would take them up to the summit.
“Well, we’ve both caught our breaths,” he said, his hands flexing at his sides.
“Now for the last push.” He glanced Brìghde’s way. “Are ye ready?”
She flashed him a grin in return. “Always.”