Chapter 16
THE LAST STRETCH was even more grueling than Brìghde remembered.
The ground steepened once again. Rock dominated, and soon they were using their hands to climb over some of the boulders. Scree slid treacherously underfoot.
And as they climbed, Greig started to struggle.
His bad leg lagged behind him, each step an effort.
He didn’t say a word, though. Brìghde just marked how he started to stumble more often. There were times when he strapped his stick to his back to free up his hands to climb. And as he heaved himself over another boulder, he let out a curse.
“What is it?” Brìghde panted, pulling herself up next to him.
He sat on the edge of the boulder, breathing hard, sweat slicking his face. “This cursed mountain wants to break me,” he gasped, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Ye’d better not let it,” she replied. “I intend to beat ye to the top, remember?”
She wasn’t sure she could, and in fact, she wanted nothing but to sit there for a while longer and let her burning muscles recover. But if there was one way to spur Greig on, it was to issue a challenge.
He wouldn’t want to be bested, especially not by a woman.
Casting him a goading smile, she pushed off, boots sliding on loose scree as she clambered farther up the slope. “Come on,” she called back. “The summit’s just ahead. Race ye there.”
A curse splintered the air behind her, and then she heard the crunch of boots on gravel.
Her smile widened. Good. He wasn’t giving up.
However, she wasn’t moving as fast as she wished to. Brìghde was fit, her arms and legs strong, but soon her arms trembled as she heaved herself up over the edge of another rock. She gritted her teeth in pain as her knee slammed against stone and then pushed herself forward, limping on.
Neither of them had the strength for a true sprint, but pride drove them on all the same.
And behind her, the crunch of Greig’s boots drew closer. She glanced over her shoulder to see he’d unstrapped his stick once more and was using it to propel himself forward.
Curse him, he was gaining on her.
They both struggled up the final incline to the summit.
Sweat poured off Brìghde’s brow now, trickling down between her shoulder blades. The wind was cool up here. It held a bite, but she welcomed the chill. She needed it.
Greig seemed to gain on her with every stride.
The mountaintop reared before them, a wide plateau that was just yards away now.
They crested it side by side, both limping at this point.
And there before them stretched the summit of Ben More, wind-scoured, broad, and strewn with stones.
Breathing hard, Brìghde bent double, unable to take much in for the moment. Her lungs were pumping so hard, they felt ready to seize. Her blood roared in her ears. She thought she might be sick.
Next to her, Greig gasped for breath, one hand on his knee, the other gripping his stick.
For a short while, neither of them could speak.
Eventually, Brìghde’s pulse started to slow, and the nausea and the burn in her lungs eased. Only then did she straighten up, sweeping her gaze in a slow circle.
To the east, the Sound of Mull shone silver-blue in the afternoon sun. Aye, the afternoon—it had taken them that long to reach the summit.
Beyond the Sound, the mainland rose against the sky, hazy blue, for it was so far away. And to the west, Brìghde spied the wild sea, vast and restless. To the north, Mull unfolded in deep-green ridges, lochs, and glens, hills that faded into the distance.
Her breath caught.
Lord, it was a sight.
The wind eddied around them. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Eventually, Brìghde glanced Greig’s way. “What do ye think?”
He, too, had straightened up, still leaning heavily on his stick.
Face flushed and gleaming with sweat, he gazed around.
“It’s even bonnier than I imagined,” he murmured, awe in his voice.
“I now understand what ye meant when ye said it reminds ye of yer insignificance. Ye’re right.
Long after we go, this great mountain will still stand … and it cares not for all our troubles.”
Brìghde’s lips quirked. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”
He huffed a sigh then, cutting her a rueful glance. “Looks like it was a tie, Boyd.”
She shrugged. “We’ll be buying our own ales at the alewife’s then.”
Muttering something under his breath—for the fact he hadn’t bested her still clearly stung—he pushed off with his stick and limped heavily across the summit.
A few yards on, he found a spot on the northern side where a large, flat, sun-warmed boulder sat.
And there, he lowered himself onto it. “I’ll get the ales, lass,” he grumbled then. “It’s the least I can do.”
Smiling, Brìghde approached and took a seat alongside him. “How’s the leg?”
“Hurts like toothache,” he replied with a grimace, “but then, I’d be surprised if it didn’t.”
“It didn’t fail ye though, did it?”
“No … although things might get interesting when we begin our descent.”
“We’ll rest up before we do that,” she assured him, unslinging the leather backpack she’d brought up with them.
In it, she carried a cloth bundle. “In the meantime, let’s enjoy the view.
Ma prepared us a good meal to enjoy while we’re up here.
” She withdrew a clay bottle. “Her apple wine is delicious too.”
She unwrapped the cloth, revealing two huge pork pies, boiled eggs still in their shells, and two honey cakes studded with raspberries.
She flashed him a smile, suddenly shy. “Ma wanted to ensure the heir to Duart was fed well … I hope it’s to yer liking.”
“It looks delicious,” Greig assured her. “Thank her for me later.”
Brìghde nodded before gesturing to the food. “Go on, help yerself.”
He didn’t need to be urged twice.
They both took their pork pies and bit into them.
Greig let out a low, satisfied groan.
Brìghde’s grip tightened on her pie. She checked herself then, annoyed by her reaction.
She needed to keep her thoughts on things beyond her attraction to this man.
“I dropped off some horseshoes to the farrier in the castle yesterday,” she said then. “And saw many warriors training with swords in the outer courtyard … is yer father moving against the MacDonalds?”
Greig pursed his lips. “Not yet.” He paused then, his brow furrowing. “But a clash between our clans is coming.”
Brìghde stiffened, tension coiling in her chest. “I don’t understand why the MacDonalds of Sleat have taken against us,” she murmured.
Greig huffed a sigh. “It’s about power … it always is.”
They finished the rest of their meal in silence, washing it down with the sweet apple wine. However, a shadow lingered following their conversation about the MacDonalds—a reminder of the fragility of peace.
“I’ve never known war,” Brìghde said eventually. “If I’m honest, I can’t imagine trouble ever reaching Duart. I know there has been strife elsewhere, but I’ve always felt so safe there.”
Greig met her eye. “And ye remain so … as long as my father and I draw breath.”
Brìghde’s lips curved. “The Macleans protect their own.”
His gaze didn’t waver. “We do.” A half-smile tugged at his lips. “Alistair liked to read the clan histories and was always going on about how the Macleans are warriors to the core … formidable fighters … but with fierce loyalty to kin and allies.”
Brìghde nodded. That didn’t surprise her. “What else did he say about ye all?”
Greig sat back on his hands, turning his gaze to the vast view. “That we are bold seafarers, as stubborn as boars … and just as proud and independent too.”
Brìghde laughed. “That sounds about right.”
Greig flashed her a smile, and their gazes held once more.
And then, a few moments later, his expression sobered, his dark eyes shadowing.
Brìghde stilled. “What is it?”
“It’s been just over a year now since Alistair died,” he replied softly, looking away.
“In the beginning, my family talked of him often. He always came up in stories, in casual observations … and I thought it would remain so. But of late, days will go by between mentions of Al.” He paused then, his throat working, even as he stared out into the mid-distance.
“And sometimes, I will go a day without thinking about him.”
Silence followed this admission, and Brìghde let it lie before she finally answered. “I suppose that’s what happens … eventually. We can’t mourn forever.”
He swallowed. “It seems wrong though … that life goes on, and the dead fade. Give it a few more years, and it will be as if Al never lived at all.”
“I remember feeling as ye do,” she replied, shuffling back on the rock and drawing her knees up under her chin.
“When I was wee, my grandmother came to live with us. For years, she was my companion, and then, suddenly, she wasn’t there at all.
I wept every night initially, missing her so much it felt as if my heart would stop.
” She paused then, as an old ache rose under her breastbone.
“But then time passed, the pain eased … and I felt guilty for it.”
She glanced his way to see that he was watching her once more.
“Eventually, I realized that I couldn’t cling to my sorrow without drowning.
I had to let go.” His jaw flexed at this, and, without thinking, she reached out and placed a hand on his arm.
“He’s always with ye, Greig … even when ye aren’t thinking about him.
And he wouldn’t have wanted ye to carry his memory like a burden. ”
Their gazes fused for a long moment, the air sharp with tension, and then he nodded. “Ye are right,” he said, his voice strained. “It’s just that it feels like … betrayal.”
“It’s not.”
Brìghde removed her hand from his arm and moved back slightly.
She remembered then the small circle of silver she’d tucked into the bodice of her kirtle. She’d told herself she’d give it to him when they reached the summit. Now seemed as good a time as any.
Drawing a deep breath, she slid her hand into her neckline and retrieved the ring.
Her pulse fluttered then, and her nerve failed her.
What if he doesn’t like it?