Chapter 18
brìGHDE’S FAMILY WERE all still awake and waiting for her when she returned to the bothy.
She’d just stabled Sradag and given the garron an armful of hay before crossing the yard, now shrouded in darkness, to her home. Her heart sank when she ducked under the low lintel to find her mother, father, and brother seated there, the glow of the hearth licking their faces.
Her father’s raw-boned hands were curled around a cup of ale. Her brother was whittling something out of rosewood, a common pastime for him in the evenings, while her mother mended a pair of braies, squinting to see in the firelight.
“Ye shouldn’t work on yer sewing at this hour, Ma,” Brìghde greeted her. “Ye’ll ruin yer eyes.”
Her mother gave a soft snort, lowering her sewing project, her frank gaze fastening on Brìghde. “Well, that’s quite a greeting, isn’t it? We were beginning to worry.”
“It was a long day,” Brìghde replied with a sigh. “But we made it.”
Her father’s mouth curved into a smile. “Maclean’s a tough bastard.”
“He is,” she replied, sinking down onto a stool next to the hearth. All she wanted to do was crawl into her cot and pull the covers overhead. But she wouldn’t be able to do that yet.
“Go on then,” Eòghan said, eyes shining as he leaned forward eagerly. “Tell us of the day.”
Brìghde’s belly hardened. Christ’s blood. She just wanted to forget it.
However, her family wanted a tale, and so she would give them one.
She told them of the terrain they’d traveled to reach the summit.
Her father appreciated such details especially.
The world was dark to him these days, but he remembered his trip to Ben More with her, and as she explained how the ground had changed from grassland to boggy patches and then rougher, stonier foothills, his features softened as if he too was lost in the memories.
She told them how she’d challenged Greig to a race to the top and how they’d tied. She informed her mother of how much Greig had enjoyed the meal, of his thanks, and her mother glowed with pride.
Of course, she left the part about the kiss out—and everything else that had happened afterward.
Jumping forward to the descent, she recounted how many times they’d both nearly tumbled down the slope. Greig’s thigh was weak and tired, yet she too had struggled. There had been times when her legs had trembled under her.
“Ye did well helping the clan-chief’s son, lass,” her father said when she ended the tale. “However, I hope this is the end of those hill walks.” Breac was still smiling, yet his voice held an edge.
Brìghde stiffened. “Why’s that, Da?”
“Folk notice things,” he replied. “And they don’t always speak kindly of what they see.”
Eòghan’s brow furrowed at this statement, although their mother nodded, her gaze shadowing a little.
Brìghde’s breathing grew shallow.
He was right, of course—and today had proved it. If she hadn’t been spending so much time alone with Greig, things wouldn’t have spiraled. He wouldn’t have kissed her.
The truth was she was his servant, and he, her better.
That was the way things were supposed to be.
He knew it, and so did she.
And so did her father.
“Aye, well, don’t fear … there will be no more excursions,” she replied, her tone clipped now. “And he won’t be visiting the forge to train for the Games from now on either.”
Her throat constricted then.
All the way home, she’d wondered when Greig would bring it up. And as they rode toward the home fires of Duart, he’d reined Tàirneanach in next to her.
“I know we planned to train twice a week until the Games,” he’d said gruffly, breaking the long, tense silence between them. “But given the circumstances, I don’t think that’s wise, do ye?”
Her temper had flared hot then. She’d wanted to bite his head off.
How dare he act as if he were protecting her—as if this wasn’t a slight?
He made himself sound so considerate, like he cared about her reputation. However, the truth of it was that he cared more about his own. It wouldn’t do for the folk of Duart to think he was swiving the Forge Maiden.
The humiliation of it.
Clearly, he’d been kicking himself all the way home.
“Of course, that makes sense,” she’d replied, even as wretchedness clutched at her chest. “I’m sure ye can finish yer training on yer own at Duart Castle.”
A heavy silence had settled between them then. However, as darkness shrouded them, she hadn’t been able to make out his expression. Just as well too. She didn’t want to see it.
She just wanted to flee from his presence, to hide from him.
They’d reached the forge shortly after.
Greig had waited atop Tàirneanach as she’d swung down from Sradag, lingering, as if wishing to say something else, but she’d turned from him. “Goodnight, Maclean.” Without waiting for his response, she’d led Sradag away.
Now that she was indoors with her family, her chest ached cruelly.
Sitting before the hearth, her throat tightened, the back of her eyes burning.
No. She wouldn’t weep. Not now—at least not in front of her family.
“Are ye well, Brìghde?” her mother asked then.
Ever watchful, she’d picked up on Brìghde’s shift in mood, or rather the pain she’d valiantly tried to hide since returning to their bothy.
Her father and brother didn’t notice such things, but a woman did.
Brìghde swallowed hard. “Just tired, Ma. It’s been an exhausting day. Do ye mind if I retire?”
“Of course not,” her mother replied, still watching her in a way that warned Brìghde that she wasn’t fooled, not in the slightest. “We all should find our beds … it’s getting late.”
She knew something was amiss with her daughter, although she had no idea just how badly things had gone. If she had, she’d have been horrified by Brìghde’s lack of propriety—her carelessness.
Of course, she won’t suspect what happened, Brìghde thought bitterly then. No one could imagine a man like him being attracted to a woman like me.
She supposed that should have made this easier.
But it didn’t.
It just sank the blade even deeper into her chest.
Greig slowly climbed the stone steps to the Winter Garden.
Four flights of stairs, all without the aid of his stick.
He should have been jubilant, but this afternoon, his mood was dark.
He’d just come from the outer courtyard, where he’d helped unload a cartload of sacks of grain.
The lads had needed a hand, although Greig had another reason for pitching in.
With the Games just two months away, he had to keep up his strength.
The activity also provided a much-needed distraction.
It kept him from dwelling on what had happened between him and Brìghde on the summit of Ben More the day before.
He hadn’t just crossed a line; he’d irrevocably changed their relationship.
She now thought it was her fault.
His left thigh twinged then, reminding him of his climb the day before.
It was best he rested a while instead of pushing himself so hard.
Initially, he’d intended to return to his bedchamber and sleep away the afternoon.
Instead of doing so, he’d climbed two more flights of stairs before pushing open the door to the Winter Garden.
The narrow set of steps up to the garden cost him though, and he was sweating, his left leg trembling under him, as he reached the terrace beyond.
It was the height of summer, and the garden was still filled with blooms. Not just roses, but meadowsweet, Sweet Williams, and violets formed colorful profusions, bees buzzing lazily amongst lavender, and the scent of rosemary was strong in the afternoon sun.
He’d come up to the terrace to find some solitude, but just a few steps in realized his mistake, for his mother was up here.
Mairi knelt at one of the flower beds. She wore heavy leather gloves as she plucked out weeds and tossed them into a basket, humming softly under her breath as she worked.
Halting, Greig surveyed her.
His mother was a statuesque woman, yet she’d looked almost frail in the months following Alistair’s death—her face gaunt, her eyes hollowed. Today though, as she worked in a place that had always given her solace, she almost seemed herself again. Maybe the shadow was passing.
Maybe Brìghde was right. The living had to let go of the dead eventually, but that didn’t mean they loved them any less for it.
Greig cleared his throat then. “Afternoon, Ma.”
Her chin lifted, her humming cutting off. “What brings ye up here, mo chridhe?” she said with a smile, shading her face against the sun with her hand.
She wore a kerch around her head to keep her hair off her face and to protect herself from the sun, but dark curls threaded with grey peeked out.
“Sorry to disturb ye, Ma,” he replied gruffly. “I’ll leave ye be.”
He turned to go, but his mother called out, “Stop, Greig. There’s no need for that. I was about to take a break. Come … I brought up a bottle of ale with me. There’s only one cup, but we can share it.”
He turned to see that she’d motioned to the terrace at the end of the garden—where he and Alistair had drunk together after Maggie’s wedding, when Greig had learned about that list.
The list that had changed his life.
For better and for worse.
“All right then,” he said, wishing he could beg off but not wanting to offend his mother.
He limped his way down the path, stepped onto the terrace, and lowered himself onto a seat.
“I’m not surprised yer leg’s paining ye,” Mairi said as she settled herself down opposite, arranging her skirts. “That was quite a climb ye managed yesterday. We’re all impressed.”
He gave a soft snort, taking the cup she now offered him. He swallowed a gulp and then passed it back to her. “Ye know how pigheaded I am,” he said with a rueful smile. “I wasn’t about to let a mountain beat me.”
His mother’s lips quirked. “Yer stubbornness does ye credit, Greig.” She hesitated then. “Sometimes.”
Greig tensed. Now that his mother had him alone, she perhaps had some things she wished to share with him.
His pulse quickened.
Cods. He should have gone straight to his bedchamber.
He didn’t want a sermon from his mother today—not in his current mood.
She meant well, of course she did, and he respected her. But like most mothers, she sometimes forgot that her son was all grown up now and didn’t need her to bandage his hurts and kiss them better.
Sometimes a man was faced with a mess of his own making, and only he could put it right.
And he’d have to find a way to fix things with Brìghde.
The lass needed another apology, not for him taking liberties on the summit of Ben More, but for making her think that she was undesirable.
He had seen it in her eyes. She thought he was rejecting her as a woman.
And since the whole of Duart knew her as the Forge Maiden, where some men sniggered behind her back, and the likes of Ian Maclean tried to force her into a role she didn’t want, it was hardly surprising that she’d reacted as she did.
No, he’d have to find a way to make her understand that wasn’t the case.
All of this was on him, not her.
“Why are ye pushing yerself so?” Mairi asked then, eyeing him over the rim of the cup.
Greig hesitated. His parents still didn’t know about the list. Even Davy had kept his mouth shut. Neither brother wanted to hurt their mother or dredge up her sorrow once more. And yet, at the same time, she deserved to know.
Perhaps it might even make things better in some way.
Taking the cup from her once more, he drank deeply.
And then, he told his mother all of it. The only thing he left out was the mess he’d made of things with Brìghde. Some things didn’t need to be shared.
As he talked, his mother’s gaze shadowed. Tears brimmed in her eyes.
Greig’s chest constricted. Maybe this wasn’t a wise idea.
“All of this has been in Al’s honor,” he said finally, his voice roughening.
“I made him a promise … and it’s helped me too.
In truth, I’ve enjoyed fulfilling his wishes more than I thought I would.
” He paused then, thinking of Brìghde. “Although it has complicated things … and humbled me too.” His words were cryptic, yet he didn’t wish to say anything about the Forge Maiden.
A brittle silence fell then. His mother stared at him for a moment longer, her throat working. And then, to his shock, her shoulders heaved.
Burying her face in her hands, she began to sob loudly.
Christ. Greig set down the cup and moved to her side. He hesitated—then swore under his breath and pulled her into his arms.
Mairi leaned into him, her weeping louder now.
“Ah, hell,” he said, his voice roughening. “I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“Daft lad,” she hiccoughed. “Ye should have told me before now … aye, it upsets me to talk of Al … but I think what ye’ve done is … beautiful. I’m so proud of ye.”
She gasped then, grabbing his gambeson in fists as she continued to sob.
“I always wanted ye to be closer to yer brothers, ye know,” she managed through her tears. “Ye used to be so … distant with them. And to honor Alistair in this way …”
Greig’s throat started to ache, and the backs of his eyes prickled.
Shite.
His mother’s words brought him to the edge. He hadn’t wept since boyhood—not even after news of Alistair’s death—but he came close now.
His vision blurred, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. “Ye are right,” he admitted, his voice catching, betraying him. “I never spent enough time with Al. But I won’t make the same mistake with Davy. I swear it.”
And he wouldn’t. He’d already been making sure of that.
“Ye’re a good lad, Greig.”
Hiccoughing once more, his mother drew back, knuckling away her tears. Her eyes were red, her face blotchy. Yet, to him, she was beautiful. She always had been.
“Ye will make a strong clan-chief one day, ye know,” she added, favoring him with a tremulous smile.
Greig swallowed hard, pride burning in his chest. However, a moment later, he thought of Brìghde once more. “Will I?”
His mother’s head inclined, her dark gaze searching. “Is something wrong?”
He shook his head, reaching out and taking her hands in his, squeezing gently. “Nothing that can’t be mended.”