Chapter 19
brìGHDE WAS SHOWING her brother how to fold and hammer steel for a sgian-dubh blade when Greig turned up at the forge.
The sight of him made her heart jolt.
In truth, she hadn’t expected him to show his face here, not for a while at least.
A week had passed since they’d climbed Ben More, since the kiss that had changed everything between them. And in the intervening days, she’d thrown herself into her work.
She wasn’t ready to see him again.
But there he was, standing in the doorway to her forge, his broad shoulders blocking out the pale sunlight.
The day was grey, and the clouds hung low over Duart.
The light that streamed in through the open door had grown weaker as the afternoon drew on, and when Eòghan had gone out to fill the slack tub earlier, he’d warned of storm clouds rolling in from the west. As such, they’d lit lanterns inside to give them enough light to work by.
The warm glow of the firelight kissed the proud lines of Greig’s face.
He wore a somber expression, his big body tense.
Worry fluttered up as Brìghde straightened and turned to face him fully. “Is something amiss, Maclean?”
He shook his head. “I was passing by and thought we might have a talk.” His gaze flicked then to where Eòghan had also straightened up from the anvil and was now observing him with unabashed curiosity. “Alone.”
Brìghde stiffened. Her first impulse was to deny him.
Just the sight of him made the world tilt slightly.
Being alone with him was a bad idea.
Yet, when she didn’t answer, he folded his arms across his broad chest, his lips pursing slightly. The man looked as if he was readying himself for a fight.
Lord, she wanted to give him one. But she was also aware of Eòghan’s sharp curiosity. His attention flicked between them, as if he too could taste the palpable tension.
Temper smoldering, Brìghde caught her brother’s eye. “We’re done here,” she said, digging into the purse on her belt and handing him half a penny. “Go and get yerself an ale. The alewife will have opened up by now.”
Her brother hesitated, leery of leaving her, and yet at the same time pleased that he’d been allowed to finish early and been given money for ale. She had never done so before, telling him he was too young to drink with the others at the alewife’s.
Decision made, Eòghan’s fingers closed around the coin, and he moved on, giving Greig a nod as the clan-chief’s heir stepped aside to let him pass. “Maclean.”
“Eòghan.” Greig’s lips tilted at the corners. “Enjoy yer ale.”
A moment later, the lad had gone, and silence settled in the forge.
Reaching for a cloth, Brìghde wiped her sooty fingers clean. “What is it, Maclean?”
She was aware her tone was less than friendly, but the man put her on edge. What did they have to say to each other?
“Maclean, is it now?” he said, approaching her. His limp was better today, she noted. He’d clearly been resting it. Wise, for he needed that leg to be strong in preparation for the Games. She caught herself then, vexed that she marked such things. That she cared.
Ye are nothing to the man, and he should mean nothing to ye.
They were hollow words, though. That was the problem, wasn’t it? She couldn’t remain impartial where Greig was concerned.
“I prefer it when ye call me by my given name,” he said, halting around three feet from her. “I thought we were friends, at least.”
She couldn’t help it. Her lip curled. Friends? That made it sound like they were equals. And clearly they were not. “And yer reason for visiting me, Greig?”
At three feet away, it felt as if the forge had shrunk. This man had such a powerful presence. Having him stand this near seemed to suck the air right out of her lungs. Dizziness assailed her.
Glancing down, she caught a glint of silver upon his right hand.
Her heart bucked. The ring. He was wearing it.
Flustered, she jerked her chin up, meeting his eye.
“I wanted to look in on ye,” he said, his expression sobering once more, “to make sure all was well.”
“And clearly, ye can see everything is.”
He stepped closer. “Everything appears to be.”
He was far too near now, and Brìghde moved back, coming up short when the backs of her thighs hit the solid bulk of the anvil. The cold iron bit through her skirts as she backed into it—nowhere left to go. Cods. He had her cornered.
“I’m afraid I hurt ye the other day,” he said then, lowering his voice, as if worried they might be overheard.
And indeed, the door to the forge was open.
Anyone could walk by. Anyone could drop in to ask Brìghde to do a job.
He was taking a risk, even after sending Eòghan away, speaking to her like this.
“Ye didn’t,” she lied, clinging to the pretense that she didn’t care.
“Be honest with me,” he replied, his gaze locking with hers. “I handled things badly up on Ben More” —he exhaled sharply— “Ye deserve better.”
“Such things happen,” she said, lifting her chin. “Ye got carried away by the moment. We both did. Ye were just being frank afterward. It was a mistake. Men like ye don’t get tangled up with women like me. I know that well enough.”
His peat-brown eyes shadowed, and he took yet another step toward her. And suddenly, they stood just a foot apart. This close, the heat of his body wrapped itself around her. Brìghde’s breathing grew shallow as she inhaled his scent.
And then, on instinct, she raised her hand and pressed it to his chest. Despite the cool day, he dressed lightly. No gambeson, just a lèine tucked loosely into his braies. The heat of his skin through the thin material scalded her palm.
She’d put her hand out to keep him at bay, but the moment her palm met his chest, heat flared up her arm—too familiar, too dangerous.
It reminded her of their sensual embrace and how she’d touched him then.
“Ye shouldn’t be here … not like this.” Her voice hitched, betraying her. Suddenly, courage faltered. She wasn’t fooling him anyway.
“Listen to me, Brìghde,” he said, his voice firming. “I’m sorry I overstepped, that I took something I had no right to. But don’t think I turned from ye because I didn’t want ye. It’s nothing personal … it’s just …”
Her fingers curled into a fist, clutching the material of his lèine.
“Leave this be, Greig.” She sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to hold his eye. “Ye are only making things more awkward between us. Ye should go.”
A nerve jumped in his cheek then, his lips parting as if he was going to argue with her.
But he didn’t.
A heartbeat passed, and then his gaze dropped to where her hand still clung to his lèine.
“Very well … have it yer way, lass.” His attention flicked up then, a rueful half-smile quirking his lips, even as his eyes remained shadowed.
“Although, if ye want me to leave … ye’d better release yer death grip on me. ”
Heat flushed across her chest. Hades.
Letting go, she snatched her hand back as if burned.
Brìghde walked through the gathering crowd, breathing in the scent of crushed grass and the aroma of frying bannock.
Bunting fluttered around her, strung between poles shoved into the ground. Her gaze slid over the small pavilions that lined the wide, flat hilltop just north of the castle and village where the folk of Duart celebrated all their fire festivals, gatherings, and games.
The end of August had arrived, and with it the Harvest Games.
Duart Bay was just below. This close to the cliffs, she could hear the rumble of the surf and the crash of the waves on the rocks beneath the fortress.
However, a piper struck up a rousing tune then, drowning the sounds out.
Despite that her mood was low this morning, despite that she’d been tempted to let everyone else enjoy the Games and seek refuge in her forge instead, her mouth curved.
It was a treat, indeed, to have a day off work—usually the Sabbath was her only break.
The harvest was done, and the folk of Duart had labored hard. It was time to celebrate their work.
Halting, Brìghde cast her gaze around the hillside.
Everything had been set out the day before, in readiness for today.
Rings for each of the strength competitions lay on the eastern edge of the space.
Targets for the archery competitions had been rolled in too.
A heavy rope lay coiled, ready for the Tug o’ War.
Already, crowds were forming around some of the rings, men, women, and bairns jostling to get the best view.
She wished to hang back, lest Greig spied her. And yet a part of her fought the urge.
They’d avoided each other since his visit to the forge weeks earlier. Nonetheless, she wanted to see him compete. Succeed. He’d worked so hard to regain his strength over the last year.
She walked by a group of men then—servants who worked within the castle. They were ribbing each other, taking wagers over who’d win the upcoming contests.
A couple of them glanced her way then. She marked their smirks.
She recognized both men. Nicol and Kenneth. A groom and a carpenter. When she was younger, they’d both teased her mercilessly. These days, they did little more than sneer.
Nicol nudged Kenneth then, both grinning as if they shared a private jest at her expense.
Dismissing them, she looked around, catching sight of her brother.
Eòghan was talking with his friends—a group of local lads—who were all showing a lot of interest in the Tug o’ War. It was tradition that the men of the village took on the Duart Guard in a contest. Until now, Eòghan had been too young to compete, but not this year.
Her breathing grew shallow. Aye, her wee brother was growing up. Soon enough, his voice would break, and his jaw would sprout whiskers.
Soon, her parents would expect her to find a husband.
She spied Ian then, flexing his muscles next to the Caber Toss ring. A row of trimmed tree trunks sat there, awaiting the competitors.
Ian turned then, his gaze spearing her across the crowd. A slow smile tugged at his lips, as if he thought she’d been admiring him. He flexed again, slower this time—making sure she saw.
Scowling, Brìghde yanked her attention away. Vain peacock.
Her belly sank then.
The last thing she needed was Ian pursuing her again.
Walking on, she saw the clan-chief himself had joined the crowd; a sign that the competitions were about to kick off. Loch Maclean walked tall and proud, his wife on his arm.
Brìghde tracked them, marking the way Loch looked at Mairi then, his gaze warm. Reaching out, he brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
An ache rose under Brìghde’s breastbone.
What would it be like to have a man look at her like that?
The Lady of Duart was fortunate indeed.
The clan-chief’s two surviving sons walked behind their parents, striking and darkly handsome.
Brìghde’s chest started to ache.
Greig walked straighter than she’d ever seen him since his maiming. Aye, his limp was still there—he’d never lose it—but it no longer defined him. The year before, he’d hunched over that stick, shoulders rounded, as if he carried the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
Not this morning.
And even though looking upon him hurt, seeing him look so fit and strong again made warmth suffuse her.
Greig Maclean would indeed one day lead their clan.
The world had tried to best him, but he’d fought back. He’d proven he was stronger than the blade that had maimed him. He was a survivor.
How she respected him for that.
Her breathing caught then, realization slamming into her.
Her chest tightened.
This wasn’t admiration anymore.
It hadn’t been for some time.
Somehow, she’d fallen in love with him.
Sweat dampened her skin. Her pulse hammered in her ears.
This was a terrible mistake.
And worse—she wasn’t sure she could stop it.
Feeling sick, she moved forward, joining the crowd that had gathered around the Caber Toss ring, where the first of the contests was about to begin.
Fortunately, Greig hadn’t seen her as he took his place amongst the contestants.
Each man stood before his log, waiting for the clan-chief to make his announcement. The Highland pipe died, the rush of the wind and the pounding of waves below the castle intruding, before Loch Maclean’s voice carried across the crowd.
“The grain is in. The work is done … now, show me what ye’re made of.” He paused then, a smile tugging at his lips. “Let the Games begin!”
A roar went up, shaking the sky.