Chapter 20
GREIG DIDN’T WIN the Caber Toss.
Ian Maclean did.
Brìghde clenched her teeth as the farmer, still out of breath from flipping the caber so it turned cleanly and fell straight ahead, raised his arms in victory.
Greig stood a few yards back, his face giving nothing away.
That relieved Brìghde.
She should have known though that Greig Maclean was not a man who faltered.
Bouts of wrestling followed.
Greig did well, although his leg had him at a distinct disadvantage. One of the Duart Guard—a beast of a warrior named Errol—won in the end. Nonetheless, Greig had lasted until the final rounds.
As, to Brìghde’s chagrin, had Ian. The man was everywhere—winning, grinning, impossible to ignore.
There was a break in the strength competitions after that, for the archery contest to take place.
Brìghde drew away briefly, getting herself a bannock smeared with butter and heather honey to eat while she watched the archery.
Davy Maclean was competing in this one, and he was good, Brìghde noted.
Several lasses gathered at the ringside to watch him as he made his way through the various rounds.
Among them, Brìghde spied three high-born lasses.
They stood out at once in their bright silks, with their soft hands and effortless grace.
One was tall with fiery red hair, another was small and curvaceous, her black hair falling in heavy waves down her back.
And the third was another dark-haired but lissome lass with laughing blue eyes.
“Who are they?” she whispered to her brother as he joined her to watch the archery.
“One of the lads in the Guard just told me,” Eòghan replied. A blush rose to his cheeks as his gaze swept over the lasses. “The redhead is Lady Arabella Maclean of Dounarwyse, the short one is Lady Kenna Black of Croggan … and that slender lass is Lady Lena Maclean of Moy.”
Eòghan broke off then, staring at Lady Lena as if he’d just been clubbed around the head.
Brìghde’s lips curved into a half-smile. She knew that look. It seemed that her wee brother was experiencing his first real infatuation. Too bad, it was for a lass far above his rank. Although she’d never met any of these ladies, she recognized the names.
Lady Lena was sister to Craeg Maclean, the Chieftain of Moy.
“I haven’t seen the chieftains of Moy, Croggan, or Dounarwyse here,” she said, glancing around her.
“Ye won’t,” her brother replied, his gaze never leaving Lena as she threw back her head and laughed at something Kenna had just said.
“Word is, with the MacDonald threat, the lairds have all decided to stay home and mind their own strongholds.” He pointed then to where a tall auburn-haired man stood with a fair-haired woman with a swollen belly on the far side of the archery ring.
“The steward of Ardnacross is here though.”
Brìghde viewed the couple with interest. “Ailean Maclean?”
“Aye … that’s him.”
She nodded before her attention drifted back to the three ladies.
They were all beautiful—each in different ways—each so feminine in their pretty surcotes and kirtles. But it was as if they hailed from a different world from Brìghde.
She glanced down then at her hands.
Scarred from the forge. Calloused. They were long-fingered and strong. Not dainty and better suited for embroidery and weaving. Among them, she would look like what she was: a blacksmith with soot beneath her nails.
A roar went up then, and she jerked her gaze back to the competition. Davy had won the archery. The other contestants slapped his back, and he grinned, before flashing a cocky smile in the direction of the three ladies.
“Come on, Brì.” Eòghan grabbed her by the arm and hauled her left. “The Clach Neart is next.”
She let him lead her back to the strength contest rings, her belly tightening.
She wasn’t ready to see Greig again.
However, Eòghan now pushed his way to the front, elbowing other lads out of the way so that he and Brìghde got a good view.
Greig took his place amongst the line, although she noted his limp was a little more pronounced now.
The physicality of the wrestling had taken its toll.
The Clach Neart wouldn’t pit him against his adversaries so brutally though.
Instead, the ‘stone of strength’ required him to throw a heavy stone.
As he stood there, stretching his shoulders to loosen the muscles while the first men in the line took their turns, Greig’s gaze traveled across the crowd.
Brìghde’s pulse stuttered when it rested on her.
And then, to her surprise, he smiled.
It wasn’t the first time his smile devastated her, but the way he did so now was as if he’d been waiting all morning to see her.
Of course, she told herself he hadn’t.
For a heartbeat, it was as if the rest of the crowd had fallen away.
Swallowing hard, Brìghde nodded back. She then mouthed, “Good luck.”
His lips quirked once more. Turning away, he picked up the stone he would hurl.
And as Brìghde waited for him to take his turn, her pulse quickened. Hades. Why was she so nervous? Why did it matter so much to her?
Ian, curse him, was also taking part. He took his turn then, throwing his stone the farthest yet. And then, Greig was up.
The crowd waited, breathless, as he drew his arm back and then threw.
The stone struck the earth—level with Ian’s.
Disappointment punched Brìghde in the belly. So close … only one more chance.
The crowd groaned. Ian growled a curse. However, Greig gave little away.
“The Clach Cuid Fir will test them.” A man standing nearby announced. “Let’s see if the chief’s son can manage it … with that leg of his.”
Heat ignited under Brìghde’s ribs. “He will,” she snapped. Her comment drew curious looks from those standing nearby, but she didn’t care. They might doubt Greig, yet she didn’t.
The ‘Manhood Stone Lift’ was what he’d been training for over the past weeks.
These stones were huge, sitting ready in the next ring. A sturdy four-foot wall with a granite top had been built next to them—the contestants all had to lift their stone onto it. Quite a feat.
The men moved next door, each taking their place, followed by the crowd. In this contest, all of them would start at the same time. The first man to raise his stone to the ledge cleanly would take the honor.
Brìghde’s belly tightened. He’d yet to win one of the strength contests. This was his last chance. Come on, Greig. Show them yer mettle.
The clan-chief moved forward then, raising his hand to quiet the crowd and let the contestants know the test was about to begin.
Greig bent his knees, his hands fastening on the stone.
Brìghde, critical as ever, studied his posture. Back straight, knees bent. Perfect, just as they’d practiced.
“Ready yerselves, lads,” Loch Maclean said then. “And … lift!”
All six men taking part tensed their bodies. Jaws locking. Lips compressing. And then, they heaved.
Just as they’d practiced, Greig drove upward through his legs, keeping his back straight.
Slowly, his stone lifted—as did Ian’s beside him.
One of the men cursed then as he dropped his stone and narrowly avoided crushing his own foot. Greig paid the noise no mind though. The veins on his temples stood out as he lifted the heavy stone higher still.
And then, as the crowd whooped, it rose sharply and slammed onto the stone ledge.
A heartbeat before Ian’s did.
The crowd went wild, whooping cutting through the air.
Brìghde couldn’t help it. She was amongst them, jumping and clapping.
He’d done it.
He’d won.
Opposite her, on the other edge of the ring, Loch and Mairi applauded with everyone else, grins splitting their faces.
Ian looked as if he’d just supped on sour milk as he braced his hands on his thighs, struggling to regain his breath. Yet Greig paid him no mind. Chest rising and falling sharply, he placed a hand on the stone and spread his fingers over it.
Almost as if he was making a prayer or giving thanks.
A moment later, his gaze lifted and shifted.
To Brìghde.
And only then did he smile. Not for the crowd, but for her.