Chapter 21
“COME ON, DA … let’s get ye home before the real madness begins.”
Brìghde looped her arm through her father’s, guiding him from the crowds.
It was still as busy as ever. The strength contests had ended, but there were still some competitions to complete, including the horse and foot races.
Nonetheless, it was growing late in the day.
Soon, servants would roll out barrels of ale, mead, and wine from the castle, and the cooks would bring forth the feast they’d spent the last couple of days preparing.
Once the last of the contests ended, revelry would begin—and would go long into the night.
Brìghde wouldn’t attend.
She wouldn’t join the lads and lasses of Duart as they drank, danced, and flirted.
The Forge Maiden didn’t belong in such revelry.
Eòghan didn’t join Brìghde and her parents as they walked back to the village. Instead, he lingered with his friends, who were now downing ales.
However, many of the older folk were also retiring for the day, one or two leaning heavily on sticks. One cut Brìghde a surprised look. “Ye shouldn’t be going home this early, lass,” she called. “Put on a pretty kirtle and join the others.”
Brìghde waved her away, focusing instead on her parents.
“She’s right, ye know,” her father said gruffly. “Ye are only young once.”
Brìghde shrugged. “Aye, but it’s been a long day. I’m tired, and I’m happy to go home.”
That wasn’t the truth, though. As she’d left the games, a pang of longing had assailed her; a wish that she’d chosen an easier path. But then, she reminded herself that running her father’s forge hadn’t exactly been a choice, but a necessity.
It wasn’t that she hated the job—she didn’t.
Nonetheless, it was grueling, and if she were honest, she’d been tiring of making hinges, horseshoes, and tools of late.
The jewelry she’d crafted over the past year was something else, though.
She’d loved working on each piece—Greig’s ring, especially—and was already thinking about the next item she’d attempt: a necklace.
She had a garnet she’d picked up in Craignure the year before.
It would be perfect, inlaid with silver. And maybe she’d keep it for herself.
Seeing that they were wasting their breath trying to convince their stubborn daughter otherwise, her parents stopped trying to get her to return to the revelry.
Together, the trio made their way through the scattering of thatch-roofed bothies to where theirs sat on the southern outskirts of the village.
Once indoors, Ada poured them all cups of refreshing ale and roused the fire’s embers. “I hope Eòghan doesn’t get up to mischief,” she grumbled as she bustled about, going through her usual evening routine, while Brìghde and her father looked on from the fireside.
“Hopefully not,” Brìghde replied with a shrug, “but he’s getting to an age where ye can expect such things.”
“I was the same as a lad,” Breac admitted then, his wide mouth tilting at the corners. “The Harvest Games were my favorite day of the year.”
Brìghde smiled back, knowing he couldn’t see her, and placed a hand on his arm. Despite that he hadn’t swung a hammer in a while, it was still brawny. “Ye’d have bested them all in the strength contests today,” she said sincerely. Aye, his sight had been taken, but he was still fearsomely strong.
However, her father just gave a slightly wistful laugh. “Maybe, lass, maybe.” He yawned then. “The day’s worn me out. I’m off to bed.”
“Go on then, mo chridhe,” his wife said. “I’ll join ye soon enough.”
He nodded, rising to his feet. Then, moving by instinct rather than sight, he slowly made his way around the fire and across to where the heavy curtain of sheepskins shielded the sleeping area for her parents.
In the beginning, when he lost his sight, they’d had to guide him there.
But these days, in such a small space, he knew the way.
Disappearing behind the hanging, Brìghde heard her father moving around, and then silence. And all the while, she sat sipping her ale slowly, staring at the glowing embers in the hearth.
“Ye really shouldn’t be here with us, Brìghde,” her mother said, leaning in.
Brìghde’s chin kicked up, irritation sparking through her. “Leave it, Ma. I’ve already told ye—”
“Enough of that.” Her mother cut her off with a wave of her hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with ye these days. It’s as if ye think ye don’t deserve to be out there enjoying yerself like others yer age.”
“Maybe I don’t,” Brìghde shot back, her anger rising now, “because I’m not like other lasses, am I? I’m the Forge Maiden. A great, hulking thing that swings a hammer for a living.”
Her mother stilled at this, her eyes drawing wide. “Do ye think that makes ye undesirable?”
“Of course, it does,” Brìghde snapped, her patience fraying. She wasn’t in the mood to have this conversation. “Look at me.” She raised a scarred, calloused hand. Her lip curled then. “Only bloody Ian Maclean has ever shown any interest.”
He’s not the only one, a voice whispered. Greig did.
A familiar ache twinged deep in her chest at the thought of him.
God. Would this ever get easier?
“And I’ve already told ye I’ll never wed Ian,” she plowed on. “And I mean it.”
“I know,” her mother replied, placating now. “There’s no need to get upset.”
Brìghde’s throat tightened. It was too late for that. It all felt like too much this evening, and her mother was just unwittingly rubbing salt in the wounds.
Silence fell, swelling between them before Ada cleared her throat. “Ye’re wrong, ye know, Brì. Ye are bonnie. And the fact that ye stand out from the other lasses isn’t the curse ye think it is.”
Brìghde gave a rude snort. That was easy for her mother to say. She was a foot shorter than her.
“It’s just that ye spend yer days in work clothes, yer hair scraped back, covered in ash and soot. It does ye no favors, lass,” her mother added.
“That doesn’t matter,” Brìghde replied, her fingers clenching around her cup.
She needed to let this go.
Another silence followed before Ada suddenly rose from her stool. “I have a gift for ye,” she murmured.
Brìghde’s spine stiffened, her gaze tracking her as she went to the far corner of the bothy and pulled out a wooden box from underneath a work table, removing something from within—a garment.
Her mother held it up, unraveling it before her. It was a splendid blue-grey kirtle made of wool and trimmed with gold ribbon.
Brìghde’s breath caught. “Ma,” she whispered. “Where did ye get that?”
Her mother’s lips curved. “I made it with my own hands. I’ve been working on it for a while … for when ye were ready to be seen.”
Brìghde’s brow furrowed. “When exactly?”
Ada’s smile widened. “Ye spend most of the day ensconced in that forge, lass, unaware that I’ve been sewing diligently every afternoon … making a fine kirtle for my daughter.”
Brìghde stared back at her, momentarily struck speechless.
Her throat tightened then. Never had her mother made such a gesture.
Despite everything, longing rose in her chest. What would it be like to wear such a beautiful dress, to have admiring eyes upon her?
The wool looked soft, too fine for her hands. But surely, she—
She caught herself then, heat igniting in her belly.
“Am I not enough as I am, Ma?” Her voice hardened. “Ye are trying to make me into something I’m not.”
Ada’s eyes snapped wide, taken aback by her daughter’s response. “It’s just a kirtle,” she replied, hurt creeping into her voice. “Other lasses get to wear pretty things … why not ye?”
Brìghde’s throat started to ache. “I’ve already told ye, I’m not like them.”
Her mother’s gaze roamed her face, her features softening. “Och, ye won’t be the Forge Maiden forever, Brìghde. Ye’re a woman too … and that’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
They stared at each other for a long moment.
Brìghde was the first to lower her gaze.
This kirtle was symbolic, and they both knew it. If she put it on, she’d be accepting something she didn’t wish to: that control of the forge was slipping through her fingers.
Her brother had been working alongside her for over a year now. His apprenticeship was going well. Eòghan learned faster than she had, and it wouldn’t be long before he was the smiddy of Duart.
“Ye need to look to yer future now,” Ada added softly.
“Yer da and I, although we’ve never said anything …
we are sorry that ye had to shoulder so much responsibility so fast. It robbed ye of a special time, but …
” Her mother paused, her eyes so kind the tightness in Brìghde’s throat formed a lump. “Ye still have time to start again.”
“Ma,” she said huskily. “I don’t know what to say.”
Ada smiled. “No answer is needed. However, know this … wearing a pretty kirtle doesn’t diminish ye.” She then thrust the dress at her. “Go on. Put it on, and I’ll fix yer hair. Ye’re going back out there.”
Brìghde’s heart kicked. “No, Ma, I—”
“Enough of this,” her mother cut in, a stubborn look settling on her features. “I didn’t work until my fingers bled to have ye refuse me.”
Brìghde’s heart bucked.
Her mother was stooping to manipulation now. If Brìghde didn’t attend the revelry of her own volition, she’d shame her into going.
“Come.” Ada thrust the dress out at her once more. “The night has already begun, and ye don’t want to miss out on any more of it.”
Brìghde’s belly churned as she made her way through the village, back to the hilltop.
Her mother had been right; the revelry was well underway now.
The strains of a Highland pipe echoed through the night, laughter and singing accompanying it.
She inhaled the aroma of roasting meat and passed a ring of burning braziers that had been lit around the edge of the revelry.
However, at that point, she slowed and stopped, her nerves getting the better of her.
Smoothing her damp palms on her skirts, she looked down. The kirtle fit perfectly—of course it did. Her mother was a talented seamstress. The gown had bell-shaped sleeves and a low neck, more daring than any of her other kirtles. Underneath it, she wore a plain cream lèine.
She felt strangely exposed, clad like this, suddenly wishing she were back in her forge in her usual drab attire, wearing her leather apron like armor.
Aye, she supposed that’s how she had used it—as a shield against the world.
She wasn’t used to wearing her hair like this either. Her mother had taken it out of its braid and brushed it until it crackled. It now hung straight, flowing over her shoulders and down her back.
What are ye going to do? she chided herself then. Stand here like a half-wit all night?
She couldn’t go home. Her mother would just send her right back out again. And she couldn’t remain here either. She was standing on the threshold, and she had to step over it.
Around her, the crowd heaved. Many lads and lasses were dancing, while other folk sat on upturned buckets, the tree trunks that had been used for the Caber Toss, and barrels, drinking, eating, and laughing.
She spied the clan-chief himself, seated at a trestle table with his wife at the far end, goblets of wine before them.
They both looked relaxed, at ease, and Brìghde was pleased.
The Macleans of Duart had suffered after losing Alistair, and although the grief still lingered, life moved on. It always did.
Her gaze searched the crowd then. The three high-born lasses she’d spied earlier in the day were dancing, their laughter ringing high into the air. Davy waited a few yards away with a couple of other lads, eyeing them.
Greig observed the dancing as well. He was standing next to the Steward of Ardnacross and his wife. The latter carried a bairn in a sling across her chest. The three of them were deep in conversation, and Brìghde’s curiosity sparked.
Greig looked relaxed as he talked to Ailean Maclean. Clearly, he was a friend.
Nonetheless, she was relieved that Greig was distracted.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t realize she’d joined the revelry.
Squaring her shoulders, she stepped forward, moving through the crowd.
However, her path took her past a group of men. One of them was Nicol, the groom who’d smirked at her earlier in the day.
This time, he and his companions openly gawked at her.
Her skin prickled. She didn’t appreciate their stares.
Recovering from his shock, Nicol glanced over at his friends.
“Look at that, lads … the Forge Maiden has dressed herself up.” His lip curled then as he dragged his gaze down the length of her once more.
“Don’t know why she bothered. Ye can drape a plow horse in a fine caparison … but it’s still a plow horse.”
Coarse laughter followed this comment, and Brìghde flushed hot.
Bastards.
Not checking her stride, she kept moving.
A short while later, she approached one of the local women who were pouring ale from a barrel. Unlike Nicol and his friends, Lilith didn’t look at her with scorn.
Instead, she flashed her a wide smile. “Good to see ye here, Brìghde. A cup of ale for ye?”
“Aye. Thank ye,” Brìghde replied, awkwardness stealing over her.
Christ. She wished she didn’t feel so self-conscious.
“Ye look fair indeed tonight, lass,” Lilith said, handing her a cup. “Especially without soot all over yer face, for once.”
Managing a laugh, Brìghde took the cup and moved on, rejoining the crowd, and as she threaded her way through it, she was aware that Nicol and his friends weren’t the only men who’d noticed her.
It was a relief to see that many cast her admiring rather than scornful looks.
Nonetheless, she wasn’t sure she enjoyed their appraisal. Aye, her drab clothes and leather apron had been a shield indeed. Over the years, there had been solace in being treated like a man.
Feeling exposed, as if she were walking naked through their midst, she made her way to a spot where she could watch the dancing.
Two lasses her own age greeted her shyly.
Brìghde smiled back. “Lovely eve.”
“That’s a bonnie kirtle,” one of them complimented her.
“I love what ye have done with yer hair,” said the other.
Brìghde’s cheeks grew warm. She didn’t know what to do with their kindness.
Hades. This was a new land she was navigating.