Chapter 22
“WHAT A BONNIE bairn,” Greig said, peering down at the babe sleeping against Fiona’s breast. “Although she’s got her father’s hair … poor lass.”
Ailean snorted. “What’s wrong with that?”
Fiona laughed, her eyes sparkling with mirth at her husband’s affronted look. “Och,” she murmured, reaching up and brushing a lock of auburn hair from her husband’s brow. “Nothing, my love.”
Watching Ailean and Fiona’s gazes meet and hold for a heartbeat, Greig suddenly felt as if he was intruding.
Right from the first time he’d seen the two of them together, the Yule before last, he’d marked the bond between them. Like his parents, they didn’t seem to need words to communicate.
Once glance was often enough.
Ailean looked Greig’s way then, favoring him with a smug smile. “See, Fi doesn’t mind.”
Greig snorted. “Aye, well, let’s hope wee Catriona takes after her sweet-tempered mother, and not her fickle father.”
Ailean landed a playful punch on his arm, while Fiona laughed again. Her eyes were bright, there was color in her cheeks, and the light of the braziers ringing the revelry made her hair glow gold. She looked like a woman in love, and she was.
Next to her, Ailean shone with pride.
Greig couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy at their joy, at how well-matched they were.
His gaze lowered once more to the sleeping bairn. He’d have thought the din of the Highland pipe and the squeals of the lasses dancing nearby might have woken Catriona, yet she didn’t stir.
Over the years, he’d had little interest in babies, but this one fascinated him.
Indeed, she had an angelic face, with dark auburn curls covering her scalp.
“I’m happy for ye both,” Greig said then, sobering. He enjoyed teasing his friend, yet he also wanted them to know he was no longer filled with bitterness and resentment. The last time they’d spent time together, he’d been miserable company.
Fiona’s cheeks dimpled as she favored him with another smile. “Thank ye, Greig,” she murmured. “That means much.”
“Aye, it does.” Ailean reached out once more, but instead of punching him, he squeezed Greig’s shoulder.
An awkward silence followed then. Greig wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t used to displays of emotion. And neither was Ailean. They both shifted awkwardly.
Eventually, Fiona cleared her throat. “Please excuse me, lads … I wish to have a word with Arabella. I shall leave ye to catch up.”
With that, she moved off, heading toward where young Arabella Maclean had just seated herself upon a stool, breathing hard after a rousing jig. Pulling up a stool next to her, the two dove into conversation.
The two friends stood quietly together for a short while before Greig eventually turned to Ailean. “Life at Ardnacross appears to suit ye both.”
“Aye,” Ailean replied with a smile. “The building work seems never-ending, but at least the tower is habitable now. And I’ve taken on some villagers as servants, so we don’t need to do everything ourselves anymore.”
“Has yer father accepted that ye don’t wish to inherit Dounarwyse?” Greig asked then. It still shocked him that Ailean had refused to have his title restored. Greig couldn’t ever imagine relinquishing such a position.
But then, they were very different men.
Ailean had always been wilder than him—a man who wanted to seek his own path rather than follow in the footsteps of others.
Greig, on the other hand, despite everything that had happened to him, knew that he was meant to become clan-chief.
Aye, he’d despaired for a while, believing he was too broken to rule, but these days he was rallying.
He wouldn’t give his birthright up. His role as marshal was helping prepare him to one day step into his father’s boots.
“Da grumbles a bit sometimes, but we both know the truth of it,” Ailean replied. “My brother will make a fine chieftain, and I am happy at Ardnacross.” His lips quirked. “I like being my own man. Ye know that.”
Greig had to laugh. He did.
Ailean cast an appraising eye over him. “But I must say, ye almost look yer old self. And yer performance in the strength contests today was impressive indeed.”
“Ye saw that, did ye?” Greig said, pride swelling in his chest.
It had been a tough round of contests, and Ian Maclean had been a worthy adversary. He’d started to worry he might not win one of the competitions, but in the end, Greig had done Alistair’s memory proud.
“I did … and I’m relieved to see that ye have rallied.” His expression softened then. “I was worried about ye, Greig.”
The two friends’ gazes met. It was a rare moment.
Clearing his throat, Greig swung his gaze away. “Losing Alistair brought me to a crossroads,” he said gruffly. “I had a choice, I suppose.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed now. “Lie down and let it take me … or fight.”
“Well, I’m glad ye chose the latter,” Ailean replied, his voice solemn now.
Greig nodded, his embarrassment growing. Usually, he and Ailean bantered, teasing each other, so talking about practical matters felt strange.
Still avoiding his friend’s eye, he kept his attention on the crowd.
It was a lively scene. His brother and some of the other lads watched a couple of lasses who danced to the piper, with hungry looks.
The lasses in question—Lena Maclean and Kenna Black, both looking frighteningly grown up these days—laughed as they danced, seemingly oblivious to the attention they were attracting.
Greig's gaze slid over the edge of the crowd to where his parents sat. Loch had slung his arm protectively over Mairi’s shoulders.
Warmth suffused Greig’s chest. It was good to see his parents out here as well, enjoying the music and cheer.
He then swept his attention over the sea of men and women before coming to an abrupt halt.
Brìghde.
Tall and regal, and wearing a lovely blue-grey gown that clung to her strong body, her white-blonde hair streaming over her shoulders, she was dancing with Ranald, a warrior who served in the Duart Guard.
Ranald spun Brìghde around so that her full skirts billowed around her ankles and then put a steadying hand on her back. Greig’s heart began to thud against his ribs.
Jealousy knifed him right through the gut.
How dare the bastard touch her?
“Who’s that, then?”
Greig jerked his gaze away from Brìghde. “What?”
“The woman ye’re staring at. I haven’t seen her before.”
Greig raised his cup to his lips and took a swallow of ale before answering, “Ye won’t have. She’s the village blacksmith.”
“Aye?” Ailean raised an eyebrow. He cast another gaze her way. “She’s strong enough … and tall.”
“Her name’s Brìghde,” Greig said gruffly. “She’s helped me over the past year. I decided to climb Ben More, so we went hill walking for a time … and climbed the mountain together.”
That caught his friend’s full attention. “That’s an impressive feat … but what interests me more is this Brìghde.” He favored Greig with a look he knew well. “A friend of yers now, is she?”
“Of sorts.”
“One ye can’t seem to look away from.” His friend cut him a sly smile.
Greig stiffened, ready to tell him to mind his own bloody business, but Ailean lifted his hand, forestalling him.
“Save yer breath. Ye don’t have to make excuses.
Not to me. I’ll not judge. I certainly don’t have the right …
not after the tangle I got myself into.”
Greig surveyed him. Aye, Ailean had made a mess of things, but somehow, he’d picked himself up, rebuilt his life from the ruins, and along the way had won the heart of a good woman.
Of course, Fiona was far beneath him in rank—a weaver, not a lady—but no one could deny the powerful love they had.
And when Greig had visited them at Ardnacross the Yule before last, he had to admit that seeing them so happy together had just made his own bitterness sting even further.
There he’d been, railing against the world, while his best friends, Craig and Ailean, had both wed women of a far lower social status, yet didn’t seem to care.
He’d once thought them fools.
Now … he wasn’t so certain.
“Why are ye wasting yer time standing here talking to me?” Ailean nudged Greig in the ribs with his elbow. “Go on. Ask her to dance.”
Greig snorted. “I can’t do that. I’m lame, remember?”
Ailean pulled a face. “Sounds like a poor excuse to me.”
Greig glowered at him. It wasn’t. He had done much to improve his mobility over the past year, but dancing was something he couldn’t manage—especially now, for the piper was playing a rousing jig.
Arabella rejoined Kenna and Lena. The lasses whirled around, their hair flying like flags behind them, while Davy and his friends started to clap and stomp their feet, encouraging them.
“If I tried that, I’d fall over.”
Ailean harrumphed, taking his point.
However, at that moment, the jig came to an end. Cheering followed, some of the dancers retreating to grab refreshing cups of ale, while others recovered their breath.
And then, a moment later, the piper began to play another tune—this one slow and lilting.
Ailean snorted a laugh and slapped Greig hard on the back. “Right. Enough excuses. Ye can’t tell me ye’re not up to dancing to this one.” He shoved him between the shoulder blades, laughing as Greig snarled a curse. “Ask the woman to dance … for pity’s sake.”
Brìghde had just left the dancing, out of breath after Ranald had swung her around as if she were a poppet, and was taking a grateful sip of ale, when she spied Greig making his way through the crowd. Toward her.
Shite.
The memory of his mouth on hers rose unbidden—followed swiftly by the sting of his rejection. Her pulse took off, and she cut her gaze away from him, pretending she hadn’t seen him.
What should she do? Leave? Race after Ranald and ask for another dance?
She looked around, panic fluttering up.
Her gaze alighted on Ian then. He sat alone upon an upturned log, face flushed with ale, a tankard in hand. And he was staring at her with a glint in his eye.
Brìghde’s fingers clenched around her own cup. Cods. She had to avoid him.
Suddenly, she cursed her mother for putting her in this dress and insisting she attend the gathering. She’d enjoyed the dance with Ranald but suddenly felt out of her depth.
Ian rose—and at the same moment, Greig stepped into her path.
“Brìghde.”
Pulse stuttering, she favored him with a brief, stiff curtsy. “Good eve, Maclean.”
He raised a dark eyebrow, his lips curving. “I thought we were past that?”
Heat rose to her cheeks, and she took another gulp of ale to hide her embarrassment.
“Ye look lovely.”
“Thank ye,” she replied stiffly.
Lord, this was awkward.
“It’s good to see ye here tonight … I didn’t think ye’d attend,” he said then.
“Neither did I, but my mother pushed me out the door.” Brìghde clamped her lips shut then.
God, why did she say that for? It made her sound like a sullen lass of fourteen, not a woman of three and twenty.
“She did well,” Greig replied, smiling once more. “I’m not much of a dancer, especially these days. But considering this tune is a slow one … I was wondering if ye’d step out with me.”
Brìghde’s pulse started to pound in her ears. She hesitated, just for a moment. “I’m not much of a dancer either … so we can both tread on each other’s feet.”
He laughed then, a deep rumble in his chest.
The sound made her relax a little. “Very well, then.”
Those nearby were giving them odd looks now though, and Brìghde’s cheeks warmed once more. Dear God, all of Duart would be talking about this by morning.