Chapter 23
brìGHDE SET DOWN her cup onto an upturned barrel, and he did the same.
Greig then reached out, offering her his right hand.
Her gaze settled upon the silver ring on his middle finger, and she smiled. “Ye still wear it.”
He smiled. “Always.”
Flustered by his response, she placed her hand on top of his.
Together, they moved forward, joining the cluster of couples that swayed in time with the music.
The dance was one Brìghde had seen her parents enjoy years earlier. It wasn’t the basse danse, a courtly dance that only the high-born enjoyed, yet it was similar—a slow turning reel to the piper’s softer tune.
The couples moved around each other, one way and then the next, bodies close, hands touching.
Greig was limping quite heavily now, for it was late in the day and he was likely tiring. All the same, he was a better dancer than her. Even so, as she moved this way and then that with Greig, she felt almost … feminine.
It helped that he was a big man, clearing her by a good four inches. His hand under hers was large and strong, and despite that she didn’t need protecting, she enjoyed having him close.
And the music, although slow, was oddly exhilarating.
She noted then that many in the crowd now watched them, and one or two folk were whispering together.
A little of her joy sputtered and died then, her gait faltering.
Greig steadied her. “Don’t mind them.” He spun her around slowly and then drew her close, his hand splaying across her lower back. “People love to have something to gossip about.”
“I know,” she replied. “That’s why I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. I’m not.”
And that surprised her. He didn’t seem to be bothered at all that everyone here was watching the heir to the clan dance with the Forge Maiden.
And more shockingly still, his gaze was riveted upon her—intense enough for any casual observer to see that there was something between them.
And there was.
Brìghde wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but when he’d visited her in the forge, there had been no denying it.
All the same, she’d thought he’d avoid her from now on.
Embarrassment prickled her skin, and yet she was secretly thrilled to know that he was challenging the order of things.
Yet, as the music died and they left the dancers, she grew increasingly aware of the stares and the whispers. Across the crowd, she noted that both Loch and Mairi were looking their way too, talking amongst themselves.
Suddenly, Brìghde started to sweat.
“Is everything all right, Brìghde?” Greig asked.
“I’m not used to crowds,” she muttered, “or to being stared at like this.”
His brow furrowed, his gaze searching her face. “Come.” He stepped close and linked his arm through hers. “It grows late. I’ll walk ye home.”
Relief slammed into her. Thank the Saints. She was desperate to be away. Her mother had meant well by insisting she come along, and part of her was glad she had, for she’d enjoyed feeling like a woman for once.
And her dance with Greig would remain etched in her memory forever.
But the truth of it was that there’d be consequences for tonight, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for them.
“I fear we have got folk excited,” she said as they reached the edge of the braziers.
“Maybe.” Greig stooped down and retrieved one of the many lanterns that had been lit and placed there to allow folk to find their way home after the drinking and dancing were done. “But that’s easy enough to do in a place this small.”
“I’m not sure it was wise to dance together,” she replied, aware of the warmth and strength of his arm against hers as they walked.
The glow of the lantern shrouded them. The night was cool and still, and a waxing moon hung heavily in the sky above.
Greig harrumphed. “I was reckless, drawing attention to us like that,” he admitted. “But I was seized with jealousy when I saw ye dancing with Ranald. I wanted to make it clear that other men were to keep their distance.”
Brìghde shot him a glance. “What?”
His lips curved. “Does that surprise ye?”
She nodded. “I don’t understand ye, Greig.” She cut her gaze away and focused on the well-worn path before them that wound through the bothies. Shortly, they would arrive at the forge, and just as well too, for this conversation was quickly careening out of control.
“I have no right … I know it,” he replied, his voice lowering now, “especially after how I’ve behaved. But the truth of it is, Brìghde, that ye have gotten under my skin.”
She gave a soft snort, even as her belly flipped. “Ye make me sound like some pesky splinter.”
His hold on her arm tightened slightly. “Then I expressed myself badly.” He hesitated. “I shall tell it plain … ye are important to me, Brì.”
Silence fell after this admission.
Brìghde didn’t know what to say. He’d knocked her off balance, and she certainly didn’t want to make light of what his words meant.
The forge loomed ahead—a low-slung, dark bulk sitting in front of her parents’ bothy.
They drew to a halt, and then Greig turned to face her. The lantern light illuminated the proud lines of his face, the darkness of his eyes, the strength of his jaw, and the sensual shape of his lips.
Tension coiled in Brìghde’s belly, for he was staring at her with a fierceness that made her breathing hitch.
“Greig,” she whispered, “please don’t look at me like that.”
“I can’t help it.” He reached out a hand then, sliding his fingers into her hair. “I like yer hair unbound like this. In the firelight, it looks almost silver.”
“It gets in the way at work,” she said ruefully. “That’s why I always keep it braided.”
“Ye are practical.” His lips quirked, although his gaze remained intense. “But there’s so much more to ye, isn’t there?”
His hand brushed her jaw then before sliding down the column of her neck and across her chest, above the swell of her breasts. She shivered under his touch.
“I was a fool, recoiling from ye the way I did upon Ben More,” he said, his voice growing husky now. “What I should have done was more of this.”
With that, he bent his head and kissed her.
And just like when they’d been on the mountaintop, it was gentle and sensual.
Yet consuming.
Brìghde couldn’t help it; she swayed into him, her lips parting, welcoming his tongue, while she slid her hands up his chest over his lèine to where his heart bucked under her palm.
The feel of it shocked her. It was proof that she moved him, roused him—that those weren’t empty words. Not at all.
He wanted her badly.
And, God help her, she needed him too.
With a groan of surrender, she sank into him, tilting her head back as he cupped the back of it and deepened the kiss.
She wasn’t sure how long they stood there, bodies pressed close, mouths devouring, but it was she who took the next step. “Greig,” she whispered against his mouth, “I want more.”
A low moan rumbled in his throat. “Christ, lass, don’t tempt me.”
Her belly dipped violently, as if she’d just jumped off a high wall.
She’d do more than that. She’d give him what he wanted—what they both craved.
Letting go of his hand, she stepped back, toward the door of the forge.
“In here,” she said huskily, thrilling at her own boldness, even as her pulse skittered. “Now.”
Brìghde kept moving, acting before her nerve failed her. Or before he had a chance to change his mind either.
Greig stayed where he was, still watching her, the lantern he held flickering in the darkness.
Heart in her throat, Brìghde turned and pulled open the door to the forge and stepped inside.
Please follow.
A moment later, Greig swore under his breath—and did.
Dizziness swept over her, a heady blend of excitement and nerves churning in her belly.
He closed the heavy door behind them before setting the lantern down on a nearby bench.
And then whatever restraint he had left broke.
He was on her.
Brìghde’s back slammed up against the door. His arms caged her in, his mouth taking hers, hot and hungry—rougher than before.
Welcoming it, she moaned against his mouth, her arms coming up and linking around his neck, pulling him closer. Their bodies were flush now. She could feel every hard, muscled inch of him.
And as the kiss drew out, hot and wet, she felt his hardness press against her lower belly.
Excitement flared right there, and when his hands lifted to her hair, tangling in it, excitement tightened into ravenous hunger.
She wanted his hands not just in her hair, but all over her.
Making an impatient sound in the back of her throat, she slid her hand down his chest, tugging at the lèine that was tucked loosely into his bràies.
Breathing hard, Greig pulled back from her and yanked the tunic over his head.
Casting it aside, the lamplight flickered across his naked skin, sculpting the breadth of his chest. He then unfastened his dirk belt. It thudded onto the dirt-packed floor.
God, he had such a masculine body. Despite that he was only a couple of years older than her, there was a maturity to it too.
Whorls of crisp, dark hair covered his chest, tapering down to his belly.
Brìghde’s heart started to thump hard against her ribs as she reached out and caressed his skin. He felt so good under her fingertips and palms.
But when her hands dropped lower to his braies, her breathing caught.
His erection had tented the thick material, but not only that—the crown of it had pushed its way eagerly up, breaching his waistband.
Murmuring an oath under her breath, she acted on instinct, rubbing her palm across its swollen tip. Her breath hitched when she discovered it was wet, beaded with milky liquid.
Greig’s breath punched out of him in a rough groan, his head dropping back as if the touch had undone him.
Wild excitement twisted inside Brìghde. She liked having him in her thrall like this. She loved seeing emotion flicker across his face. It really was something to behold.