Chapter 25
GREIG WALKED BACK to the revelry in a daze, barely seeing the faces around him. Setting the lantern down on the perimeter, his gaze surveyed the large crowd that still danced, drank, and talked. The braziers burned merrily, and laughter rang through the night.
But he had never felt less like laughing in his life.
Not even when he’d awoken after taking that wound to his left thigh had he felt such despair.
It sat like an anvil in his gut.
He’d let Brìghde go—he’d had no choice. She’d been too angry. She wouldn’t listen to anything he said.
The lass needed time to calm herself, to think on things.
However, he couldn’t help but fear that the more she pondered what he’d told her, the angrier she’d become.
In telling Brìghde about the last item on Alistair’s list, he hadn’t taken something important into account.
Her pride.
All her life, she’d felt different. An outsider.
He’d seen it in the way she brushed off compliments. In the way she never lingered where other lasses laughed together.
The thought that he had played her like a lyre, that she’d been nothing but a conquest to him, had hurt her—badly.
Greig didn’t know how he was going to put this right.
It struck him then, as he resumed walking, that he had no proof that this hadn’t been a game to him. Only his word.
And that, clearly, wasn’t good enough.
He’d expected that his parents would have retired by now, joined the trickle of people who now made their way back up the slope to the castle, yet Loch and Mairi lingered.
Others were singing to a familiar tune, and his mother joined them.
Mairi had a lovely voice, and many locals had turned to gaze at her as she sang:
“Isle of Mull, island of joy:
wave-washed,
sun-topped,
wind-warmed,
peak-blasted,
with glens tight with hazel and oak,
straths grass-tawny, stepping waterfalls,
and mighty Ben More of the eagles
set high over all.”
Greig’s step faltered, and he drew to a halt.
Ben More. The mountain where his life had irrevocably changed, where he’d finally allowed his desire for Brìghde to surface, where they’d talked honestly. The lass was his safe place. The rest of the world could think him a cynical bastard, but she knew the truth.
Or she had before he’d ruined everything.
Glancing down, he rotated the ring on his finger.
Firelight played across the intricately wrought stag’s head. She’d noted he was wearing it earlier, but his gesture hadn’t been for show. In truth, he hadn’t expected to see her at the dance, for she never usually attended such gatherings.
Her gift had touched him, and he would cling to it.
His chest clenched.
Christ’s bones. He’d just set fire to everything.
Raising his chin, he struggled to pull himself together. He couldn’t let any of his kin see him like this. One glance at his face, and they’d know.
The world came rushing back all at once. Music, laughter, the crackle of the fire.
Fortunately, neither of his parents had seen him.
His father now gazed at Mairi as she sang, his dark eyes shining with love.
A sickly sensation washed over Greig. He’d always taken his parents’ rock-solid relationship for granted, yet he saw it with different eyes now.
They had what he wanted. With Brìghde.
Greig shifted his attention then across the crowd, his gaze alighting on Davy.
His brother hadn’t seen him yet either. He was too focused on talking with the small raven-haired lass he stood with: Kenna Black.
Greig recognized her instantly. It was hard to believe she was no longer a bairn. It seemed just yesterday that he had seen her clutching a poppet in one hand, and clinging to her mother’s skirts with the other.
However, it took only a moment for him to realize that Davy and Kenna were not having a friendly discussion. They were arguing.
And then, to Greig’s surprise, Kenna stepped forward, stomped on Davy’s foot, and slapped him across the face—hard.
His brother’s head snapped back, his lean body going rigid.
Greig tensed. His brother was a hothead, and aye, the lass had lashed out at him, but their father had brought them up with one clear rule: never, ever lay a hand on a woman in violence. Ever.
Kenna snarled something at Davy then, turned on her heel, and stalked off.
Rubbing his cheek, his expression stunned, Davy turned away.
Muttering under his breath, he went over and helped himself to some more ale. The barrels were almost drained by this hour. The local women serving had long retired or sat down with a cup of ale to watch the dancing and catch up with friends.
Greig approached him. “What was that all about?”
Davy’s chin kicked up. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t look like ‘nothing’.”
Davy’s lip twisted. “The lass is a foul harpy.”
Greig gave him a long, hard look, his own misery and turmoil momentarily forgotten. It looked as if he wasn’t the only one who knew little about women. “Overstepped, did ye?”
Davy shot him a glower. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Greig shrugged and helped himself to a cup of ale.
He needed it; something to distract him from the colossal mess he’d made of things.
It was over. There was no going back from this.
He took a sip of ale and grimaced. Earlier, it had tasted good. Now, it was just bitter.
Nausea rolled over him then, bile stinging the back of his throat. Muttering an oath, he set the cup down on top of the barrel.
He glanced Davy’s way then to find his brother watching him. “Where did ye get to?” he asked, his gaze searching now. “Last I saw, ye were dancing and flirting with Brìghde Boyd … and then both of ye disappeared.”
Greig’s gut clenched. “I escorted her home,” he said gruffly.
Davy snorted. “Aye?”
Greig cut his gaze away. “Aye.”
“It looks like both of us are having a fine evening,” his brother muttered.
“Brìghde was the last challenge on Alistair’s list.” The admission was out before Greig could stop it.
Davy stilled, his eyes drawing wide. “Really?”
“Aye … he was determined to win her heart.”
His brother cut him a searching look. “Does she know?”
Bile bit the back of his throat. “She does now.”
A long moment passed before understanding flared in Davy’s eyes. His lips parted—yet he didn’t get the chance to reply.
Shouting sliced through the night.
The Highland pipe came to a screeching halt, as did the dancers.
Both Greig and Davy swiveled, their gazes cutting through the crowd in the direction the shouts had come from.
Leather-clad figures burst from the shadows, dirks flashing in the firelight.
Warriors. They came from the northern corner of the field—where the light thinned and the path fell away toward the bay.
Greig’s parents still sat on that edge, not far from the line of braziers, and as Davy and Greig drew their dirks and moved toward them, Loch stepped in front of Mairi.
Steel rang through the night, followed by shouts and screams.
The villagers—and the cooks, servants, and grooms who resided within Duart Castle—fled, some of them pushing others out of their way, such was their panic.
But some held their ground, those of the Guard who had attended the revelry. Finn MacDonald too, who, like the clan-chief, stepped in front of his wife, shielding her with his body as the first of the warriors descended upon them.
And as Greig pushed his way through—no easy task, since it felt like fighting against the tide as locals fled the scene—he spied a familiar flash of green, blue, and red tartan.
MacDonalds.
His heart kicked, fire flaring hot in his gut.
Whoresons!
He’d known that the MacDonalds of Sleat were planning something. But hadn’t they’d set their sights on Moy? That was where they’d sent additional warriors to help defend the stronghold.
Christ—they’d never meant to strike Moy.
It had been Duart all along. They’d bided their time and waited until a night of revelry, a night when locals and the Macleans alike would be celebrating the harvest.
Perhaps the MacDonalds thought they were fools, that the clan-chief and his sons would attend unarmed.
But that was a miscalculation.
Greig carried his dirk at his side and a sgian-dubh in his boot. They all did.
And just as well, or this would have been a massacre.
His left thigh twinged then—a warning. He’d treated it harshly all day, taking little rest after the strength contests, and then later, he’d danced with Brìghde before swiving her.
His leg was letting him know now that it might fail him.
Brìghde.
Someone had to warn her. However, he couldn’t focus on that now, not when the first of the MacDonalds bore down on him.
Instinct took over.
Gritting his teeth, he ducked under the lethal swipe of a dirk and shifted his weight to his right.
He swapped hands with his dirk and jabbed under his opponent’s guard. It punched through leather and into flesh.
The warrior wheezed a curse. However, it cut off when Greig’s fist slammed into his mouth, felling him.
He whirled then to see it had now turned into a pitched battle.
His father fought a few yards away. Loch’s face was set in a rictus of fury as he slashed at the warriors that now surrounded him.
Mairi’s back was pressed up against her husband’s, her eyes wild with fear.
She carried no weapon.
Their attackers knew it and were closing in.
Greig’s heart lurched. He’d lost so much that mattered of late.
He wouldn’t lose anyone else.
“Davy!” Greig shouted. “Protect Ma!”
His brother whirled, and together, the two of them slashed their way through the fray to join their father.
But the enemy seized their opportunity while Loch engaged another warrior. Two burly MacDonalds attacked—both lunging for Mairi.
Davy and Greig caught them from behind, driving their dirks through the men’s backs and bringing them down.
Then, kicking the men to the ground, they formed a protective shield before their mother.