Chapter 26
brìGHDE LAY AWAKE, staring up at the darkness.
The hearth had burned low, the embers little more than a faint glow now, and she was glad of it.
She wanted to shut the world out.
She hadn’t wished to return to her family’s bothy, for she’d known her mother would be awake, waiting up for her, wanting to hear how the dancing had gone.
She hated lying to her, hated having to resort to mummery, but she couldn’t tell Ada what had happened.
Her mother would be aghast.
Not only that—if Brìghde began to speak about Greig, her walls would crumble, and she’d end up a sobbing mess.
As such, she’d brushed her skirts down as best she could, tidied up her hair, and plastered a pleasant expression upon her face.
Of course, her mother had plied her with questions.
“Whom did ye dance with?”
“What did everyone think of yer new kirtle?”
Brìghde had fenced the questions as best she could, distracting her mother with tales of the lively reels the piper had played, the laughter, the joy.
She also embellished the dancing a bit more, telling Ada that she’d danced with at least six different men—including Greig Maclean.
Ada had been enraptured, eyes shining with delight.
However, after a while, Brìghde had reached the limits of her endurance.
She couldn’t keep it up.
And so, she’d given a couple of jaw-cracking yawns and told Ada she’d recount the rest of it the next morning.
Her mother had retired behind the curtain shortly after, and Brìghde had gratefully crawled into her cot. But sleep wouldn’t come.
Of course, it wouldn’t. She was too wound up, too hurt, too disappointed.
Greig had played her.
She felt like a great fool.
It had come as a bit of a shock to hear that Alistair Maclean had carried a torch for her.
Aye, he had visited increasingly often and had seemed to linger sometimes, but she’d told herself he was being friendly.
She had no idea there had been more to his visits than that.
Greig had sullied everything. He had taken his brother’s list too far.
He’d kept a secret he had no right to. If he’d told her from the beginning that she’d been on Alistair’s list—that she needn’t worry, he had no intention of treating her like one of his challenges—she’d have understood. She would have respected him for it.
But no. He’d kept that knowledge to his breast, and he’d done so because he didn’t want her to know the truth. It was more important to him to finish that cursed list. Even more galling was that he’d initially sworn never to go near her. How he must have sneered at that ‘challenge’.
In a cruel twist, he’d actually won the Forge Maiden’s heart.
The bastard knew it too.
She’d given him her body willingly tonight because she loved him. In return, he’d taken it and trampled on it.
She hated him for that.
A real man would own his mistakes, not make excuses for them.
Misery clenched like a fist under her ribs before she raised a shaking hand, covering her eyes.
She didn’t want to weep. She didn’t want to rise the next morning with red, puffy eyes and face her family’s questions.
Snoring intruded then. Her brother had retired surprisingly early tonight, arriving home soon after her.
He’d drunk too much, too fast, and had staggered past his mother and sister before collapsing onto his cot.
He was now sleeping off a skinful of ale.
The lad would have a sore head at the forge the next day, and she’d tease him about it.
She’d make sure he never knew just how much she was suffering.
She couldn’t let any of them know.
For she was ashamed.
Aye, she was. Greig Maclean had humiliated her, and she’d let him. She’d lived a fantasy and forgotten who she was and how people in Duart really saw her. She’d thought Greig was different, but he wasn’t. He’d never really wanted her.
Despite how hard she was clenching her eyes, hot tears escaped, trickling over her cheekbones and soaking into her hair. Brìghde pressed her fist against her mouth, stifling a sob. By the Saints, this hurt so much it felt as if it might kill her.
The door to their bothy slammed open—shattering the silence and ripping her from her grief.
Brìghde jerked, flying upright, her hand grasping the poker that sat by the hearth near her cot.
“What the devil?” Eòghan grumbled, pushing himself up from his own bed.
A big broad-shouldered figure loomed in the doorway.
“Up!” Ian barked. “MacDonalds—they’re in the village!”
“What?” Brìghde scrambled to her feet, still gripping the iron poker.
“A band of them has just landed at Duart Bay and has attacked,” he replied, voice harsh. “Some of them are trying to get inside the castle, while the others are torching the village. Ye must get out of here … now.”
Brìghde stared at his dark silhouette. She couldn’t make out his face beyond a few shadows, couldn’t judge his expression—yet despite that she had no time for this man at all, she believed him.
There was an edge to his voice. He was hiding it well, but he was fighting panic.
“Ma! Da!” she shouted. “Get up!”
Moments later, all four members of the Boyd family tumbled out of their bothy.
There was no time to dress properly. Brìghde only wore a thin lèine, one that reached mid-thigh. Her hair was unbound, her feet were bare, and she still clutched her poker.
Eòghan had grabbed an axe, and when they emerged outdoors, Brìghde saw that Ian held a heavy scythe in one hand. Her father gripped a dirk he’d made himself years earlier.
Ian turned to Brìghde. “We need to get ye away from the village. They’re torching it.”
Shouting and screams intruded then, and the acrid scent of smoke caught in the back of Brìghde’s throat. To the north, a ruddy glow lit up the sky.
Hades. Ian was right.
Fury kindled in her belly, although fear was stronger.
She was tall and strong and could swing a poker and do some damage, but she wasn’t a warrior—and she was half undressed.
She didn’t understand either why Ian had come to warn her, why he hadn’t just fled like the others. But seeing the grim look on his face and the glint in his eyes, the realization hit her like a blow.
He’d come for her.
She’d barely taken this in when Ian backed up, pointing south. “Come, we need to—”
He didn’t finish his sentence.
Three big leather-clad figures leaped from the shadows.
It was too late to run; the MacDonalds had reached the southern edge of the village. They were here.
Her mother screamed, clutching Breac tightly by the arm.
Her father’s curses followed. He jabbed his dirk at the air before him. “Stay back, dogs!” he snarled.
Brìghde’s breathing caught. Her father was brave, but he couldn’t even see the men surrounding them. “Lower that blade, Da,” she gasped. “I’m here.”
Moving in front of him, she swung the poker at one of the warriors. The poker cracked against his wrist. He howled.
Yet when two more of them lunged from the darkness, her panic surged forth once more.
They wore wide grins, eyes gleaming in the moonlight.
Ian stepped up, swinging his scythe viciously—yet despite its wicked blade, he was no match for warriors with dirks.
Two of them closed in on him, both stabbing him in the chest at the same time.
With a grunt, he went down. The wet sound of rending flesh followed as one of his attackers stabbed him through the throat.
A scream ripped from Brìghde. She swung her poker again, her palms slippery against the rough metal now.
Christ. They’d slain Ian.
A heartbeat ago, he’d been breathing, talking, and fighting.
Now, he bled out on the ground.
Fury caught fire in her veins. She didn’t think—only swung. If she stopped, they would die.
Her poker slammed into a knee, a sickening ‘crack’ following.
The MacDonald warrior howled.
Eòghan rushed forward, swinging his axe and chopping open the man’s neck. With a gurgle, he slumped to the ground.
Pride washed over Brìghde. Eòghan was young, yet he was fast and brave.
Her brother shifted back, next to her—axe ready once more—to defend their parents.
Brìghde’s heart started to pound.
They’d done well, but the two of them weren’t enough.
They’d only hold this lot at bay for a short while. A group of brawny men surrounded them now, hemming the Boyd family in.
Brìghde caught the flash of their teeth, white in the darkness, and panic clawed up her throat.
They were enjoying this.
They were playing with them.
“Bàs no Beatha!” The Maclean war cry shattered the MacDonalds’ mirth.
Death or victory!
The words tore through the night. And for a heartbeat, everything stilled.
Then two figures burst from the dark—fast, lethal—steel flashing in the firelight.
Greig brought one man down with a stab through the throat, while Davy handled the warrior next to him.
Brìghde’s heart lurched. Of all men, he had come to her rescue.
However, the distraction was all she needed.
She swung her poker hard at another of the warriors who had turned to face the Macleans.
The crunch of iron colliding with his jaw was sickening, yet she followed through.
The man stumbled and fell to his knees. And then Eòghan was there, slamming his axe down onto the warrior’s skull.
Brìghde stumbled back, cold horror washing over her at the violence, at the bloodshed.
All her life at Duart, she’d felt safe and protected.
Tonight, all of that changed.
Tonight, the world had shattered.
But now wasn’t the time to lose her nerve—not with her parents needing her protection.
She moved close to them once more, beating a warrior off with her poker.
A sting followed on her forearm as a blade grazed her.
She didn’t stop, even as she felt warm blood trickle down her arm.
She couldn’t let them hurt her parents.
She’d die first.
But then, suddenly, it was over.
Despite that Greig clearly favored his left leg, he fought with breathtaking brutality, swapping his dirk from his left to his right hand, and back, with ease, bringing down opponent after opponent until they all lay either dead or groaning from their injuries on the ground.
“Is that it?” Ada gasped, her voice strangled as she still clung to her husband’s arm, her face white in the moonlight. “Did ye get them all?”
“For now,” Greig replied, breathing hard. “But the battle’s not won yet.” He turned to Brìghde then. Their gazes locked—heat, anger, and something far more raw flashing between them. “Go. Now. Run south and don’t return to the village until morning.”
She stared back at him, blood roaring in her ears. “And what are ye going to do?”
His face was stone-hewn. His gaze savage.
It was as if the time they’d spent together earlier that evening had never happened.
A warrior stood before her. The real Greig Maclean.
Not the lover who’d taken her so passionately in the forge.
He cast his brother a sidelong look then. Davy was bent double, panting, his lean face slick with sweat. “All right, Davy?”
“All right,” Davy panted. “Just catching my breath.”
Greig then turned back to Brìghde, stepping close. “Don’t worry about us, lass,” he said, his voice low and hard. “We’re going to finish this.”