Chapter 29
THE BASKET OF blades dug into Brìghde’s shoulders as she climbed toward Duart Castle’s gates.
Gareth had asked for help, and she’d delivered.
The castle’s weaponsmith had been swamped with work in the month following the MacDonald attack. The clan-chief wanted his Guard stronger than ever and carrying more steel. Brìghde and Eòghan had been happy to assist.
The basket was heavy, making her legs protest as she crested the hill. All those steel blades weighed her down.
Brìghde grimaced. Perhaps she should have strapped a couple of baskets onto Sradag and led him up here rather than trying to carry them herself.
Wiping sweat from her brow, she approached the gates, lifting a hand to greet the two guards who stood above her, their silhouettes outlined against a windy sky. They waved back.
A crisp wind feathered her hot cheeks.
The weather was turning now. Summer was behind them, and the freshness of autumn laced the air. The mornings and evenings grew chill, and it wouldn’t be long before the first frost crunched underfoot in the mornings.
Unlike a lot of folk, Brìghde looked forward to this time of year and to the winter’s chill.
In the summer, the forge could be unbearably hot, whereas when a blizzard hit Duart in January, the hearth in her forge became the coziest place in the village. Locals would stop by just to warm themselves up and exchange a bit of gossip.
Brìghde crossed under the portcullis and entered the outer courtyard.
As always, it was a hive of activity. Fowl scratched in the dirt. Dogs gnawed at mutton bones near the steps leading into the tower house. The farrier was hard at work shoeing the clan-chief’s horses.
However, her heart betrayed her the moment she saw Greig working alongside the farrier.
He hadn’t yet seen her, but considering that the pair of them were working right in front of the weaponsmith’s forge, she wouldn’t get a reprieve for long.
Curse the man. She’d managed to avoid him for a while now. Aye, she had attended the Sunday Mass, but she’d kept her gaze firmly averted as he walked in with his family.
And then, once Mass was done, she’d been one of the first to slip away, to flee from the castle.
As she approached the open door to the forge, a tall, raw-boned man with thinning brown hair stepped out. Like her, he wore a heavy leather apron, singed at the edges.
Gareth flashed her a grin. “Ye didn’t carry all those up yerself, did ye?”
“Aye,” she panted, coming to an unsteady halt. “Although halfway up the hill, I regretted it.” She halted then, motioning to the heavy basket strapped to her back. “Could ye help me lift this off?”
Gareth moved behind her, hauling up the basket so that she could wriggle out of the straps.
The basket then thudded onto the cobblestones.
“Christ, lass, even I would have struggled with these,” he grunted.
Brìghde smiled. “I did question my sanity not long after I set out.”
She was aware then that both the farrier and Greig had looked up from their work.
Greig had been bent over a horse’s foreleg pinned between his knees as he hammered in nails. He knew what he was doing, she noted, and she considered then how far he’d come on since that day Tàirneanach had thrown a shoe and he’d stopped by the forge.
He hadn’t been able to do that when he’d first come to her forge. His leg had been too weak.
She’d helped him get here.
Irritated that she was letting her thoughts slide toward Maclean, she motioned to the basket. “Come on,” she said briskly. “Let’s carry these inside.”
The weaponsmith nodded, bending over and taking hold of one of the handles. “Ye got them done quicker than I expected.”
“There are two of us working the forge now, remember?” she replied. “I’ve discovered Eòghan’s got a knack for blades.”
“That’s good to hear,” the weaponsmith paused then. “I’ll need arrowheads too … two hundred before Samhuinn.”
Brìghde nodded. They could take on more work these days, as they had two anvils going now, the pair of them working side by side. “We’ll manage it.”
He flashed a relieved smile, and together, they hauled the heavy basket of blades into the forge.
Inside, Gareth carefully picked up one of the folded steel blades that lay on the top of the pile. He then held it up, examining it in the light of his glowing forge. “Good work, this.”
Warmth suffused Brìghde’s chest. Gareth was a talented weaponsmith. Hailing from the Isle of Harris, he’d lived at Duart for over five years now and had impressed all who commissioned work from him. His opinion meant much to her.
“I made that one,” she admitted.
“Ye have a fine eye for detail,” he replied. “Ye are wasted on basic tools and hinges and horseshoes.”
She shrugged. “It keeps my family fed and clothed. That’s more important.”
Gareth met her eye. “I understand … but ye have talent all the same, Brìghde.”
She smiled, the glow in her chest spreading. She’d been in awe of the weaponsmith’s work, so the fact that he complimented her so earnestly meant a lot. And she liked that he spoke to her as an equal, that he didn’t patronize her.
Emerging from the forge, the empty basket strapped to her back once more, she came across one of the grooms wheeling a barrel full of muck across her path.
And then to her consternation, he halted and leered at her.
It was Nicol—the same knave who’d insulted her at the dance.
Ye can drape a plow horse in a fine caparison … but it’s still a plow horse. Aye, his cruel words had left a sting. However, this afternoon, the sneer on his face merely vexed her.
Aye, she knew how some of the men here—those who worked in the castle, especially—jested about her behind her back over the years.
But insulting her to her face was another thing.
The glint in Nicol’s eye made her hackles rise.
The bastard had set his barrow down right in front of her, blocking her path. He then dragged his gaze down the length of her body. “That’s better,” he murmured. “The plow horse is wearing her harness once more. That dress really did look ridiculous on ye.”
Brìghde looked down her nose at him, really studying the man properly for the first time, marking the color that rose to his cheeks.
And then, the truth struck her; the reason he wasted his breath insulting her.
She snorted a laugh. “Can I help it if the slug in yer braies stands up at the sight of a strong woman?”
The leer on his face vanished, shock flaring in his eyes.
Aye, she’d hit the mark there.
Stepping around his barrow, Nicol drew close. She was a couple of inches taller than him though, so he couldn’t loom over her. The color to his cheeks deepened. “Why would I want a horse-faced bitch who thinks she’s a man?” he growled. “I’d wager there’s a cock between yer legs—”
He never finished his insult, for a hand grabbed him by the scruff and hauled him back off his feet.
Greig swung him around and punched him hard in the jaw.
The punch landed with a crack. Hard enough to snap Nicol’s head sideways and send him sprawling.
Following him, Greig landed a kick in the ribs. He drew his foot back once more—ready to continue—then checked himself.
The groom grunted in pain, rolling over on his side and bringing up his knees to protect his guts.
Standing over him, hands still clenched at his sides, Greig glared down at him. “Apologize to Brìghde,” he said coldly. “Now.”
Nicol made a strangled sound yet remained silent.
“I won’t ask ye again.” Greig’s voice lowered, dangerously.
Sweat beaded upon Nicol’s forehead. His gaze lifted from Greig then, fastening on Brìghde.
She glared down at him, anger pulsing in her chest, daring him to insult her again.
Surely, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to do so, not with Greig on such a short leash?
Moments passed, and then he cleared his throat. “Sorry.”
“Try again.” Greig drew his dirk. “And mean it.”
“I was rude,” Nicol gasped, panic flaring in his eyes now. Like most bullies, he was a coward at heart. “I had no business saying such things to ye, Brìghde … and I apologize.”
Greig’s lip curled. “That’s better,” His gaze speared him. “But it won’t save ye. Get up, gather yer things, and leave Duart. Ye no longer have a job here.”
Nicol’s face flushed purple. “Ye can’t send me away,” he burst out, pushing himself into a sitting position. “Ye aren’t the clan-chief.”
Greig’s expression didn’t change. “If ye aren’t gone within the hour, I’ll have ye stoned out of the castle.” He paused then, a hard smile curving his lips. “An act my father will applaud.”
Nicol’s throat worked as he stared up at Greig, his features slackening.
The game was up. He understood that now.
Greig stepped back, waiting for the groom to get to his feet.
Nicol did, before limping off to gather his belongings, gaze averted.
The cur didn’t dare look Brìghde’s way now, for danger crackled in the air.
Everyone, including her, knew that Greig would make good on his threat. If he uttered just one more insult or cast her one more scornful look, the clan-chief’s son might just kill him.
Brìghde watched Nicol go before she shifted her attention to Greig.
Her heart was racing now, both in anger—for she had wanted to slam her fist into Nicol’s face—and in embarrassment.
Every eye in the courtyard was on her.
They’d all witnessed the scene, including Gareth, who had emerged from the forge when he heard the commotion, and the farrier and the guards. Two lasses watched from the steps to the backhouse.
All of them had seen him defending the Forge Maiden’s honor.
Her gaze met Greig’s then, squarely—for the first time in weeks.
Her heart bucked at the contact. “I could have handled him,” she said, hating how breathless she sounded.
Greig moved toward her, stopping when they were just a couple of feet apart.
Her cheeks started to glow then. Didn’t he care that they had amassed quite an audience now?
Everyone was staring.
Everyone would be wondering why he’d stood up for her and thrashed a man on her behalf.
“I’m sure ye could have handled him yerself,” he replied. “But he’s had warnings before … this was overdue.” He paused then. “The things he said to ye, Brìghde … I won’t have ye believe a word of it.”
Her cheeks were burning like embers now. “I don’t,” she said stiffly. “Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I must get back to work.”
Sidestepping the cart of muck, she hurried away.
“I heard what happened yesterday at the castle.”
Brìghde glanced up from where she was shelling beans on the doorstep.
Her mother crouched a few yards away, cutting a cabbage for the stew she was making for the noon meal.
It was rare for mother and daughter to work or spend time together at this hour, but of late, Brìghde had taken to leaving Eòghan alone in the forge while she helped her mother out with some of the chores he had once taken care of.
It seemed only fair.
Ada had a lot of work to do, and unfortunately, their father couldn’t help with most of it.
Even so, Ada’s comment made her wish that she’d remained safely ensconced in the forge this morning.
“News travels as fast as the plague in this place,” she muttered. “How folk love to gossip.”
Her mother arched an eyebrow. “Aye, well, it’s not every day they see the clan-chief’s firstborn defending a local woman’s honor and knocking a man down for disrespecting her.”
“Nicol Mackenzie had it coming,” Brìghde growled.
Ada nodded, her lips pursing. “I’m not judging ye over it. I’m glad the laird’s son defended ye.” Her gaze turned probing. “Although I do wonder why.”
Brìghde’s pulse quickened.
Here it was. She should have known this day would come.
Ada was shrewd, and she met daily with her friends at market to share news. A sparrow couldn’t fart in Duart without one of those women hearing it. So, it was only a matter of time before her mother found out there was something between them.
“I guess he’s grateful for the help I gave him with training. Then he heard what Nicol said and stepped in. That’s all.”
“Still, it was quite a show, by all accounts,” her mother answered. “Look at me, lass … please.”
Steeling herself, even as her palms turned clammy, Brìghde complied.
Ada’s gaze was probing, yet there was a softness in it too. An understanding. “There is something between the two of ye, isn’t there?”
Heat washed over Brìghde. Either her mother was more observant than most, or all of Duart knew—and if that was the case, how could she ever show her face in public again?
“No,” she said, even as her voice caught.
“Ye spent a lot of time together,” Ada answered. “And I did wonder if that was wise. Greig Maclean is a fine example of a man … one any woman would sigh over. Falling for him doesn’t make ye weak.”
Brìghde’s fingers clutched at the bean pod she held. “To do so would be stupid, Ma,” she said. “He’s far above me.”
“Indeed,” Ada replied with a sigh. Picking up the cabbage, she moved across to Brìghde and lowered herself onto the step, next to her.
Their hips and shoulders touched. It was a companionable position, yet Brìghde couldn’t enjoy it.
Her guts were tied up in knots. She felt sick. This was the last conversation she wanted to be having with her mother, and she knew which way it would lead.
“The night of the gathering … ye lay with him, didn’t ye?”
Brìghde jolted as if her mother had just elbowed her in the ribs. “What?” she croaked. “I—”
“When I went to hang up yer new kirtle the next day, I found the skirts covered in smears of soot,” Ada went on. “If I were to guess, I’d say ye two had a tryst in the forge. Am I right?”
Shame burned like a coal in Brìghde’s chest.
Slowly, not trusting herself to speak, she nodded.
Her mother let out another sigh, this one weary. “Ah, lass, I understand what it’s like to want someone … what it’s like when desire catches hold of ye.” She paused then before adding dryly. “I had to trap yer da in his own forge to get his attention,” she said dryly. “I even had to—”
“That’s all right, Ma,” Brìghde cut her off. “I don’t need to know the details.”
Ada eyed her, lips curved. “We were young once too, ye know? Do ye think ye and yer brother were delivered to our door by fairies?”
“No,” Brìghde replied, her cheeks warming. Lord, she wished she would speak of something else.
However, Ada wasn’t finished yet. “I’m not judging ye for lying with the man.” Her expression sobered then. “But what if there are consequences?”
“There won’t be any,” Brìghde assured her. “Ye wondered why I disappeared for a day after the attack. I went to Moy and saw Hazel Maclean. She gave me something to bring my menses on.” The words tasted bitter—even now.
Ada’s shoulders lowered. “That was wise. Ye’ve got a practical head on yer shoulders.” Her gaze roamed Brìghde’s face then. “But that doesn’t change the fact that ye have clearly lost yer heart to the man.” She hesitated then. “And he has clearly fallen for ye.”
Brìghde stiffened. “No, he hasn’t.”
“A man doesn’t defend a woman like that without reason,” her mother replied, shaking her head. “And ye know it.”