Chapter 30
THE NORTHERN CURTAIN wall rang with the sounds of labor.
Mallets cracked against timber, saws rasped through planks, and men shouted measurements back and forth over the gusting wind.
Below in the courtyard, a cart creaked beneath barrels of pitch being hauled toward the stores, while a cluster of warriors sorted bundles of newly fletched arrows beside the gatehouse.
Greig stood with his father upon the battlements, one hand braced against the stone as he surveyed the work going on across from them.
“These repairs are long overdue,” Loch said then. “That north watch platform badly needed reinforcing.”
“Aye,” Greig replied. “The sea air has rotted the support posts beneath it. But if enemies were ever to strike from the water, that’s where they’ll test us first.”
His jaw tightened then. Enemies. Of course, they both knew he was referring to the MacDonalds.
They were beaten for now, but who knew if Callum MacDonald would one day try to take revenge for the death of his son.
The bastard had no right to be sore about that.
After all, he’d sent him here to spill Maclean blood.
Nonetheless, the clan-chief likely nursed a deep hatred now.
Loch grunted. “Aye. I thought the same.”
Greig pointed to the guard tower behind them. “We should build a beacon there. If trouble comes again, we need to be able to signal to Croggan for help.”
Indeed, Croggan tower perched on a high crag overlooking the Sound of Mull, just southeast of Duart. Logan Black would be able to see the beacon clearly if they ever called for help.
His father’s thick brows rose slightly. “Ye’ve been thinking on this.”
Greig huffed. “Of course.”
He glanced away then, across the sea of men below, to where the afternoon sun glimmered upon the Sound. The light turned the water steel-blue beneath drifting clouds. The view from up here was breathtaking and, unbidden, pride tightened his chest.
However, it couldn’t mask the ache that already resided there, deep under his breastbone.
No, that sensation wouldn’t shift.
No matter how busy he kept himself, Brìghde often intruded on his thoughts.
The last time they had any contact was nearly a fortnight earlier, when Nicol Mackenzie had insulted her. He hadn’t meant to step in, but the man’s words had turned his vision red.
He’d been ready to stab him if he hadn’t apologized.
Unfortunately, Brìghde had just looked mortified in the aftermath. He hadn’t wanted her thanks; all he needed was for her not to hate him. Not to look at him as if he were a beast.
His intervention hadn’t fixed things between them though.
Perhaps it had made things worse.
The thought settled like a stone in his gut, yet he forced it aside. He had spent too long allowing grief and bitterness to consume him—he wouldn’t let himself turn into a lovesick fool. Duart could not afford such weakness from its marshal.
Opposite them, two young warriors struggled to lift a timber beam into place.
Greig frowned before calling out, “The beam’s not level.”
The men jerked still, startled, before hastily adjusting their grip. However, the beam started to list again as they hefted it once more.
“Lift together, ye great dolts,” Greig shouted. “Unless ye want the whole thing collapsing atop ye.”
Loch barked a laugh beside him.
The sound surprised Greig enough that he glanced sideways.
“There’s the son I remember,” Loch said, grinning at him.
Greig snorted. “I’ve been here all along.”
“No.” His father’s expression sobered. “Yer body was. Not the rest of ye.”
Silence stretched between them then, filled only by the sounds of work and the distant crash of waves against rock, before Loch stepped closer and rested a hand upon Greig’s shoulder. “It’s good to have ye back, son.”
Greig stilled, swallowing hard.
His father’s words had caught him off guard. He didn’t get emotional often. Neither of them did.
Loch’s grip tightened then. “Here ye stand. Working, leading men … thinking ahead.” He cleared his throat then. “Duart needs that. One day this castle … and its lands … will pass to ye … and when it does … ye will do me proud.” He paused then. “Ye already do.”
Greig met his eye squarely then, surprised to see his dark gaze glittering with emotion. They stared at each other for a long moment before Greig nodded.
Cutting his attention away, he focused on the warriors laboring on the wall. He needed a moment to pull himself together.
His father’s words meant more than Loch would ever know.
His life was far from perfect. He worked hard these days, trying to avoid thinking about Brìghde—and whenever he stopped, he found himself brooding over the mess he’d made over things—but standing there beside his father, a salty breeze caressing his face, something steadied inside him.
Loch was right.
He’d found his way back; he’d found his purpose. And no darkness, no grief, nor even heartbreak, would wrest it from him again.
“There ye are.”
Greig’s chin kicked up, his gaze swiveling to the doorway of the armory, where his brother now stood. Davy leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.
“What are ye up to? Why have ye hidden yerself away in here?”
Greig scowled, hoping it would be enough to let his brother know he didn’t wish to be interrupted.
He would have thought it was bloody obvious what he was doing.
“The blades in here needed sharpening,” he replied, gesturing to the stack of dirks he was working his way through on the bench before him.
He sat on a stool, a whetstone between his knees.
A beat of silence followed.
Greig stiffened. He judged, from the glint in Davy’s eye, that wasn’t really what his brother was asking. No, he was wondering why Greig didn’t sit with his family in the evenings as he once had.
The nights were drawing in now, and dusk had been settling when he made his way outdoors after supper. Instead of lingering indoors, he’d sought industry. A lantern burned brightly on the bench next to him, throwing golden light on the blade Greig had been sharpening.
Ignoring his brother, he resumed work, the grating sound of steel against stone reverberating through the small building.
“What the devil is up with ye?”
“Nothing.”
Davy muttered something under his breath. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say ye were pining.”
Greig stilled before cutting his brother a dark look. “Careful.”
Davy’s gaze narrowed. “Ye can’t be lovesick though … ye’d never allow yerself such a weakness.”
Greig pulled a face. “And ye are an expert on such things, are ye?”
He’d expected his comment to embarrass his younger brother. But Davy merely shrugged.
“Ye never did tell me how ye offended Kenna Black so that eve?” Greig asked then. The Blacks had recently made another visit from Croggan, and the wintry atmosphere between Davy and Kenna was obvious to all. “The lass must have been mightily vexed to slap ye like that.”
His brother’s lean jaw flexed, his lips pursing in an expression that made him look the image of their father. “Don’t try to change the focus from ye. We aren’t talking about me.”
“We’re not talking about me either,” he replied, resuming his sharpening.
Davy made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, and when Greig looked his way once more, his brother was eyeing him.
Greig’s hackles rose. He didn’t like the knowing look on his face, the slight smirk that curved his lips. “Something amuses ye?” he growled.
“It’s her, isn’t it? The Forge Maiden.”
Greig cut his gaze away. “Leave it, would ye?”
His brother’s smirk widened. “Och, I knew it!”
Slamming the dirk he’d just sharpened down on the bench, Greig snatched another.
“Did ye do as Al wished?” Davy asked then. “Did ye win her heart?”
Greig’s grip tightened on the blade. “No.”
“I think ye did.”
Greig started to sharpen the next blade, sawing it against the whetstone viciously. It likely wasn’t doing the steel much good, yet his patience had been stretched to breaking point. “Ye don’t know what ye’re talking about.”
“Ye’re right … I’m no expert when it comes to women,” Davy answered, his tone rueful now. “But I did meet Brìghde Boyd at Al’s grave a few weeks ago. She was paying her respects … but I could see something was bothering her.” A pause followed. “Was it ye?”
Greig stopped sharpening the blade and slammed down it and the whetstone. He surged forward, crowding Davy hard enough to force him back against the frame. Then, pushing his face close, he growled, “What did ye say to her?”
Undaunted, Davy smiled. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her I knew about Al’s list … I didn’t need to. She’s a bright woman. She knows.”
Greig’s gut hardened. She knows.
The words hollowed him out.
His brother’s admission just made things worse. Now Brìghde thought they’d spoken about her behind her back—possibly even made fun of her. No wonder she fled at the sight of him.
Davy’s expression sobered then. “Christ, ye have it bad … don’t ye?” He hesitated, his gaze searching. “Why don’t ye just talk to her, ye great clodhead?”
Greig’s hands flexed at his sides. God, he wanted to grab his brother by the throat and shake him.
Davy was like a terrier on a rat this evening.
“I’ve tried that,” he ground out. “But she thinks I’m lying.
She believes my interest in her was all a game …
that I meant none of it.” He broke off then, his chest wrenching, before adding.
“And every word I speak just seems to prove her right.”
Davy took this in, his face thoughtful now. “So, maybe ye should forget about talking to her,” he said after a pause. “If words won’t do … then show her.”
Oban, mainland Scotland
Two days later …
Greig lingered on the street, the sharp wind off the water tugging at his plaid sash and carrying with it the tang of salt and kelp. The cry of gulls echoed against stone, and the rough voices of the dockworkers hauling cargo rang along the waterfront behind him.
After alighting from the ferry from Mull, he’d made his way down Oban’s wharf to this goldsmith’s shop, nestled into a dark alley.
Warm light spilled out invitingly across the cobbles. Yet he didn’t move.
This was a fool’s errand.
Davy’s voice echoed in his mind still, insistent. If words won’t do … then show her.
Greig dragged a hand down his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken his brother’s advice. That morning, as he’d stepped onto the ferry at Craignure, determination had burned in his gut.
But now, he doubted himself.
Words had failed him. Why would a gift succeed where truth had not?
And yet, here he was.
One thing was certain: he couldn’t go on as he had been.
Davy was right. His foul mood affected them all. His family deserved better. Everyone in Duart Castle did. Aye, he worked hard as marshal, but everyone would be tiring of looking at his miserable face—they likely had for a while now.
And he had been right about something else too. He couldn’t just roll over and admit defeat.
He was a Maclean.
He did not yield.
With a low curse under his breath, he stepped forward at last, pushed open the door, and ducked beneath the lintel.
The warmth of the shop wrapped around him, a welcome contrast to the chill outside. The air smelled faintly of charcoal and heated metal.
Greig looked around with interest.
This was the type of workshop he could see Brìghde in, crafting beautiful jewelry. Instinctively, he ran his thumb over the stag head ring on his right hand. It was a common gesture of late, as if the touch brought him closer to her somehow.
A heavyset man with wavy black hair stood at the workbench polishing a gold ring with a soft cloth. He glanced up. “Aye?”
“I’m looking for a brooch,” Greig said, then hesitated. “For a woman.”
The goldsmith’s lips curved, and he nodded. Reaching beneath the bench, he laid out a few brooches—amber, rock crystal, and freshwater pearls, all set in silver.
Greig studied them, but none stirred anything in him. “They’re well made,” he murmured, “but not … right. Not for her.”
The goldsmith’s brow furrowed. “Does the lass know what she means to ye?”
Warmth rose to Greig’s cheeks. Cods. He hadn’t blushed in years, yet he could feel his face starting to burn. Why was this so hard? “I told her … yet she doesn’t believe me,” he muttered. “And now, she thinks I secretly scorn her.”
He felt absurd standing here, speaking of such things.
However, he marked no judgment in the man’s eyes. Instead, he turned and lifted a slender band of silver from the wall behind him. “This, perhaps,” he said, placing it in Greig’s palm. “A bracelet. Plain enough … but it need not stay that way.”
Greig turned it over, the cool weight of it settling against his skin.
“It could be worked into a knot,” the man continued, picking up a length of wire and bending it deftly between his fingers to demonstrate. “An interwoven love knot.”
Greig’s breath caught.
“That’s it … that’s hers.” He swallowed to loosen the sudden tightness in his throat. “Could ye have it ready for me by tomorrow?”
The goldsmith inclined his head, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight. “Aye … although it will cost ye.”
Greig reached for the coin purse at his belt. No price could be placed on Brìghde, or her affections, but he’d wasted enough time nursing his wounds. He needed to return to Mull, to Duart, and face her again. “Whatever it costs,” he said. “I’ll pay it.”