Chapter 31
THE CHAPEL IN the outer courtyard of Duart Castle was already filling when Brìghde and her family arrived, the low murmur of voices spilling out through the open doorway. It was raining gently, and they shook droplets of water off their woolen cloaks as they stepped indoors.
Ada walked in front of her son and daughter, her arm looped through Breac’s, guiding him across the uneven ground.
Brìghde stepped across the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the familiar interior of the chapel. Rough stone walls with high, narrow windows that let in thin shafts of grey light. Candles burned along the walls, their flames guttering in the draft.
Inhaling the odor of tallow, incense, and damp wool, she followed her family to one of the side benches. Seated between her mother and Eòghan, she folded her hands on her lap and fixed her gaze ahead.
The mood inside the chapel was somber. Over a month had passed since the MacDonald attack, and tension still lingered at Duart. Nonetheless, few folk missed Sunday Mass, and neither would the Boyds.
Brìghde wished she could beg off, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.
Father Malcolm stood near the altar, his youthful face solemn as he prepared to begin. He was still relatively new to Duart, still finding his footing among them, but there was a steadiness to him that folk seemed to trust.
The murmur of voices ebbed as he raised his hands.
Brìghde lowered her head, though her thoughts wandered.
She had no business being here today. She was in a brittle mood, and the forge would have been easier.
The rhythm of work, the heat, the solitude—it would have dulled the pain in her breast. Or she could have lost herself in the creativity of making another piece of jewelry.
Despite her unhappiness at present, she always found solace in working silver into something beautiful.
She’d just started work on another ring and was decorating it with delicately wrought thistles.
How she wished she were in the forge working on it right now.
The door creaked open behind them.
A shift moved through the chapel, subtle but unmistakable.
Brìghde’s heart gave a hard, traitorous kick. She did not turn at once—she told herself she would not—but the sound of footsteps along the stone floor drew her in despite herself, and her gaze slid sideways.
The Macleans had arrived. Loch and Mairi moved toward the front, taking their place near the altar, and Greig followed, Davy at his side.
Greig looked as he always did—tall and proud, and sure in his stride despite his pronounced limp.
And curse her, Brìghde’s gaze ate him up, as if it were starving for him.
Realizing what she was doing, she cut her stare away.
She couldn’t let him catch her again. She couldn’t bear it.
Yet even as she fixed her eyes upon the altar, she felt him there, a presence she could not ignore. As if he was just as aware of her as she was of him. As if the space between them had drawn tight.
Longing rose, sharp and unwelcome, in her breast.
Closing her eyes, she recalled the way he’d made her feel. Beautiful. Desired.
Her chest tightened.
Enough
She shouldn’t torture herself with such thoughts. That path was closed to her now.
Father Malcolm’s voice rose, drawing the congregation into prayer, but she barely heard him.
Brìghde bowed her head, her hands tightening in her lap.
She just needed to get through this.
Father Malcolm’s voice droned on, but Greig barely heard him.
Instead, all he could think about was the woman who sat at the back of the chapel with her family. And about the silver bracelet pressed against his chest.
He’d looked for Brìghde the moment he entered, and was relieved to find her there.
Reaching up, he placed his palm over the bracelet. It was foolish that such a thing meant so much to him, yet it did.
Davy’s words prodded him once more. Show her.
Aye. That was the crux of it. This might mend things between them, or it might not. But at least, he would know.
A flicker of doubt stirred, cold and unwelcome.
What if she refused it? What if she turned from him again?
His jaw tightened, queasiness rising.
Father Malcolm’s voice rose and fell, speaking of duty, of faith, of the path set before each soul. Greig stared ahead, unseeing, his thoughts churning like a wild sea.
There was no path without risk. No reward without stepping into the fray. And he’d faced worse than this, hadn’t he?
The Mass drew toward its end, the chaplain’s final blessing echoing through the chapel. Around him, folk shifted, the low murmur rising once more as they began to stand.
Greig’s pulse kicked.
This was it.
He glanced over his shoulder then, unable to stop himself.
Brìghde was rising from the bench, her head bowed, moving with purpose, seeking to flee before their paths crossed.
A familiar instinct stirred in him. He should let her go and avoid causing her further discomfort.
He hesitated and then clenched his jaw. No. That had been his mistake before.
Hiding and delaying. Letting things lie unsaid. If he meant this—if he meant to claim her, to stand before his kin and his people and show them that he was not ashamed—then he could not do it in shadows.
This had to be done in the open, before them all.
Drawing the bracelet from his gambeson, he palmed it tightly. And then he cut through the press of the crowd, pushing toward the door.
“Brìghde.”
Her name carried across the chapel, cutting through the murmur of voices. People were staring, but Greig did not look away from her.
Meanwhile, Brìghde had halted and turned, her face draining of color as he approached.
Greig kept moving. The space between them closed, and the moment he had been dreading—and needing—finally arrived.
Brìghde froze in place.
The sound of her name still echoed in the chapel. It had sliced like a blade through the noise, through her thoughts, through her resolve to get out of the castle as fast as she could.
And now, Greig was walking toward her.
The press of people parted before him, making way for the laird’s son, and suddenly, every gaze shifted with him—followed him—until they settled upon her.
Her pulse leaped into a gallop.
Holy Mother. What was he doing?
She couldn’t breathe.
Not here.
Dizziness swept over her as he came to a halt before her. She marked the tension in his jaw then, the way his chest rose and fell sharply, and the tight grip of his hand at his side.
Her stomach dropped.
He looked flustered—a man standing on the edge of something.
“Greig,” she greeted him, her voice thin.
She was aware then of her family all watching. Her skin itched under their scrutiny, yet her attention didn’t waver from the man before her. For a heartbeat, the two of them simply stood there, the space between them charged.
Greig drew in a breath, his gaze fixed on her. “I made a mess of things between us … and I’ll not pretend otherwise.”
A murmur stirred through the chapel.
Brìghde’s stomach tightened. Heat crept up her neck. Saints preserve her—he was doing this here.
“I should have told ye about Alistair from the start. About what he wanted.” His jaw tightened. “I didn’t. That was a mistake.”
This comment drew confused looks from the surrounding crowd, yet Greig’s gaze didn’t waver.
Brìghde’s fingers curled into her skirts. A part of her wanted to stop him, to drag him outside before he said another word. But she couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.
He stepped closer. “I swear, none of it was a game to me.”
Her breath hitched. She searched his face for mockery, for calculation; for anything that would prove this was another mistake. She found none.
“Ye gave me yer time,” he went on. “Yer strength. Ye stood beside me when I was half a man and taught me how to stand whole again.”
Her chest tightened painfully. She remembered Ben More. The climb. The way he had looked at her at the summit. She’d wanted to stay up there with him, forever.
“And somewhere along the way” —his voice roughened— “Ye started to matter greatly to me.”
Her pulse stumbled.
The chapel seemed to shrink around them, the watching eyes pressing closer, the air growing thin.
“I’ve tried to move on with my life,” he went on, quieter now. “To let ye go.” A flicker of fear tightened her chest at this admission before he added, “But I can’t.”
Her lips parted, yet no sound came.
“I am not who I was before I met ye, Brìghde.” His throat worked as he spoke. “And I’ve no wish to be.”
Her vision blurred.
Damn him for saying the very things she had tried to convince herself were lies … for sounding so sincere.
Slowly, he opened his hand. Silver gleamed against his palm, and her breath caught.
“This is for ye,” he murmured. “A knot. No beginning. No end.”
She stared at it, her heart thudding wildly now.
It was beautiful.
“It’s the only way I know how to show ye what I can’t seem to say right,” he said, his voice roughening further.
Her fingers trembled as she lifted her hand—almost without meaning to—and took it.
His skin brushed hers, and heat shot up her arm. Her throat tightened.
“But I’ll say it anyway.” Her gaze snapped back to his face. There was no shield there now. No arrogance. No distance. Just Greig. “I love ye.”
The words echoed through the chapel. Gasps followed, but Brìghde barely heard them.
She had imagined hearing such an admission once; alone, perhaps, in the quiet of the forge. Not like this. Not with every soul in Duart watching her.
Joy flared—bright, terrifying—before fear crashed over it.
What if this broke her again? What if she believed him—and was wrong?
“Greig …” Her voice failed her.
He moved then, before she could gather herself, before she could retreat.
Gingerly, he lowered himself to one knee before her.
A ripple of shock moved through the chapel. Confusion clouded the faces of those standing nearest, their families’ especially, but Brìghde barely noticed. Instead, her heart started to slam against her ribs.
“Brìghde Boyd.” Greig’s voice was hoarse now, stripped bare of everything but truth. “Will ye marry me?”
The world tilted. The bracelet bit into her palm as her grip tightened.
She could feel every eye in that chapel upon her, yet suddenly, she didn’t care.
There was only him.
And the wild, terrifying, glorious chaos rising in her chest.