Chapter 32
SOME MOMENTS FELT as if they lasted an eternity.
This was one.
Greig’s blood roared in his ears. His heart had lodged in his throat.
The waiting was agony, yet wait he would. Everything hung on what Brìghde said next.
She could destroy him with just one word, and she knew it. A year ago, he’d have rather run unarmed into a line of English knights on horseback than make himself this vulnerable. The man he’d once been would have curled his lip in scorn, even before his maiming.
But this morning, nothing mattered but Brìghde.
“This is madness, Greig,” she said finally, her grey eyes shining with tears. “Ye can’t mean it.”
“I do,” he said fiercely. “I love ye, lass. Do ye feel the same?”
Her throat worked, silence drawing out before she whispered, “I do.”
The words trembled between them.
Her gaze dropped to the bracelet. “But that doesn’t mean I can trust ye.”
That hit him.
“Then give me a chance to prove myself.” Reaching up, he took hold of the hand that clutched his bracelet.
Gently, he unfurled her fingers and retrieved it, sliding it onto her wrist. The bracelet fit perfectly, the intricate knots gleaming in the candlelight.
“I wish to be bound to ye … until I draw my last breath.”
Her full lips parted, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Greig’s breathing caught. It was like seeing the sun come out after days of heavy fog.
His belly clenched. Christ, he loved her. This woman had knocked him off his feet, had taught him what really mattered in life. He couldn’t imagine going on without her.
“Very well,” she said huskily.
Rising to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his left thigh, Greig stepped into her.
He cupped her face in his hands, gazing deep into her eyes. “No more secrets between us, Brì,” he murmured. “Only truth.”
And with that, he lowered his mouth to hers, uncaring that they had an audience.
It was so quiet in the chapel now that one could have heard a pin drop, yet neither of them cared. He kissed her as a man who had fought for something and finally won it—hard at first, then deepening, slowing.
Brìghde swayed into him, her hands holding onto his waist, as if he were her anchor in a wild sea.
And he would be.
He tasted salt and drew back, watching as tears slid down her cheeks. His pulse stuttered, yet she smiled even as she wept.
His own vision blurred, his throat aching with emotion.
Someone coughed, shattering the moment.
Blinking, Greig tore his gaze from Brìghde’s and glanced right, to where his father had pushed his way through the crowd and stepped forward. Loch Maclean’s expression was veiled, although his dark eyes were narrowed. “Didn’t think to ask me first before offering for Duart’s blacksmith?”
Greig stiffened.
Of course, he should have gone to his father, should have gotten his blessing, and Breac Boyd’s too.
But he hadn’t.
It had taken everything he had to approach Brìghde this morning. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on anything else.
However, spying the glint in his father’s eyes, he realized his mistake.
“Sorry, Da,” he said roughly. “I hadn’t planned to do things this way.”
That was the truth.
He hadn’t dared hope things would work out, that Brìghde would forgive him, that she’d listen to him. He was still reeling that she’d agreed to wed him.
However, his father had just driven a spike through his wheels.
“Ye are my heir,” Loch said. “And ye think ye can choose as ye please?”
Greig stiffened under the reprimand.
His father’s gaze shifted to Brìghde then. He stared her down, as if she was to blame for his son losing his wits. And to her credit, she didn’t lower her gaze. No, the lass faced her clan-chief, proud and defiant.
Greig’s pulse quickened.
Her courage was one of the things he loved most about her.
She wouldn’t be cowed. Even by Loch Maclean.
And neither would he. “I know this comes as a shock,” Greig answered, deciding he wasn’t going to bandy words about this. “But just like ye, I met a woman who changed everything for me.”
Mairi stepped up next to Loch. His mother’s expression was startled, yet her eyes gleamed.
Around them, some of the congregation were blinking furiously. A few of the women were wiping away tears.
A muscle bunched in his father’s jaw. “Not this again,” he growled. “Craeg Maclean used the same argument with me … I tire of others flinging my choices back in my face.”
Greig’s lips curved. “I’d never do that … I wouldn’t be here if ye two hadn’t wed.” His gaze flicked back to his mother. “Ye made an unconventional match, yet ye have never regretted it. My mother was the best thing that ever happened to ye.”
A nerve flickered under his father’s eye, even as Mairi wordlessly reached out and took his hand, threading her fingers through his.
“She was,” he admitted roughly. “But that doesn’t change this.”
“If ye won’t give us yer blessing, I understand,” Greig replied, stubbornness digging its heels in then. “If that means I must leave Mull with Brìghde and forge my own path elsewhere, so be it.”
His father’s lips pursed then, a clear sign his patience was being sorely tested.
Greig’s breathing grew shallow.
He didn’t want to vex his father, but he wouldn’t back down from this. Aye, both his best friends had defied convention and taken wives far beneath them in rank—and they’d both had the courage to defend their decision.
As would he. With his life if necessary.
“We will leave, if that’s what ye wish, Maclean,” Brìghde said then, speaking up for the first time.
“But we’d prefer to stay … to live amongst those we love.
To serve the Macleans of Mull for the rest of our days.
” Her gaze never left Loch’s face as she continued.
“I’m no lady … but I do love yer son. I stand with him, no matter where he goes. ”
Greig’s heart kicked.
Her words meant much. Until this morning, he was sure she’d never trust him again, but clearly his gesture, his promises, had unlocked something inside her.
Reaching out, he took her hand, squeezing tightly in thanks.
Her words meant more than she likely realized.
Loch stared her down for a few moments more before his attention flicked to Greig again.
“Ye two are a stubborn pair,” he muttered.
He then reached up and pinched the skin between his eyebrows, waging an inner battle.
“But if ye think I’d banish my son for choosing a woman of common birth, ye don’t know me at all. ”
His gaze drilled into Greig now.
“Of course, I’d have hard-headed sons … ye’ve always been too much like me for yer own good. I should have known only a woman who brings ye to yer knees would ever win yer heart.”
Their stare drew out, and something unspoken passed between them. Then Loch huffed a sigh. “Very well… I just got ye back, and will not risk losing ye again … ye have my blessing.”
A beat of silence followed these words, and then a roar of approval went up in the chapel.
Greig tensed, shocked by the reaction of those gathered around them.
He hadn’t expected this—the cheers, the tears, the support. Of course, he’d done more than break with tradition by choosing Brìghde; he’d trampled all over it.
The heir to the clan didn’t wed a blacksmith. It had never been done.
News of this would shock The Western Isles, and yet it wasn’t the first time the Macleans of Duart had broken with the way of things. News was already rippling through the isles about the ‘gift’ Loch Maclean had sent to Callum MacDonald of Sleat. His son’s decapitated head.
If others disagreed with the match his son had made—and they likely would—few would dare voice open criticism.
His mother wept openly as she left her husband’s side and flung her arms around Greig, hugging him tightly. She then went to Brìghde and embraced her fiercely too.
Brìghde’s cheeks now glowed like twin embers, although she was smiling.
Happiness radiated from her. Aye, she did believe him now, and he would never betray her trust.
Behind her, the Boyd family stood, stunned, as Mairi moved to them, offering her congratulations. Ada dipped into a low curtsy before bursting into tears too.
Breac rubbed his wife’s back while Brìghde went to soothe her mother. Next to them, Eòghan shifted awkwardly, unsure what to do about this outpouring of emotion.
Greig’s lips quirked. Once, he too would have been bemused by all of this.
The cheering continued, and he let it wash over him.
He’d savor this moment until the end of his days.
Davy moved forward then, a grin stretching his face.
They clasped arms, and then Davy hauled him into a hard, rib-cracking hug. “Never thought ye had it in ye,” he said, slapping Greig soundly on the back. “Ye’ve got stones, brother.”
The congregation flowed out of the chapel, a tide of excited voices that filled the outer courtyard.
Greig and Brìghde stayed behind, standing together while Father Malcolm joined the others, leaving them alone.
Pulse fluttering, Brìghde turned to Greig.
She found him watching her, his dark eyes softer than she’d ever seen them.
By the Saints. The way he was looking at her.
She’d never tire of it.
He looked at her as if she were the most beautiful woman in Scotland.
To him, she wasn’t the Forge Maiden. She was only Brìghde.
“Well,” she said huskily. “That was a scene none in Duart will ever forget.”
His lips curved as he stepped close and raised a hand to stroke her cheek. “No … I’ve never been a man to do things in half measures.”
She laughed, even as her pulse fluttered at his touch.
She still couldn’t believe it. He’d bared his soul to her in front of everyone and then stood up to his father on her behalf.
She reached for him again, as if to make sure he was still there. The warmth and strength of his hands clasping hers anchored her.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said then. “About yer craft.”
She inclined her head. “Eòghan still has to finish his apprenticeship.”
He nodded. “Aye … and I’ll not stand in the way of that … but” —he broke off then, as if embarrassed— “Ye should be doing more with yer skills.”
He lifted his hand, showing her the ring. “Ye made this. I’ve worn it every day since.” Warmth suffused her chest. She loved that he’d never taken it off. “Ye have talent, Brì … and I know ye love crafting such things. Why don’t ye make more?”
She inclined her head. “I’d like to … I won’t have a workshop though.”
He smiled. “Not yet … but I shall talk to my father about giving ye one.”
Her breathing caught. “Ye’d do that … for me?”
His gaze glinted. “Aye, lass … that’s the least of it.”
They stared at each other for a heartbeat, and then Brìghde raised a hand and placed it on his chest. His heart thudded steadily against her palm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t believe ye that night in the forge.”
“Don’t apologize for that, mo chridhe.” He lifted his free hand to hers, covering it firmly. “Ye had no reason to take me at my word.”
“I do now,” she assured him, even as warmth suffused her. Lord. He’d been brave today. He’d put everything on the line—for her. “I never thought things would work out … not for me,” she admitted huskily.
“Ye are lovely,” he replied, his voice catching. “Strong, proud, and fierce. Alistair saw it too, remember?” He flashed her a rueful smile then. “I was just too thick-headed to notice at first.” His grip on her hand tightened slightly. “Too lost in bitterness and self-pity.”
“Ye were,” she murmured. “But ye had yer reasons.”
He traced his thumb down the line of her jaw, his gaze softening further.
“Once, I measured myself on my ability to swing a claidheamh-mòr in battle. With that taken from me, I felt diminished.” He shook his head ruefully then.
“The Samhuinn before last, Hazel told me that there’s more to being a man than going into battle and slaying his enemies.
I ignored her at the time … I snarled at her, I’m sure …
but I understand what she meant now. No victory in battle could mean as much to me as ye. ”
Brìghde’s throat tightened. “That’s quite an admission, Maclean,” she said, even as her voice caught. “Careful … or everyone will start thinking ye have a heart as soft as porridge.”
He laughed, the low rumble vibrating through the empty chapel. “Aye, well, I don’t,” he replied, his thumb skimming across her lower lip then. “Only for ye, Brì.”