Page 106 of Honor & Obsession

Greig Maclean, the clan-chief’s firstborn.

Unlike everyone else around the bonfire, he hadn’t guised himself. And he didn’t appear to be enjoying himself either. His swarthy face was set in a grimace of discomfort, his brow furrowed.

Hazel understood why. He walked with a crutch, in halting, painful strides.

Frowning, she moved away from where Lena was now showing Nat the ‘broonie dance’ she’d been practicing all week and met Greig halfway.

She hadn’t known him before his injury, although Craeg assured her that he’d been very different beforehand: sure of himself to the point of arrogance, yet with a dry sense of humor that she’d yet to catch a glimpse of.

The man who’d been staying with them at Moy was cantankerous and solitary. It had been an effort to convince him to join them for the festivities tonight, and when Craeg had suggested he ride his horse down to the bonfire, Greig had snapped his head off.

The clan-chief’s son was proud. He wasn’t adapting to life after his injury well.

“Are ye in pain, Greig?” she asked gently, unable to prevent herself from showing concern.

He grunted. It was a rude response, although she didn’t mind. Her years as a healer made her overlook such things. Even so, she’d avoided giving him any advice during his stay so far.

“Did the healer at Duart give ye an oil to rub on yer leg … to help the muscle heal properly?”

He shook his head.

“Come and see me in the infirmary tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I will make up an oil infused with goatweed. Ye are to massage it into yer leg morning and night … it will help.”

Greig’s dark gaze met hers, and for an instant, she glimpsed relief mingled with embarrassment. “Thank ye,” he said gruffly. “Although I don’t think it will make much of a difference.”

“It will,” she assured him as she stepped closer still. “Ye will always walk with a limp … but if ye look after that leg, ye will recover … in time.”

His expression hardened, and she realized she’d gone too far. “Maybe.” His tone was curt, edged with anger. “But I won’t be riding into battle again, will I? I’ll never be able to swing a claidheamh-mòr on foot as I used to.”

“No,” she said, refusing to let his glare cow her. “But there’s more to being a man than either of those things.”

“Good to see ye joined us, Greig.” Ailean slapped a hand on his shoulder then, interrupting them, and squeezed. “How about a cup of wassail?”

Greig pulled a face, making it clear he didn’t care for the warmed, spiced apple cider. “Just get me some ale.”

“Only if ye stop glaring at me like a grumpy old goat.” Ailean gave him a playful punch in the arm.

Greig’s dark brows drew together in a look that could have split granite. Rolling his eyes, Ailean moved away. “Right, ye crabby bastard, I’ll fetch ye a drink.”

He strode away, moving with the confident, loose-limbed stride of a warrior, heading toward where a pretty lass with curly chestnut hair was pouring ale for revelers. Ailean flashed her a devastating grin before calling out, “Fine night, eh?”

“Ye’ll be waiting for yer ale a while,” Craeg noted, as the lass blushed and Ailean began to flirt with her in earnest.

Greig muttered something under his breath, gripped his crutch tightly, and hobbled off. His broad shoulders were rigid, misery rippling off him with each stride.

Hazel watched him go, her brow furrowed. “I wish there was a way to ease his suffering,” she said when Greig was out of earshot.

Craeg sighed. “Aye … but he doesn’t make things any easier for himself. He’s lamed … and I’m sorry for it.” Hisgaze shadowed then. “But when I saw him after his return to Duart, the healer thought he’d never walk without a stick again.”

“Will he prove him wrong?”

Craeg’s lips quirked. “Aye … he’s more intractable than Duncan.”

Upon hearing his name uttered, the donkey snorted.

Smiling, Craeg moved close to Hazel, lifting his hand to her face. “Ye have cream on yer cheek.” Tenderly, he brushed it away, his touch lingering. “Ye enjoyed the fuarag then?”

She smiled. “It’s a treat indeed.”

His gaze went to her empty cup. “Ye didn’t find any token hidden inside?”

She shook her head.

The tradition was that small items such as a ring, a coin, a button, or a thimble were hidden inside the layers of cream and oats, each foretelling different things. Marriage. Riches. Or whether a lad or lass would ever find someone to wed.

She offered him a cheeky smile then. “I have no wish to have my fortune told … I’m happy with the here and now. I have everything I’ll ever need.”

His own smile widened, his gaze softening in a way he reserved only for her. “As do I.”