Page 19 of Steel & Surrender

A breeze feathered across Greig’s face, pulling at the hair he’d tied back at the nape of his neck. Squinting in the bright sunlight that sparkled off the Sound, he angled Tàirneanach down the track toward the small sandy crescent.

There was a beach closer to the castle—Duart Bay, a wide swathe that formed an excellent crescent for landing boats and swimming—but the path down to it couldn’t be traversed on horseback, and his leg wasn’t up to the walk.

As such, on his way back from a long ride on Tàirneanach, he had succumbed to the urge and turned off here for his first swim since before his maiming. There was no one about. As a bairn, his father had warned him many times about the perils of swimming alone. But Greig Maclean had long since left childhood behind.

If he was taking risks, he knew it. And he’d taken plenty worse than this in his life so far.

If the sea claimed him today, then so be it.

Seized with a recklessness that reminded him of how he’d once been, he drew his gelding up on the sand and carefully dismounted. Then, tethering Tàirneanach to a sea lupin bush that grew on the edge of the beach, he set about undressing.

His dirk belt hit the sand. He then heeled off his boots and yanked his lèine over his head, dropping his braies. He stepped out of them and stood naked under the kiss of the sun. The breeze held a chill edge, whispering in as it did from the Sound itself, but the sensation was invigorating.

He didn’t look down at his maimed leg. He tried to avoid looking at it whenever possible. Instead, he limped heavily down to the water.

Gritting his teeth, he moved forward, pushing through the pain that shot up his left thigh into his groin.

This wasn’t going to be easy, but he was ready.

His change in attitude surprised him. It had stolen over him in the past couple of weeks.

Ever since he’d started sparring with Davy.

They’d fought a few times up on the terrace of the Winter Garden away from prying eyes, and on all occasions, his brother had bested him easily. Yestereve, he’d knocked Greig flat on his arse. His leg had throbbed all night afterward. However, he hadn’t complained. He’d asked for this, hadn’t he?

It was humiliating to move so slowly. His arms, too, had lost strength over the past year, while Davy was in peak condition. It was hardly surprising his brother bested him. All the same, he didn’t like it. His pride stung that every bout ended the same way. The smugness on Davy’s face galled him.

He’d beat him, he vowed.

That task wasn’t on Alistair’s list though.

The water’s chill bit at his ankles as he waded in, his thigh burning as his leg met resistance. Teeth gritted, he stumbled on, slowing as the water deepened, and then, sucking in deep breaths, he dove underwater.

The cold hit him like a slap, knocking the breath out of his lungs, and when he surfaced, he was gasping.

He started to swim then, a dog paddle at first, and then a lazy breaststroke that propelled him swiftly through the water. And as he moved and his body got used to the cold, a smile tugged at his lips.

It was the first time he’d felt like smiling in a long while.

But being able to swim again was exhilarating, to say the least. At first, he didn’t use his legs much, but then, as he swam in a wide circle around the sheltered bay, he slowly began to kick, and as he did, relief suffused him. His thigh wasn’t paining him, no more than usual anyway.

He could do this.

Once he had built up his fitness, he planned to swim longer distances, this time with Davy rowing beside him. But for the meantime, he’d start here.

He continued to propel himself through the water, using the breaststroke, in circles until his breathing grew ragged and his thigh started to throb in protest. And then, breathing hard, he rolled onto his back and floated there like a starfish in the glittering water.

The sky arched above him, gulls shrieking.

On land, he was broken.

In the water, he was almost whole.

For a few moments, he felt light, unfettered, and then his thoughts drifted to other matters—and his smile faded.

Things weren’t good at home at present. Davy spoke of nothing but revenge. His mother drifted the halls of Duart, as pale and drawn as a wraith. And his father was in a permanent ill temper, spending hours sequestered away in his solar, writing letters to his allies, or out with Finn and the Guard, training.

Davy’s accusation that he wasn’t doing enough had hit home, and Loch Maclean grew increasingly restless with each passing day. Greig understood it. He too felt the same frustration and anger.