Page 20 of Steel & Surrender

There’d been no word from the MacDonalds of Sleat since that attack.

The silence was ominous, and every Maclean at Duart couldn’t help but suspect that this was just the beginning.

Greig’s rare buoyant mood dissipated then, and with a grimace, he rolled onto his front and swam back into shore.

Getting out of the water proved much harder than he’d thought, though. He stumbled and then fell—and then was forced to emerge onto the shore on his hands and knees.

Satan’s turds. His cheeks burned, despite that he didn’t have an audience. He was so weak, so feeble, and he hated it.

Panting, he pushed himself up onto his feet, and then, limping badly now, he struggled through the soft sand to where Tàirneanach awaited him.

A short while later, he was dressed and riding back up the track to the well-worn path between Duart and Craignure. The afternoon was waning, the light turning gold, and the breeze eased a little, as it often did as evening approached.

Greig decided to set a leisurely pace back to Duart. He’d pushed Tàirneanach, and himself, hard for most of the day, building up stamina for the ride he planned to do in the next couple of days, from Duart to The Western Cliffs in one go. He’d never attempted it before, although before his injury, he wouldn’t have thought twice about embarking on the challenge.

Now, however, he wondered how well he’d fare.

Tàirneanach, nonetheless, was fit, strong, and more up to the challenge than he was.

He was brooding on this, wondering if he’d been a fool to embark on Alistair’s list, when he spied travelers ahead on the path.

A woman and a feather-footed garron with wicker baskets strapped to its back stood talking to a burly, fair-haired man.

The woman was tall, and as he drew closer, he caught a flash of white-blonde hair in the afternoon sun, braided down her back.

His lips thinned.

Brìghde Boyd.

And the man talking to her was Ian Maclean, a tenant farmer who worked a run rig outside Duart village.

But they weren’t conversing. They were arguing.

Ian stepped in closer, and Brìghde shifted back, caged against the garron’s barrel-like flank. Neither of them had seen him, for their gazes were locked.

And as Greig looked on, Ian reached up and tried to stroke Brìghde’s cheek.

Her hand flashed up, gripping his wrist. An angry flush bloomed upon her cheeks. “Enough of that.” Her voice, tight with anger and an edge of panic, echoed down the path. “I’ll tell ye again, Ian Maclean, I do not wish—”

Ian stepped closer still, his free hand coming up to grip her shoulder.

“I enjoy a few games as much as the next man, but enough now. Ye’ve led me on a merry dance these past couple of years, but no longer. Enough. Yer brother will soon take yer place at the forge … it’s time for ye to find yerself a husband. And I can offer ye what ye need.” His voice grew rough then. “I’ll take the kiss ye’ve owed me for a while now.”

He lurched forward then, his mouth crashing down on hers.

With a muffled cry, Brìghde twisted hard, driving her shoulder into his chest.

She was taller and stronger than other women, but he, too, had muscles forged from hard labor.

Even from a distance, Greig could see he was overpowering her.

And he didn’t appear to have any intention of stopping.

7: NO SMALL THING

BRÌGHDE FOUGHT IAN.

The man had a grip of iron, but she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted.