Page 25 of Steel & Surrender

Over the past couple of days, she’d started to regret offering to go hill walking with Greig Maclean. Learning about his intention to fulfil his brother’s wishes had moved her so much that she’d blurted out the words without thinking.

He’d agreed, aye, although with little grace.

“Brìghde!” her mother called from behind her. “The bannocks are ready.”

Retreating indoors, Brìghde took her place around the hearth with her family, breaking her fast as she always did with a wedge of bannock fresh off the griddle, slathered with butter and honey. Suddenly, all was right in the world.

As Brìghde sat in the chapel inside the outer courtyard of Duart Castle listening to the earnest drone of Father Malcolm’s voice, the bannock sat like a brick in her belly.

Greig sat up at the front with his family.

The clan-chief and his kin always arrived last at the chapel. Greig had cast her a quick glance as he walked past, leaning heavily on his stick. Jaw set, dark brows knotted together, he was an intimidating sight.

Brìghde clenched her hands into fists on her lap then. What had she been thinking? He hadn’t asked for her help. She’d overstepped … again.

After Mass ended, she returned to the forge and reluctantly saddled her garron. And as she did, she berated herself.

This is ridiculous.

He probably won’t even turn up.

Grumpy now, she mounted Sradag and rode up to the gates, where she waited.

And to her surprise, Greig emerged from under the portcullis astride his muscular roan courser soon after.

Not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, she forced a tight smile. In truth, she felt a trifle ridiculous upon her pony. Sradag was a sturdy fellow and carried her easily enough, yet she was too tall for him. “Ready?”

Lips pursing, Greig nodded.

His response irked her, and without thinking, she asked, “Don’t ye wish to go?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Aye, she thought, reining Sradag around. But ye’ll be poor company.

They rode west, skirting around the village and making their way toward Beinn Talaidh. The ridge inched toward them, broad-backed and sprawling, its rounded summit lost in low cloud today.

Since Greig had little to say, Brìghde focused on the unfolding landscape. Even the grey morning couldn’t dull its beauty. Beinn Talaidh’s slopes rolled outward in heather and coarse grasses, a wash of dusky purple heather at present. Darker scars of rock broke through the soft earth in places as they rode, and thin burns threaded their way down the hillside.

As the land rose higher still, they drew up their mounts and hobbled them before continuing on foot.

It was slow going, and Greig appeared even lamer than usual. Without his stick, he wouldn’t have been able to walk far at all. He struggled up, often stumbling on the stony ground.

It wasn’t long before he was forced to stop and rest his leg.

Brìghde didn’t mind.

Nonetheless, his grumpiness was starting to get on her nerves. He’d barely uttered a word to her since they’d set out. His expression was now thunderous, as if it were her fault he was so badly lamed.

She could have cut the air between them with a knife and wasn’t sure how to ease things.

“We don’t have to go much farther, if ye don’t wish to?” she said finally. The moment the words left her mouth, she wished she could pull them back, for anger sparked in his peat-brown eyes.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “Don’t fuss, woman.”

Brìghde’s gaze narrowed. She didn’t appreciate his tone.

After he’d come to her rescue, she’d told herself she’d misjudged Greig Maclean. But now, she realized her earlier opinion of him had been the right one. Injured or not, he was ill-mannered.