Page 78 of Steel & Surrender

Ailean cast an appraising eye over him. “But I must say, ye almost look yer old self. And yer performance in the strength contests today was impressive indeed.”

“Ye saw that, did ye?” Greig said, pride swelling in his chest.

It had been a tough round of contests, and Ian Maclean had been a worthy adversary. He’d started to worry he might not win one of the competitions, but in the end, Greig had done Alistair’s memory proud.

“I did … and I’m relieved to see that ye have rallied.” His expression softened then. “I was worried about ye, Greig.”

The two friends’ gazes met. It was a rare moment.

Clearing his throat, Greig swung his gaze away. “Losing Alistair brought me to a crossroads,” he said gruffly. “I had a choice, I suppose.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed now. “Lie down and let it take me … or fight.”

“Well, I’m glad ye chose the latter,” Ailean replied, his voice solemn now.

Greig nodded, his embarrassment growing. Usually, he and Ailean bantered, teasing each other, so talking about practical matters felt strange.

Still avoiding his friend’s eye, he kept his attention on the crowd.

It was a lively scene. His brother and some of the other lads watched a couple of lasses who danced to the piper, with hungry looks. The lasses in question—Lena Maclean and Kenna Black, both looking frighteningly grown up these days—laughed as they danced, seemingly oblivious to the attention they were attracting.

Greig's gaze slid over the edge of the crowd to where his parents sat. Loch had slung his arm protectively over Mairi’s shoulders.

Warmth suffused Greig’s chest. It was good to see his parents out here as well, enjoying the music and cheer.

He then swept his attention over the sea of men and women before coming to an abrupt halt.

Brìghde.

Tall and regal, and wearing a lovely blue-grey gown that clung to her strong body, her white-blonde hair streaming over her shoulders, she was dancing with Ranald, a warrior who served in the Duart Guard.

Ranald spun Brìghde around so that her full skirts billowed around her ankles and then put a steadying hand on her back. Greig’s heart began to thud against his ribs.

Jealousy knifed him right through the gut.

How dare the bastard touch her?

“Who’s that, then?”

Greig jerked his gaze away from Brìghde. “What?”

“The woman ye’re staring at. I haven’t seen her before.”

Greig raised his cup to his lips and took a swallow of ale before answering, “Ye won’t have. She’s the village blacksmith.”

“Aye?” Ailean raised an eyebrow. He cast another gaze her way. “She’s strong enough … and tall.”

“Her name’s Brìghde,” Greig said gruffly. “She’s helped me over the past year. I decided to climb Ben More, so we went hill walking for a time … and climbed the mountain together.”

That caught his friend’s full attention. “That’s an impressive feat … but what interests me more is this Brìghde.” He favored Greig with a look he knew well. “A friend of yers now, is she?”

“Of sorts.”

“One ye can’t seem to look away from.” His friend cut him a sly smile. Greig stiffened, ready to tell him to mind his own bloody business, but Ailean lifted his hand, forestalling him. “Save yer breath. Ye don’t have to make excuses. Not to me. I’ll not judge. I certainly don’t have the right … not after the tangle I got myself into.”

Greig surveyed him. Aye, Ailean had made a mess of things, but somehow, he’d picked himself up, rebuilt his life from the ruins, and along the way had won the heart of a good woman. Of course, Fiona was far beneath him in rank—a weaver, not a lady—but no one could deny the powerful love they had. And when Greig had visited them at Ardnacross the Yule before last, he had to admit that seeing them so happy together had just made his own bitterness sting even further.

There he’d been, railing against the world, while his best friends, Craig and Ailean, had both wed women of a far lower social status, yet didn’t seem to care.

He’d once thought them fools.