Page 103 of Steel & Surrender

His father’s smile widened. “He did, Greig. Ye were everything he wanted to be.” His father paused then. “I must confess, I don’t know what that feels like. I never had an older brother. But ye were just old enough for him to watch ye go through every rite of passage first … and he always tried to measure up to yer example.”

His father’s smile faded, his dark eyes guttering. “That’s why he volunteered to lead that patrol. I didn’t want him to. He wasn’t ready. But he accused me of coddling him … of undermining him.” His father halted once more, his throat working. “We argued the night before that patrol. And eventually, I relented.” Loch sat back in his chair, his eyes glistening, before he dragged a hand down his face. “I’ll always regret that. My last words with him were heated … combative.”

Greig had gone still. He’d had no idea that had transpired. However, the guilt writ upon his father’s face was difficult to see—and it was also unwarranted. “Ye let him take the role he wanted, though,” he said finally. “Al would have borne ye no ill will.”

Loch swallowed before raising his cup to his lips and taking a long, fortifying draft. “No,” he said roughly. “Yet I sent him to his death.”

“Don’t blame yerself,” Greig countered, leaning forward. “It wasn’t yer hand that killed him.”

His father didn’t answer.

He likely knew that Greig’s words made sense, but guilt was a strange thing. It was like a rampant weed; once it took root in a person’s soul, it was hard to kill.

Greig should know.

His innards had been twisted up with it ever since leaving Brìghde’s forge that fateful night.

He’d seen her today, briefly, as he’d been working on one of the roofs in the village. She had caught his glance and looked away, her expression stony.

She hated him now. And every time he thought of how he’d hurt her, guilt clutched at him once more. Yet, unlike his father, who was condemning himself unfairly, Greig had to squarely shoulder the blame.

Setting aside his wine, he then placed a hand on Loch’s arm, squeezing firmly. “If ye had denied Al, he would have resented ye for it.”

“Aye, but he’d still be alive,” his father replied gruffly, his arm stiffening under Greig’s grip.

“He made his choice. Do ye think at the same age ye would have wanted yer father dictating to ye?”

Those words hit home, and Loch’s eyes widened slightly. His lips then tugged up at the corners. “No, I would have told the auld man to go to the devil.”

“Well then.” Greig released his father’s arm and drew back. He then picked up his cup and held it up in a toast. “Ye understand.”

His father nodded, raising his cup aloft too.

“Al died bravely,” Greig said, even as his throat thickened. “Protecting his clan. With honor.” He held his father’s eye. “It’s the best any of us can hope for.”

29: DEFENDING HER HONOR

THE BASKET OF blades dug into Brìghde’s shoulders as she climbed toward Duart Castle’s gates.

Gareth had asked for help, and she’d delivered.

The castle’s weaponsmith had been swamped with work in the month following the MacDonald attack. The clan-chief wanted his Guard stronger than ever and carrying more steel. Brìghde and Eòghan had been happy to assist.

The basket was heavy, making her legs protest as she crested the hill. All those steel blades weighed her down.

Brìghde grimaced. Perhaps she should have strapped a couple of baskets onto Sradag and led him up here rather than trying to carry them herself.

Wiping sweat from her brow, she approached the gates, lifting a hand to greet the two guards who stood above her, their silhouettes outlined against a windy sky. They waved back.

A crisp wind feathered her hot cheeks.

The weather was turning now. Summer was behind them, and the freshness of autumn laced the air. The mornings and evenings grew chill, and it wouldn’t be long before the first frost crunched underfoot in the mornings.

Unlike a lot of folk, Brìghde looked forward to this time of year and to the winter’s chill.

In the summer, the forge could be unbearably hot, whereas when a blizzard hit Duart in January, the hearth in her forge became the coziest place in the village. Locals would stop by just to warm themselves up and exchange a bit of gossip.

Brìghde crossed under the portcullis and entered the outer courtyard.