Page 108 of Steel & Surrender

THE NORTHERN CURTAIN wall rang with the sounds of labor. Mallets cracked against timber, saws rasped through planks, and men shouted measurements back and forth over the gusting wind. Below in the courtyard, a cart creaked beneath barrels of pitch being hauled toward the stores, while a cluster of warriors sorted bundles of newly fletched arrows beside the gatehouse.

Greig stood with his father upon the battlements, one hand braced against the stone as he surveyed the work going on across from them.

“These repairs are long overdue,” Loch said then. “That north watch platform badly needed reinforcing.”

“Aye,” Greig replied. “The sea air has rotted the support posts beneath it. But if enemies were ever to strike from the water, that’s where they’ll test us first.”

His jaw tightened then. Enemies. Of course, they both knew he was referring to the MacDonalds. They were beaten for now, but who knew if Callum MacDonald would one day try to take revenge for the death of his son. The bastard had no right to be sore about that. After all, he’d sent him here to spill Maclean blood.

Nonetheless, the clan-chief likely nursed a deep hatred now.

Loch grunted. “Aye. I thought the same.”

Greig pointed to the guard tower behind them. “We should build a beacon there. If trouble comes again, we need to be able to signal to Croggan for help.”

Indeed, Croggan tower perched on a high crag overlooking the Sound of Mull, just southeast of Duart. Logan Black would be able to see the beacon clearly if they ever called for help.

His father’s thick brows rose slightly. “Ye’ve been thinking on this.”

Greig huffed. “Of course.”

He glanced away then, across the sea of men below, to where the afternoon sun glimmered upon the Sound. The light turned the water steel-blue beneath drifting clouds. The view from up here was breathtaking and, unbidden, pride tightened his chest.

However, it couldn’t mask the ache that already resided there, deep under his breastbone.

No, that sensation wouldn’t shift.

No matter how busy he kept himself, Brìghde often intruded on his thoughts.

The last time they had any contact was nearly a fortnight earlier, when Nicol Mackenzie had insulted her. He hadn’t meant to step in, but the man’s words had turned his vision red.

He’d been ready to stab him if he hadn’t apologized.

Unfortunately, Brìghde had just looked mortified in the aftermath. He hadn’t wanted her thanks; all he needed was for her not to hate him. Not to look at him as if he were a beast.

His intervention hadn’t fixed things between them though.

Perhaps it had made things worse.

The thought settled like a stone in his gut, yet he forced it aside. He had spent too long allowing grief and bitterness to consume him—he wouldn’t let himself turn into a lovesick fool. Duart could not afford such weakness from its marshal.

Opposite them, two young warriors struggled to lift a timber beam into place.

Greig frowned before calling out, “The beam’s not level.”

The men jerked still, startled, before hastily adjusting their grip. However, the beam started to list again as they hefted it once more.

“Lift together, ye great dolts,” Greig shouted. “Unless ye want the whole thing collapsing atop ye.”

Loch barked a laugh beside him.

The sound surprised Greig enough that he glanced sideways.

“There’s the son I remember,” Loch said, grinning at him.

Greig snorted. “I’ve been here all along.”

“No.” His father’s expression sobered. “Yer body was. Not the rest of ye.”