Page 109 of Steel & Surrender

Silence stretched between them then, filled only by the sounds of work and the distant crash of waves against rock, before Loch stepped closer and rested a hand upon Greig’s shoulder. “It’s good to have ye back, son.”

Greig stilled, swallowing hard.

His father’s words had caught him off guard. He didn’t get emotional often. Neither of them did.

Loch’s grip tightened then. “Here ye stand. Working, leading men … thinking ahead.” He cleared his throat then. “Duart needs that. One day this castle … and its lands … will pass to ye … and when it does … ye will do me proud.” He paused then. “Ye already do.”

Greig met his eye squarely then, surprised to see his dark gaze glittering with emotion. They stared at each other for a long moment before Greig nodded.

Cutting his attention away, he focused on the warriors laboring on the wall. He needed a moment to pull himself together.

His father’s words meant more than Loch would ever know.

His life was far from perfect. He worked hard these days, trying to avoid thinking about Brìghde—and whenever he stopped, he found himself brooding over the mess he’d made over things—but standing there beside his father, a salty breeze caressing his face, something steadied inside him.

Loch was right.

He’d found his way back; he’d found his purpose. And no darkness, no grief, nor even heartbreak, would wrest it from him again.

“There ye are.”

Greig’s chin kicked up, his gaze swiveling to the doorway of the armory, where his brother now stood. Davy leaned against the doorframe and folded his arms across his chest.

“What are ye up to? Why have ye hidden yerself away in here?”

Greig scowled, hoping it would be enough to let his brother know he didn’t wish to be interrupted. He would have thought it was bloody obvious what he was doing. “The blades in here needed sharpening,” he replied, gesturing to the stack of dirks he was working his way through on the bench before him. He sat on a stool, a whetstone between his knees.

A beat of silence followed.

Greig stiffened. He judged, from the glint in Davy’s eye, that wasn’t really what his brother was asking. No, he was wondering why Greig didn’t sit with his family in the evenings as he once had.

The nights were drawing in now, and dusk had been settling when he made his way outdoors after supper. Instead of lingering indoors, he’d sought industry. A lantern burned brightly on the bench next to him, throwing golden light on the blade Greig had been sharpening.

Ignoring his brother, he resumed work, the grating sound of steel against stone reverberating through the small building.

“What the devil is up with ye?”

“Nothing.”

Davy muttered something under his breath. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say ye were pining.”

Greig stilled before cutting his brother a dark look. “Careful.”

Davy’s gaze narrowed. “Ye can’t be lovesick though … ye’d never allow yerself such a weakness.”

Greig pulled a face. “And ye are an expert on such things, are ye?”

He’d expected his comment to embarrass his younger brother. But Davy merely shrugged.

“Ye never did tell me how ye offended Kenna Black so that eve?” Greig asked then. The Blacks had recently made another visit from Croggan, and the wintry atmosphere between Davy and Kenna was obvious to all. “The lass must have been mightily vexed to slap ye like that.”

His brother’s lean jaw flexed, his lips pursing in an expression that made him look the image of their father. “Don’t try to change the focus from ye. We aren’t talking about me.”

“We’re not talking about me either,” he replied, resuming his sharpening.

Davy made an annoyed sound in the back of his throat, and when Greig looked his way once more, his brother was eyeing him.

Greig’s hackles rose. He didn’t like the knowing look on his face, the slight smirk that curved his lips. “Something amuses ye?” he growled.