Page 110 of Steel & Surrender

“It’s her, isn’t it? The Forge Maiden.”

Greig cut his gaze away. “Leave it, would ye?”

His brother’s smirk widened. “Och, I knew it!”

Slamming the dirk he’d just sharpened down on the bench, Greig snatched another.

“Did ye do as Al wished?” Davy asked then. “Did ye win her heart?”

Greig’s grip tightened on the blade. “No.”

“I think ye did.”

Greig started to sharpen the next blade, sawing it against the whetstone viciously. It likely wasn’t doing the steel much good, yet his patience had been stretched to breaking point. “Ye don’t know what ye’re talking about.”

“Ye’re right … I’m no expert when it comes to women,” Davy answered, his tone rueful now. “But I did meet Brìghde Boyd at Al’s grave a few weeks ago. She was paying her respects … but I could see something was bothering her.” A pause followed. “Was it ye?”

Greig stopped sharpening the blade and slammed down it and the whetstone. He surged forward, crowding Davy hard enough to force him back against the frame. Then, pushing his face close, he growled, “What did ye say to her?”

Undaunted, Davy smiled. “Don’t worry, I didn’t tell her I knew about Al’s list … I didn’t need to. She’s a bright woman. She knows.”

Greig’s gut hardened. She knows.

The words hollowed him out.

His brother’s admission just made things worse. Now Brìghde thought they’d spoken about her behind her back—possibly even made fun of her. No wonder she fled at the sight of him.

Davy’s expression sobered then. “Christ, ye have it bad … don’t ye?” He hesitated, his gaze searching. “Why don’t ye just talk to her, ye great clodhead?”

Greig’s hands flexed at his sides. God, he wanted to grab his brother by the throat and shake him. Davy was like a terrier on a rat this evening. “I’ve tried that,” he ground out. “But she thinks I’m lying. She believes my interest in her was all a game … that I meant none of it.” He broke off then, his chest wrenching, before adding. “And every word I speak just seems to prove her right.”

Davy took this in, his face thoughtful now. “So, maybe ye should forget about talking to her,” he said after a pause. “If words won’t do … then show her.”

Oban, mainland Scotland

Two days later …

Greig lingered on the street, the sharp wind off the water tugging at his plaid sash and carrying with it the tang of salt and kelp. The cry of gulls echoed against stone, and the rough voices of the dockworkers hauling cargo rang along the waterfront behind him.

After alighting from the ferry from Mull, he’d made his way down Oban’s wharf to this goldsmith’s shop, nestled into a dark alley.

Warm light spilled out invitingly across the cobbles. Yet he didn’t move.

This was a fool’s errand.

Davy’s voice echoed in his mind still, insistent. If words won’t do … then show her.

Greig dragged a hand down his face. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken his brother’s advice. That morning, as he’d stepped onto the ferry at Craignure, determination had burned in his gut.

But now, he doubted himself.

Words had failed him. Why would a gift succeed where truth had not?

And yet, here he was.

One thing was certain: he couldn’t go on as he had been.

Davy was right. His foul mood affected them all. His family deserved better. Everyone in Duart Castle did. Aye, he worked hard as marshal, but everyone would be tiring of looking at his miserable face—they likely had for a while now.