Page 111 of Steel & Surrender

And he had been right about something else too. He couldn’t just roll over and admit defeat.

He was a Maclean.

He did not yield.

With a low curse under his breath, he stepped forward at last, pushed open the door, and ducked beneath the lintel.

The warmth of the shop wrapped around him, a welcome contrast to the chill outside. The air smelled faintly of charcoal and heated metal.

Greig looked around with interest.

This was the type of workshop he could see Brìghde in, crafting beautiful jewelry. Instinctively, he ran his thumb over the stag head ring on his right hand. It was a common gesture of late, as if the touch brought him closer to her somehow.

A heavyset man with wavy black hair stood at the workbench polishing a gold ring with a soft cloth. He glanced up. “Aye?”

“I’m looking for a brooch,” Greig said, then hesitated. “For a woman.”

The goldsmith’s lips curved, and he nodded. Reaching beneath the bench, he laid out a few brooches—amber, rock crystal, and freshwater pearls, all set in silver.

Greig studied them, but none stirred anything in him. “They’re well made,” he murmured, “but not … right. Not for her.”

The goldsmith’s brow furrowed. “Does the lass know what she means to ye?”

Warmth rose to Greig’s cheeks. Cods. He hadn’t blushed in years, yet he could feel his face starting to burn. Why was this so hard? “I told her … yet she doesn’t believe me,” he muttered. “And now, she thinks I secretly scorn her.”

He felt absurd standing here, speaking of such things.

However, he marked no judgment in the man’s eyes. Instead, he turned and lifted a slender band of silver from the wall behind him. “This, perhaps,” he said, placing it in Greig’s palm. “A bracelet. Plain enough … but it need not stay that way.”

Greig turned it over, the cool weight of it settling against his skin.

“It could be worked into a knot,” the man continued, picking up a length of wire and bending it deftly between his fingers to demonstrate. “An interwoven love knot.”

Greig’s breath caught.

“That’s it … that’s hers.” He swallowed to loosen the sudden tightness in his throat. “Could ye have it ready for me by tomorrow?”

The goldsmith inclined his head, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight. “Aye … although it will cost ye.”

Greig reached for the coin purse at his belt. No price could be placed on Brìghde, or her affections, but he’d wasted enough time nursing his wounds. He needed to return to Mull, to Duart, and face her again. “Whatever it costs,” he said. “I’ll pay it.”

31: GLORIOUS CHAOS

THE CHAPEL IN the outer courtyard of Duart Castle was already filling when Brìghde and her family arrived, the low murmur of voices spilling out through the open doorway. It was raining gently, and they shook droplets of water off their woolen cloaks as they stepped indoors.

Ada walked in front of her son and daughter, her arm looped through Breac’s, guiding him across the uneven ground.

Brìghde stepped across the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the familiar interior of the chapel. Rough stone walls with high, narrow windows that let in thin shafts of grey light. Candles burned along the walls, their flames guttering in the draft.

Inhaling the odor of tallow, incense, and damp wool, she followed her family to one of the side benches. Seated between her mother and Eòghan, she folded her hands on her lap and fixed her gaze ahead.

The mood inside the chapel was somber. Over a month had passed since the MacDonald attack, and tension still lingered at Duart. Nonetheless, few folk missed Sunday Mass, and neither would the Boyds.

Brìghde wished she could beg off, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.

Father Malcolm stood near the altar, his youthful face solemn as he prepared to begin. He was still relatively new to Duart, still finding his footing among them, but there was a steadiness to him that folk seemed to trust.

The murmur of voices ebbed as he raised his hands.