Page 112 of Steel & Surrender

Brìghde lowered her head, though her thoughts wandered.

She had no business being here today. She was in a brittle mood, and the forge would have been easier. The rhythm of work, the heat, the solitude—it would have dulled the pain in her breast. Or she could have lost herself in the creativity of making another piece of jewelry. Despite her unhappiness at present, she always found solace in working silver into something beautiful. She’d just started work on another ring and was decorating it with delicately wrought thistles.

How she wished she were in the forge working on it right now.

The door creaked open behind them.

A shift moved through the chapel, subtle but unmistakable.

Brìghde’s heart gave a hard, traitorous kick. She did not turn at once—she told herself she would not—but the sound of footsteps along the stone floor drew her in despite herself, and her gaze slid sideways.

The Macleans had arrived. Loch and Mairi moved toward the front, taking their place near the altar, and Greig followed, Davy at his side.

Greig looked as he always did—tall and proud, and sure in his stride despite his pronounced limp.

And curse her, Brìghde’s gaze ate him up, as if it were starving for him.

Realizing what she was doing, she cut her stare away.

She couldn’t let him catch her again. She couldn’t bear it.

Yet even as she fixed her eyes upon the altar, she felt him there, a presence she could not ignore. As if he was just as aware of her as she was of him. As if the space between them had drawn tight.

Longing rose, sharp and unwelcome, in her breast.

Closing her eyes, she recalled the way he’d made her feel. Beautiful. Desired.

Her chest tightened.

Enough

She shouldn’t torture herself with such thoughts. That path was closed to her now.

Father Malcolm’s voice rose, drawing the congregation into prayer, but she barely heard him.

Brìghde bowed her head, her hands tightening in her lap.

She just needed to get through this.

Father Malcolm’s voice droned on, but Greig barely heard him.

Instead, all he could think about was the woman who sat at the back of the chapel with her family. And about the silver bracelet pressed against his chest.

He’d looked for Brìghde the moment he entered, and was relieved to find her there.

Reaching up, he placed his palm over the bracelet. It was foolish that such a thing meant so much to him, yet it did.

Davy’s words prodded him once more. Show her.

Aye. That was the crux of it. This might mend things between them, or it might not. But at least, he would know.

A flicker of doubt stirred, cold and unwelcome.

What if she refused it? What if she turned from him again?

His jaw tightened, queasiness rising.

Father Malcolm’s voice rose and fell, speaking of duty, of faith, of the path set before each soul. Greig stared ahead, unseeing, his thoughts churning like a wild sea.