Page 123 of Steel & Surrender

Eòghan had recently taken charge of the village forge. She still helped him sometimes, but her brother grew increasingly independent. She was proud to see how quickly he’d taken to his craft. Smithing flowed in their family’s veins.

Her gaze slid across the courtyard then, taking in the movement of men and animals, the steady rhythm of life at Duart. Near the far wall stood the small workshop Greig had seen built for her—a sturdy structure of timber and stone, its door slightly ajar.

Her stride quickened as she crossed toward it. She pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The familiar scent wrapped around her at once. Metal and charcoal. The hearth sat cold for now, the morning’s work already done. However, the tools lay where she had left them: files, tongs, small hammers, each one placed with care.

She moved farther in, her gaze sweeping over the workshop, taking it in as she always did.

Her space.

She crossed to the bench where the brooch lay waiting, its shape already formed but not yet finished. Lifting it carefully, she turned it in the lantern light, studying the lines, the delicate work she had etched into the surface.

It was a knot design—one of her favorites. Her fingers traced the grooves.

There was still work to be done.

She set it down and reached for her tools, settling onto the stool as she bent over the piece once more. The world narrowed as she worked, her focus tightening, her hands steady as she refined the edges, deepened the lines.

Time slid by. The wind outside, the voices in the courtyard, the distant clatter of hooves—all of it faded. Until she heard a familiar male timbre.

Her head lifted.

Greig stood just a couple of feet from the open doorway.

He had not yet seen her, his attention fixed outward as he spoke a few clipped words to someone beyond, his voice low and firm. A man moved off at his command, and Greig stepped forward, ducking under the low lintel into the room and pushing the door shut behind him.

Straightening up on her stool, Brìghde drank him in.

The man looked … formidable.

The weather had grown chill of late, and so he wore a thick quilted gambeson that strained across his shoulders. Mud streaked his heavy boots and thick braies. His hair, longer now, had been pulled back from his face and tied at the nape, though a few dark strands had fallen loose again. A dirk belt slung around his hips.

His role as Marshal of Duart carried responsibility, yet it suited him. Each day, he made decisions about the castle’s defenses, enforced order, and prepared for violence.

Marking her lingering gaze, a slow smile curved Greig’s lips.

“Have I come at a bad time?” he asked lightly.

Brìghde set her tool aside, rising to her feet. “I was working … but it can wait.”

His gaze flicked briefly to the bench, to the brooch, before returning to her. “Aye … it can.”

Turning, he slid the bar to the door into place, sealing them in together.

Her pulse kicked.

He didn’t hurry. Instead, he crossed the space between them with deliberate steps, his gaze never leaving her face.

Brìghde held her ground, even as anticipation quickened in her lower belly.

When he reached her, one hand settled at her waist, drawing her close. His other hand slid into her hair, loosening the braid so her hair tumbled free. He slid his fingers through it.

Then his mouth was on hers.

Heat surged through her as she rose into him, her hands finding his shoulders, gripping hard. He kissed her deeply, his hold firm, his body pressing close.

She leaned into the strength in him, the solidity she had come to know so well.