Page 18 of Steel & Surrender

He’d hesitated before seeking out his brother, but no longer. It was time to face this head-on. Summer was slipping away—June and July had slid by without him even noticing, and suddenly, it was August—and he was still doing nothing.

Grief still hung like fog over Duart Castle. But with each day that passed, Greig’s restlessness increased. He tired of skulking in the shadows, of getting under everyone’s feet. He wanted a purpose.

It was time to finally face Alistair’s list.

He wouldn’t be going near the Forge Maiden again, but he could swim the Sound of Mull. He could take part in a strength contest. Maybe, with some real effort, he could even climb Ben More. But he needed to get his strength back, and he longed to swing a sword again.

The brothers’ gazes locked, and then Greig marked the way Davy’s dark eyes shadowed. “Is that a good idea?” he said, his voice lowering. “Yer leg’s still weak.”

Anger punched into Greig’s gut. “Aye, it is … but it’s not going to improve with me sitting around like an old man, is it? I’ve still got two good arms. I can still swing a sword.”

“But yer balance—”

“It’ll improve,” Greig cut him off. “I need to use my body, Davy, or I’ll waste away. Will ye help me, or not?”

Their stare drew out, and then Davy slowly nodded. “Very well. When do ye want to start?”

“This evening,” Greig replied. He’d already thought this through. He didn’t want anyone else to know about his decision, and he didn’t want to be humiliated publicly either. “We’ll meet with wooden swords in the Winter Garden … just before dusk.”

Davy nodded once more.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Greig warned.

His brother inclined his head. “So, ye want yer reckoning too?”

“Of course, I do,” he shot back, his voice tightening.

He wasn’t blind. He’d seen the way Davy trained every day, readying himself to strike back at the MacDonalds of Sleat. He talked of little else but revenge these days and had argued with their father just a couple of days earlier, accusing Loch of not doing enough.

It had been an unfair accusation and untrue.

The clan-chief had called upon his allies on the isle. The Macleans of Moy, Croggan, and Dounarwyse now sailed the Sound regularly, patrolling the shipping lanes between Oban and Mull, to ensure they were never caught unawares again.

But for Davy, it wasn’t enough. He wanted action. He wanted blood.

Something flickered across his brother’s face then. Worry.

“Ye can’t fight with us, brother,” he said, his voice roughening. “Ye realize that, don’t ye? It’s too risky.”

Heat washed over Greig. His fingers tightened around his walking stick, even as he throttled the urge to whack his brother with it.

The wee shite.

He wouldn’t take it.

“Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do,” he growled

They were all bullheaded, the Maclean males. The three brothers had brawled often enough over the years, and Greig had lost count of the times as bairns when their father had smashed their heads together for fighting. But the thought that his younger brother, eighteen summers old and full of himself, would dictate to him enraged him.

“I may be lame, but I still know how to fight,” he ground out. “And when I get strong enough, I’ll knock ye on yer arse.”

Their stare continued for a heartbeat longer before Davy’s lips quirked. “Fighting words. Thought ye’d lost that.”

Greig stared back, his anger ebbing. So had he.

But now, he’d thrown down the gauntlet. He had to prove to everyone, including himself, that he meant it.

Or he could end up eating his words.