Page 39 of Steel & Surrender

He pulled a face. “It seemed pointless.”

Brìghde exhaled sharply through her nose. The man really was impossible.

She’d heard of the woman who had married Craig Maclean of Moy. Hazel’s knowledge of herbs and healing was something special. Their union had scandalized the whole island. A humble herbwife becoming a chieftain’s wife wasn’t something that happened every day. Her father had even visited Hazel years earlier in the hope she might be able to help his failing sight. However, there was no herb that could do that.

Making a decision, Brìghde rose to her feet. “Don’t go anywhere,” she ordered him, ignoring the glare he cut her. “I’ll be back soon.”

With that, she left him sitting there in the grass.

And when she returned a short while later, a small clay bottle clasped in one hand, Greig hadn’t moved. He sat there, leaning back on his hands, his face upturned to where the sun had broken through the clouds and now bathed the small yard.

For a few instants, she observed him. His proud profile. The brief, unguarded moment.

Slowing, she cleared her throat to warn him she’d returned.

His eyes flicked open, shoulders stiffening.

“Drop yer braies and let me rub some of this on,” she said, holding up the bottle. “This too has goatweed in it … the herb will help loosen the muscles and make them less inflamed.”

Greig jolted as if she’d just jabbed him in the ribs with a poker.

And then, to her surprise, a blush rose to his high cheekbones, visible even under his swarthy coloring. “I’m not showing ye my arse, woman,” he growled.

Brìghde laughed. “For God’s sake, the lèine ye wear will cover yer modesty. And I promise not to look at anything but yer leg.”

She paused then, meeting his gaze in deliberate challenge.

Surely, he wasn’t prudish about such things?

Moments passed, and then Greig muttered a curse under his breath. “Christ’s blood, ye’re vexing.”

“No more than ye are,” she muttered under her breath.

Glowering at her now, he lay down flat on his back and unlaced his braies before pushing them down to his knees. Underneath his leather jerkin, he wore a long linen lèine, and it did cover his groin.

Just.

Brìghde made sure to keep her gaze averted from that area, though, just in case the tunic slipped and revealed more than she was ready to see.

Moving around, she knelt next to him, her gaze settling on his injured leg.

She stilled, her breath catching.

By the saints.

It had been a nasty wound—leaving him with a disfiguring injury. She was surprised he still had his leg, surprised it hadn’t been the end of him.

And it hadn’t healed well.

The scar slashed down, appearing under the hem of his lèine and running down the side of his thigh, almost to the knee. The flesh and muscle there had healed in twisted knots. It was ugly, but she didn’t shrink away from it. Instead, compassion tightened her chest.

This man had to deal with much. No wonder he was so angry and bitter.

And although she’d bullied him into letting her massage his leg, she realized just how vulnerable he was making himself.

He needn’t worry though. She wouldn’t betray his trust.

Keeping her gaze averted from his, for she could feel him watching her—waiting for her to mock him—she unstoppered the bottle of oil and poured some onto her palm.