Page 47 of Steel & Surrender

Brìghde’s gaze dropped to the blade, scrutinizing its sleek shape.

He’s good.

Her gaze lingered then upon the iron ring on Eòghan’s hand, the thistle engraving catching the forge light. Aye, she’d finally managed it after weeks of failed attempts and muttered curses.

Eòghan had been delighted with his gift and surprised that his sister had been developing a craft in secret.

Since then, she’d made her father a ring with an anvil and a small silver brooch for her mother—something pretty she could pin onto her favorite blue wool shawl.

Finishing the horseshoe, she hung it on the wall and pulled out her latest project. A silver ring.

Her pulse quickened. She’d been working up to this piece.

For someone special.

She cast a look over her shoulder at the glowing hearth.

There were more horseshoes to be made, but he was right; she was distracted today.

She needed something creative to focus on.

She didn’t want to think about Greig plowing through deep, cold water, battling with the currents, pushing himself harder than he should.

All to keep a promise.

Curse him, she shouldn’t admire him as she did—or care so much about his wellbeing— but, somehow, Greig Maclean had become part of her life. She’d found herself looking increasingly forward to seeing him each Sunday, and frustrated when the weather or his responsibilities as marshal kept him away.

His company was the best part of her week.

And that worried her.

He was becoming too important. She’d offered to help him out of respect for Alistair, but with the passing of time, her motivation had shifted.

Somewhere along the way, she’d started to like Greig.

And the thought of him dying made her belly twist.

Enough fretting, she chided herself then. The man’s as tough as tempered steel. The Sound of Mull won’t beat him.

Flexing her fingers around the engraving blade, she bent over the ring and resumed work.

The Sound of Mull

The last stretch to Oban felt the longest, possibly because the cold and exhaustion had slowed him down. Greig’s movements were weakening, growing less sure. His fingers were losing feeling now, clumsy in the water.

He spluttered then, blinking furiously as salty water went up his nose. Christ, it stung.

Davy had gone quiet, although the rhythmic splash of the oars kept Greig going. He sought to keep in time with it, pushing beyond the pain and exhaustion, detaching himself from his body.

All the while, though, he could sense Davy watching him, waiting for the moment he’d flounder and go under and need to be rescued.

But raw stubbornness set in then.

He could do this.

He could swim the Sound of Mull from one coast to the other.

Eventually, something would beat him. He might fall from his horse, take a tumble down the stairs, end up with a dirk in his belly, or shit himself to death from the flux.