Page 52 of Steel & Surrender

“That’s enough,” Brìghde murmured, “or ye’ll strain something.”

Hissing between his teeth, he slowly lowered the bundle, his breath gusting out of him as it thudded onto the grass.

“Ye did it!” Brìghde said then, a smile splitting her face as she clapped. “That’s the heaviest thing ye’re likely to lift at the Games. Ye’ve the strength for it now. The rest is endurance and skill.”

Breathing hard, Greig straightened up, and then a rare, disarming smile tugged at his lips.

Brìghde’s breathing stilled.

Watching Greig Maclean smile was like seeing the sun emerge after days of dull grey. She’d known he was handsome. She had eyes. All three of the Maclean brothers were striking. They'd taken after their father in looks—tall, swarthy, broad of chest and shoulder. Greig was strong and masculine, with an arrogance that could both vex and intrigue.

But his smile was something else.

It softened the harsh lines of his face, crinkled his eyes at the corners, and revealed even, surprisingly white teeth.

Her pulse leaped.

Oh dear.

It wouldn’t do her any good to notice such things.

Initially, each meeting with Greig ended up either frustrating or angering her. His sharp tongue, his grumpiness, his intolerance and pride all chafed. But when she’d started helping him train the year before—when she’d been bold enough to insist she look at his leg and massage it—something had changed between them.

Or, rather, in her.

In their meetings of late, she’d felt increasingly more aware of herself and of him.

She found herself smoothing her hair before meeting him now—thinking of how she looked.

Foolishness. A man like Greig Maclean would never look twice at her.

She needed to remember the way he’d cast his gaze over her that day when his horse had thrown a shoe. The scorn in his eyes.

She was no dainty lady. She felt like an oaf compared to most women, towering above them, meeting the eye of even the tallest of men. Her father had teased her once, saying that their family clearly hailed from the Norsemen, and that she was a Valkyrie—one of the battle maidens from old Norse tales.

Perhaps she would have been, but in her world and her time, women didn’t fight. They didn’t wield a sword and stride into battle with their menfolk. And although most of the time she kept up a wall around herself and told herself she cared not what everyone else thought, there were times, like now, when it suddenly mattered.

Too much.

Unaware of the turn her thoughts had taken, Greig wiped the sweat off his brow with his forearm and stretched his back.

“How’s the leg faring?” she asked, forcing herself to concentrate. No good would come of such thoughts. She had to shut them down.

“It feels strong today,” he admitted.

She smiled. “That’s good, Greig.” She paused then, her smile widening. “I still can’t believe ye completed that swim to Oban … ye are a legend.”

She meant it too—even a few weeks on, all of Duart was still abuzz after his feat, and she’d felt ridiculously proud of his achievement.

He shrugged, seeming almost a trifle embarrassed by her praise. “It was on Alistair’s list, and so I had to do it.”

“So, only two more challenges remain,” she replied.

“Aye … just two.” To her surprise, his gaze shadowed then, and he cut it away.

Frowning, she studied him. “Is something wrong?”

He shook his head. “No,” he replied gruffly. “I was just thinking about Al. I thought completing the list would bring him closer.” He pulled a face then. “But it doesn’t. It just reminds me he’s not here to see it.”