Page 69 of Steel & Surrender

“Be honest with me,” he replied, his gaze locking with hers. “I handled things badly up on Ben More” —he exhaled sharply— “Ye deserve better.”

“Such things happen,” she said, lifting her chin. “Ye got carried away by the moment. We both did. Ye were just being frank afterward. It was a mistake. Men like ye don’t get tangled up with women like me. I know that well enough.”

His peat-brown eyes shadowed, and he took yet another step toward her. And suddenly, they stood just a foot apart. This close, the heat of his body wrapped itself around her. Brìghde’s breathing grew shallow as she inhaled his scent.

And then, on instinct, she raised her hand and pressed it to his chest. Despite the cool day, he dressed lightly. No gambeson, just a lèine tucked loosely into his braies. The heat of his skin through the thin material scalded her palm.

She’d put her hand out to keep him at bay, but the moment her palm met his chest, heat flared up her arm—too familiar, too dangerous.

It reminded her of their sensual embrace and how she’d touched him then.

“Ye shouldn’t be here … not like this.” Her voice hitched, betraying her. Suddenly, courage faltered. She wasn’t fooling him anyway.

“Listen to me, Brìghde,” he said, his voice firming. “I’m sorry I overstepped, that I took something I had no right to. But don’t think I turned from ye because I didn’t want ye. It’s nothing personal … it’s just …”

Her fingers curled into a fist, clutching the material of his lèine.

“Leave this be, Greig.” She sucked in a deep breath, forcing herself to hold his eye. “Ye are only making things more awkward between us. Ye should go.”

A nerve jumped in his cheek then, his lips parting as if he was going to argue with her.

But he didn’t.

A heartbeat passed, and then his gaze dropped to where her hand still clung to his lèine. “Very well … have it yer way, lass.” His attention flicked up then, a rueful half-smile quirking his lips, even as his eyes remained shadowed. “Although, if ye want me to leave … ye’d better release yer death grip on me.”

Heat flushed across her chest. Hades.

Letting go, she snatched her hand back as if burned.

Brìghde walked through the gathering crowd, breathing in the scent of crushed grass and the aroma of frying bannock.

Bunting fluttered around her, strung between poles shoved into the ground. Her gaze slid over the small pavilions that lined the wide, flat hilltop just north of the castle and village where the folk of Duart celebrated all their fire festivals, gatherings, and games.

The end of August had arrived, and with it the Harvest Games.

Duart Bay was just below. This close to the cliffs, she could hear the rumble of the surf and the crash of the waves on the rocks beneath the fortress.

However, a piper struck up a rousing tune then, drowning the sounds out.

Despite that her mood was low this morning, despite that she’d been tempted to let everyone else enjoy the Games and seek refuge in her forge instead, her mouth curved. It was a treat, indeed, to have a day off work—usually the Sabbath was her only break. The harvest was done, and the folk of Duart had labored hard. It was time to celebrate their work.

Halting, Brìghde cast her gaze around the hillside. Everything had been set out the day before, in readiness for today. Rings for each of the strength competitions lay on the eastern edge of the space. Targets for the archery competitions had been rolled in too. A heavy rope lay coiled, ready for the Tug o’ War. Already, crowds were forming around some of the rings, men, women, and bairns jostling to get the best view.

She wished to hang back, lest Greig spied her. And yet a part of her fought the urge.

They’d avoided each other since his visit to the forge weeks earlier. Nonetheless, she wanted to see him compete. Succeed. He’d worked so hard to regain his strength over the last year.

She walked by a group of men then—servants who worked within the castle. They were ribbing each other, taking wagers over who’d win the upcoming contests.

A couple of them glanced her way then. She marked their smirks.

She recognized both men. Nicol and Kenneth. A groom and a carpenter. When she was younger, they’d both teased her mercilessly. These days, they did little more than sneer.

Nicol nudged Kenneth then, both grinning as if they shared a private jest at her expense.

Dismissing them, she looked around, catching sight of her brother.

Eòghan was talking with his friends—a group of local lads—who were all showing a lot of interest in the Tug o’ War. It was tradition that the men of the village took on the Duart Guard in a contest. Until now, Eòghan had been too young to compete, but not this year.