Page 71 of Steel & Surrender

Each man stood before his log, waiting for the clan-chief to make his announcement. The Highland pipe died, the rush of the wind and the pounding of waves below the castle intruding, before Loch Maclean’s voice carried across the crowd.

“The grain is in. The work is done … now, show me what ye’re made of.” He paused then, a smile tugging at his lips. “Let the Games begin!”

A roar went up, shaking the sky.

20: SHOW THEM YER METTLE

GREIG DIDN’T WIN the Caber Toss.

Ian Maclean did.

Brìghde clenched her teeth as the farmer, still out of breath from flipping the caber so it turned cleanly and fell straight ahead, raised his arms in victory.

Greig stood a few yards back, his face giving nothing away.

That relieved Brìghde.

She should have known though that Greig Maclean was not a man who faltered.

Bouts of wrestling followed.

Greig did well, although his leg had him at a distinct disadvantage. One of the Duart Guard—a beast of a warrior named Errol—won in the end. Nonetheless, Greig had lasted until the final rounds.

As, to Brìghde’s chagrin, had Ian. The man was everywhere—winning, grinning, impossible to ignore.

There was a break in the strength competitions after that, for the archery contest to take place.

Brìghde drew away briefly, getting herself a bannock smeared with butter and heather honey to eat while she watched the archery.

Davy Maclean was competing in this one, and he was good, Brìghde noted.

Several lasses gathered at the ringside to watch him as he made his way through the various rounds.

Among them, Brìghde spied three high-born lasses. They stood out at once in their bright silks, with their soft hands and effortless grace. One was tall with fiery red hair, another was small and curvaceous, her black hair falling in heavy waves down her back. And the third was another dark-haired but lissome lass with laughing blue eyes.

“Who are they?” she whispered to her brother as he joined her to watch the archery.

“One of the lads in the Guard just told me,” Eòghan replied. A blush rose to his cheeks as his gaze swept over the lasses. “The redhead is Lady Arabella Maclean of Dounarwyse, the short one is Lady Kenna Black of Croggan … and that slender lass is Lady Lena Maclean of Moy.”

Eòghan broke off then, staring at Lady Lena as if he’d just been clubbed around the head.

Brìghde’s lips curved into a half-smile. She knew that look. It seemed that her wee brother was experiencing his first real infatuation. Too bad, it was for a lass far above his rank. Although she’d never met any of these ladies, she recognized the names.

Lady Lena was sister to Craeg Maclean, the Chieftain of Moy.

“I haven’t seen the chieftains of Moy, Croggan, or Dounarwyse here,” she said, glancing around her.

“Ye won’t,” her brother replied, his gaze never leaving Lena as she threw back her head and laughed at something Kenna had just said. “Word is, with the MacDonald threat, the lairds have all decided to stay home and mind their own strongholds.” He pointed then to where a tall auburn-haired man stood with a fair-haired woman with a swollen belly on the far side of the archery ring. “The steward of Ardnacross is here though.”

Brìghde viewed the couple with interest. “Ailean Maclean?”

“Aye … that’s him.”

She nodded before her attention drifted back to the three ladies.

They were all beautiful—each in different ways—each so feminine in their pretty surcotes and kirtles. But it was as if they hailed from a different world from Brìghde.

She glanced down then at her hands.