Page 98 of Steel & Surrender

Loch had been enjoying the evening, sitting with his wife and watching his clansmen make merry.

But he wasn’t a man to let his guard down. Ever.

On the eastern side of the field, he spied his father and Finn MacDonald. The Captain of the Guard had taken an injury to his shoulder. It had been hastily bandaged. He’d need proper attention from Donn shortly, but right now, his focus was elsewhere.

As Greig made his way across the field toward them, two familiar figures approached—Davy and Ailean.

Fortunately, his guests from Ardnacross had retired to the castle before the attack. However, Ailean had rushed from his bed, grabbed a weapon, and joined them as soon as he heard the ruckus, leaving Fiona locked in with their daughter inside their chamber in the tower house.

Ailean usually carried a carefree air about him, but this morning, a deep furrow cut between his auburn eyebrows. He favored Greig with a brusque nod, as he and Davy also made their way to where Loch and Finn stood over one of the fallen warriors.

“That’s Callum MacDonald’s son, Fergus,” Ailean said as he halted next to the clan-chief and the Captain of the Guard. “I recognize him. He visited Dounarwyse with his father last year.”

“I thought as much,” Loch rumbled. His face was haggard and bloodied in the grey dawn light, yet his gaze was flinty.

“I thought he might be someone special,” Finn added, his voice husky with pain. “He’s better dressed than most and wears a MacDonald signet ring … his father must have sent him to prove himself.”

Loch snorted. “He proved himself all right. I’m cutting the bastard’s head off and sending it back to Skye as a wee present.”

No one argued.

Greig’s lips thinned. A grisly gift, but an appropriate one. He’d have done the same in his father’s place. They’d show Callum MacDonald what happened to those who crossed the Macleans of Duart.

They were truly enemies now. This would never be forgotten.

“We’ve five MacDonalds still breathing,” Davy said, folding his arms across his chest. “What are we going to do with them?” A shallow cut oozed blood on his temple, but apart from that, he’d emerged largely unscathed from the fight.

Likewise, Greig had too. A blade had nicked his chest, ripping his lèine and inflicting a shallow cut. It could have been much worse though. An inch or two more, and that blade would have slid between his ribs.

They all knew how close death had stalked that night and how near they’d come to tragedy.

“We’ll send them home with Fergus’s head,” Loch growled. He then shot his son a mirthless smile. “Someone has to carry the message.”

Davy nodded before his gaze cut to Fergus MacDonald. “So, Moy was just a ruse?”

“Aye,” Greig murmured. While they’d been talking, his gaze had shifted a few yards away before his attention settled on a face he recognized. He jerked his chin toward the fallen warrior. “Remember him?”

Frowning, Davy moved across to the corpse, his gaze dropping to the dead man’s face.

Thick straw-colored hair. Staring blue eyes.

He then muttered a curse. “Cods. That’s Seumas … the merchant we met in Oban.”

“He said he was a Macleod,” Greig replied, “but since he’s wearing a MacDonald sash, I’d say he lied. He singled us out deliberately.”

His brother’s features tightened, his gaze shadowing. “Shite … we shouldn’t have taken him at his word.”

“Neither of ye are at fault here, lads,” Loch replied gruffly. “The man seemed honest. How were ye to know the treachery the MacDonalds would stoop to in order to bring me down?”

Greig turned to face his father.

Loch’s face was still dark with anger, yet he saw the fierce pride shining in the man’s eyes.

Their gazes held for a long moment before warmth ignited under Greig’s ribs. His father didn’t need to praise him, didn’t need to tell him he’d done well in defending their mother, in defending their home.

One look said it all.

Greig might be leaning on a stick now, trying to ignore the pulse of pain in his thigh, yet last night, he’d been a warrior, just like the rest of them.