Page 47

GREER WAS OUT in the village, accompanying Bonnie as she delivered bread to the poor, when the men returned.

The thunder of hoofbeats joined the whine of the wind, and the two women halted before the bothy on the outskirts of Dun Ugadale, watching as a cloud of dust appeared on the western horizon.

Moments later, a column of horses and riders burst over the brow of the hill, cantering down the last stretch toward the broch.

“They’re back soon,” Errol commented from behind the women. “I expected the meeting to go on a while.” As always, whenever Greer left the broch, he was her shadow.

“Thank the Lord,” Bonnie replied. “To me, it feels like an age since Iver left.” She then cut Greer an excited smile, her blue eyes sparkling with joy. “Come, let’s go up to meet them!”

Without waiting for her companion’s answer, Bonnie strode off down the dirt path that looped around the perimeter of the village. If they moved quickly enough, they’d intersect Iver and his men before they reached the causeway up to the broch.

Picking up the hem of her skirts with one hand and still carrying her now empty basket in the other, Bonnie broke into a jog.

“Wait!” Greer called out. Gathering up her own skirts, she hurried to catch up with her friend. “Ye shouldn’t be running, Bonnie,” she chastised her when she drew level. “Not in yer condition.”

Bonnie snorted. “Nonsense … at Stirling Castle, the female servants worked right up until the day they dropped their bairn.” She cast Greer a wry look, her pretty cheeks flushed. “No ‘lying in’ for them.”

Greer couldn’t argue with that—for she knew how things were.

Her sister-by-marriage at Druminnor had taken to her bed the moment she’d discovered she was with bairn.

She’d spent most of the moons that followed being waited on by servants.

Even though Bonnie was now a laird’s wife, there had been many times over the month Greer had lived at Dun Ugadale when their differences in background had shown themselves. And this was one.

Greer didn’t mind though—if anything, she welcomed Bonnie’s attitude. It was refreshing after the stifling environment she’d grown up in, where a lady was supposed to behave a certain way.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Errol had broken into a jog and was following them. He wore a slightly exasperated expression, as if running around after two women wasn’t how he would prefer to spend his afternoon.

They met Iver and his men just as they cantered up toward the broch.

Reining in his courser, Iver grinned down at his wife. “Mo chridhe!” He then leaped down from the stallion, crossed to Bonnie in two long strides, and hauled her into his arms, kissing her passionately.

Warmth rose to Greer’s cheeks as she looked on.

Mother Mary, what a spectacle the two of them were making—and yet neither of them cared. Instead, Bonnie went up on tiptoe, wrapping her arms around Iver’s neck as she kissed him back feverishly.

Eventually, as their embrace went on, Greer had to look away.

And when she did, her gaze went straight to Brodie Mackay.

He’d been riding right behind the laird, and like the escort of warriors with them, had pulled up his horse.

Brodie now wore a long-suffering expression, as if he was used to such displays and was now courting patience until it was over.

Greer’s pulse quickened as she took him in.

Brodie sat astride Brèagha with the easy confidence of a natural horseman.

Dressed in travel-stained lèine and braies, he had a light sheen of sweat upon his face.

She was used to seeing him wearing his leather smith’s apron, his brawny arms smeared with ash and soot.

However, being on horseback suited him even better.

She shouldn’t observe him so keenly, especially since she’d done so well to keep her distance from him of late—but she did.

After the way he’d bitten her head off in the stables a month earlier, she’d decided that she wouldn’t intrude where she wasn’t wanted.

She’d done well to focus on making the most of her summer instead—and to remind herself that her parents would likely frown upon her following a blacksmith around like a puppy—yet this afternoon, all her good intentions fluttered away, like daisy petals caught by a rogue gust of wind.

And then Brodie looked her way.

Their gazes fused, and heat washed over Greer. His expression was shuttered, his handsome face stern. Maybe the boldness with which Bonnie had thrown herself into her husband’s arms had infected her too. Whatever it was, she held Brodie’s eye without flinching.

And to her surprise, he didn’t break their stare either.

“Pick out yer best fighters, Kerr,” Iver instructed, as he poured himself a cup of wine. “We need to be ready for the king’s call.”

Across the table, Kerr’s face set in determined lines. “Aye … the lads we recruited in the spring are some of the quickest studies I’ve ever trained. They can all now handle a claidheamh-mòr with ease.”

Iver shifted his attention to Brodie. “I know ye are already busy … but we’ll also require more helmets, arrowheads, and spearheads.”

“I’d better get to work then,” Brodie replied briskly. “Don’t worry, the other jobs can wait.”

“When will the king send word?” Bonnie asked. Seated next to Iver, her brow had furrowed slightly. Talk of war had dimmed the joy that had suffused her face upon her husband’s return.

They sat at the chieftain’s table in the hall. Cory and his lads had just served a supper of pottage, curd cheese, and oaten bread. Yet while the warriors seated at the trestle tables below had started their supper, those at the laird’s table hadn’t.

“It’s hard to know, mo chridhe,” Iver replied, leaning back in his chair, and taking a sip of wine. “He’s saving his northern warriors for the final assault on the Black Douglases.”

Bonnie swallowed. “Will ye lead yer men?”

Husband and wife looked at each other squarely then, and watching them, Brodie’s gut tensed. He didn’t like seeing Bonnie so worried, although she knew as well as any woman that battle was a part of a man’s world. Few warriors, or lairds, escaped it.

“I will,” Iver replied softly. “Niel will be sending warriors too, and he asks that I lead them all.”

Bonnie didn’t answer, although her face paled a little. Next to her, Lady Greer’s usually sunny expression had been replaced by one of worry.

Of course, with both the king and their clan-chief giving the orders, Iver couldn’t go against them, and neither would he want to.

Privilege was a two-sided blade. He was the firstborn son of a chieftain and had inherited a title and lands, and those things didn’t come without sacrifice.

“Fret not, Bonnie,” Iver said, reaching out and stroking his wife’s cheek tenderly. “I’ve fought in many battles over the years … I know how to survive.”

Iver spoke with the unshakable confidence of a born warrior. All four of the brothers were skilled fighters and had fought for their clan-chief whenever called upon.

Brodie believed Iver, yet Bonnie seemed less convinced.

Around the table, everyone’s faces were grave. War was a serious business.

Managing a wan smile, Bonnie reached up and placed her hand over where Iver’s now cupped her cheek. “I always knew this day would come,” she murmured. “And I’ve dreaded it.”

Iver’s mouth lifted at the corners, even as his dark-blue eyes shadowed.

“Aye, but remember, I have much to live for, lass,” he replied.

“I’ll not leave ye a widow … nor our bairn fatherless.

I promise.” The intensity of the look between them was such that Brodie had to avert his gaze.

He picked up the wooden spoon next to his trencher of pottage, yet his appetite had deserted him.

Ye are growing soft, lad , he chided himself. Time was ye wouldn’t let a woman’s worry rattle ye . Once, when he and his brothers had discussed war, they always made light of it and ribbed each other in the way that men did.

But with women present, the mood was different.

Bonnie was afraid she’d lose the man she loved, and Brodie didn’t have the heart to tease his brother about the coming conflict.

His skin prickled then, an odd feeling of foreboding trailing down his spine like icy fingers. Aye, there had been skirmishes and battles before, but this one would be different from the others.

He knew it in his gut.

After supper, Brodie found himself in an odd mood. Restless. On edge.

In the past, he’d have saddled Brèagha and ridden off to Ceann Locha for a night of revelry, yet this evening, he couldn’t summon the interest. Indeed, he hadn’t gone dicing and drinking in a while.

Not since before Lady Greer’s arrival at Dun Ugadale.

Frowning at this realization, Brodie left the broch and crossed the barmkin to the stables. Dusk still hadn’t settled, although the stable lads had long since finished their chores. As such, there wasn’t anyone about as he made his way down to Brèagha’s stall.

The mare greeted him with a soft whicker.

“Good evening, Brèagha,” he murmured, ducking into the stall, and stroking her nose. “How are ye bearing up after yer long journey?”

Brèagha gave a snort and nudged him.

Brodie laughed, his mood lightening as it always did when he spent time with his horse.

“Greedy lass … I can’t bring ye treats every time I visit, or ye will take to biting me when I don’t.

” He stroked her silken neck then, running his palm down to her shoulder before he stooped to look at her legs.

Indeed, it had been a long journey to Kilchurn and back again, and he wished to check the mare’s legs for heat and swelling.

Satisfied that there wasn’t any sign of injury, he leaned up against the edge of the stall, watching as Brèagha snatched a mouthful of hay from her manger and munched contentedly.

Few things calmed him as much as spending time with his horse.

Iver had once teased Brodie that all they needed to do was find him a woman he loved as much as Brèagha.

Brodie had weathered the ribbing with a shrug.

He’d always had an affinity for horses. One of his earliest memories was learning to ride a garron.

Iver had told him that he’d inherited his father’s gift for gentling horses.

But, unfortunately, Brodie had no memory of the man who’d sired him.

He’d died when Brodie was but a bairn, not long after Brodie’s mother passed away.

“Life never stands still, does it?” he murmured to Brèagha.

The mare lifted her head, an ear flicking in his direction, yet Brodie knew she didn’t understand a word.

It never stopped him from talking to her as if she did though.

“Things have been quiet of late,” he continued.

“It’s been a few years since any of us have had to fight for our clan-chief …

but peace only ever lasts a short while. ”

Brèagha snorted again before snatching another mouthful of hay.

Brodie smiled. “Ye remember our last skirmish, do ye not, lass?”

It had been nearly four years earlier—a brief clash with a group of sheep rustlers on the northern edge of their lands.

Brodie had ridden into that fight with his brothers, his blood hot, a dirk in his hand.

They’d emerged victorious and spent that evening drinking and singing around a fire under open skies, glad to have bested their quarry and sent them running for the hills.

Brodie heaved a sigh then. That evening had been one of the happiest of his life—away from the broch and his stepmother’s oppressive presence.

Away from reminders that although his brothers loved him, he’d never be like them.

Like it or not, the circumstances of his birth would always divide them when it truly mattered.

Pushing himself off the wall, he stepped forward and ruffled Brèagha’s forelock. “Things are about to get busy around here,” he murmured. “But I’ll make time to take ye out for a gallop up the shore tomorrow, lass. I promise.”

He left the mare’s stall then, making his way back through the shadowed stables, past where one or two of the horses poked their heads out to greet him.

He murmured to them, stroking their noses, yet didn’t linger for long.

After days of travel, he was weary. He was looking forward to retiring to his chamber behind the forge and having an early night.

Brodie was nearing the stable doors when he caught a glimpse of movement in the stall to his left.

A woman groomed a fine grey palfrey in long strokes.

Lady Greer had her back to him and was oblivious to his presence. Instead, she murmured to her mount while the mare stood there, eyes half-closed as it enjoyed being groomed.

Brodie slowed to a halt. He knew he should move on, yet there was something about the scene that captured his attention.

A young woman bonding with her palfrey.

He’d thought Lady Greer had been deliberately snooping on him that morning weeks ago, but of late, he’d realized she probably hadn’t. Her presence now was proof of it. Maybe, like him, she just liked to venture into the stables at quiet times and spend time with her horse.

Dressed in the same fine surcote she’d worn at supper earlier—a rich dark-blue—with her wheat-colored hair curling down her back, she was a bonnie sight.

Aye, he should keep walking, but the devil on his shoulder thought otherwise.

Leaning up against one of the large posts that supported the ceiling, Brodie folded his arms across his chest. He then drawled, “Good eve, Lady Greer.”