Page 51

“GOD’S HOLY ROOD, that crone can talk,” Errol muttered as Bonnie and Greer emerged onto the street once more. His expression was mulish.

“I thought she was never going to let ye leave,” Inghinn added, her pretty face pinched.

“Sorry,” Greer replied. “But ye know a visit to Edeen is never a short one.”

“That’s what happens when ye live alone, I suppose,” Bonnie said with an apologetic smile. “Ye save up all yer conversation for yer next visitor.”

Greer snorted. “And yer questions too.”

Edeen had been relentless in her interrogation; it was draining.

The four of them set off down the street then—the women moving ahead while Errol walked behind.

Greer raised her face to the warm sun. It was a lovely morning, the kind that made the world sparkle.

It felt good to be alive, to be outside with her best friend, doing something for others.

Over the past weeks, she and Bonnie had gotten into a routine.

Tuesday was when they delivered bread to the poor.

“I’m glad ye love it here.”

Greer cast a glance right to find Bonnie watching her.

A smile tugged at Greer’s mouth. “Aye. It just feels like home .”

“I know what ye mean,” Bonnie replied with a sigh. “I’ve always liked Dun Ugadale far more than I ever did Stirling.” She paused then, grimacing. “I suppose it helps that the folk here accept me.”

“And they didn’t at Stirling?”

Bonnie shook her head. “There were a few folk who showed me kindness … but for the most part, they ignored me.” She paused then, her mouth curving into a wistful smile.

“I suppose that’s why I enjoy visiting Edeen so much.

She’s a gossip … and terribly nosey … but she has always made me feel so welcome here. ”

Greer nodded. Bonnie was a sensitive soul, as was she.

They also both had a strong need to belong somewhere.

They were kindred spirits, who were gentle with each other.

Bonnie sometimes joked that they must have been sisters in a previous life.

The comment had touched Greer, for she’d always wanted a sister.

Growing up with two rowdy elder brothers who enjoyed tormenting her had been lonely at times.

“Edeen’s such a force of nature,” Greer agreed.

Bonnie nodded. “She’s seen much over the years. I suppose that’s another reason I visit her so often … I grew up without close family and never knew my mother … or my grandmother, for that matter. Edeen teaches me about all the wee things I missed out on.”

Greer observed her friend curiously, her smile fading when she saw the wistful expression on Bonnie’s face.

Despite their closeness, there were some things that Bonnie didn’t speak about—her parents above all.

She never refused outright whenever the conversation strayed in that direction—she was just adept at steering the focus away from her mother or father.

Greer knew very little, only that Bonnie had been born out of wedlock, and that her mother had died shortly after giving birth to her.

Of Bonnie’s father, she knew nothing at all.

“Ye never speak of yer Da,” Greer said then, curiosity getting the better of her. “Why is that?”

Bonnie’s lovely features tightened just a fraction. “That’s because there’s little to say,” she replied with a shake of her head. “No one ever spoke of him.”

Greer noted that Bonnie was avoiding her eye as she answered. Her instincts told her that her friend was lying, and she wondered why. However, she wouldn’t push further. Bonnie’s response made it clear she didn’t want to speak about the man who’d sired her.

Not for the first time, Greer reflected on how lucky she’d been—even if she often didn’t feel lucky.

Aye, she often chafed over her father’s domineering ways, yet she’d grown up in a busy household, wanted and kept safe.

Before meeting Iver Mackay, Bonnie’s life had been hard.

Yet, worse than that, she’d known little love or affection.

She was still curious about Bonnie’s origins, but she was also wary of upsetting her friend. As such, she let the matter drop.

Greer walked across the barmkin with a quick, determined stride. Today was her third lesson with Brodie, and she was looking forward to it … and to spending more time with him.

She’d awoken well before dawn. Lying in the darkness, listening to Inghinn’s breathing, she’d itched to leap up and throw on her clothes. Dawn came early in summer, yet even so, it felt as if she’d waited an age until streamers of salmon and gold colored the eastern sky.

Brodie was waiting for her inside. On the bench beside him was a large stack of newly made arrowheads.

“Are ye sure ye have time to train me, Brodie?” she asked, suddenly hesitant as she recalled Bonnie’s words the day before.

Relief suffused her when he nodded. “I’d tell ye if I didn’t,” he replied with his usual brusqueness. To her surprise, he then handed her a carved wooden dirk. “We’ll both train with these for the moment … I don’t want either of us getting accidentally stabbed or slashed.”

Greer’s mouth curved. “Don’t ye trust me?”

“No,” he grunted, even if his hazel eyes gleamed.

He did have a sense of humor, she’d realized over the past few days, but it was dry and often hidden behind a scowl.

However, he seemed more comfortable in her presence now and often let his guard down, just a little.

“Not after ye nearly cut my arm off yesterday.”

Greer snorted. “It was just a scratch!”

He raised an incredulous eyebrow.

The morning before, she accidentally caught him with the tip of her dirk when they’d been practicing.

It had drawn blood on his forearm. Stepping forward, Greer’s gaze went to the cut, just above the leather bracer he wore to protect his arms from the fire.

The cut was much longer than she recalled.

“Hades,” she muttered. “Does it hurt?”

“No … I’ll live.” He pulled a face then. “In truth, it was also my fault. I underestimated yer speed yesterday.”

Greer winced. “Even so, I’m sorry … it’s no wonder ye have fashioned us some wooden dirks.” She reached out then, her finger tracing the skin next to the cut. “It’s scabbing well though … and doesn’t look like it’s souring.”

Brodie went still under her touch, and she drew her hand back. She was suddenly aware of how close they were standing. He smelled of leather and faintly of lavender soap, as if he’d just bathed. Without realizing what she was doing, Greer inhaled his scent deep into her lungs.

Raising her chin, she met his eye. He was looking down at her, an odd expression on his face.

She couldn’t place it—he almost looked, confused.

But the emotion didn’t last long. A heartbeat later, his usual expression—of slight irritation mixed with impatience—returned.

“Come on,” he said, taking a step back. “Let’s get started. ”

Greer nodded, getting into the fighting stance he’d taught her, and gripping the wooden dirk in her right hand.

It was too light and felt strange in her hand, not like her real dirk.

“Right, Lady Greer,” Brodie said, all business now. “Let’s practice side-stepping blows and trying to disarm yer opponent.” He paused, his gaze fixing upon her as he too dropped into a fighting stance. “Are ye ready?”

She flashed him a goading smile. “I came out of the womb ready, Mackay.”

He lunged, while Greer turned side-on and stepped quickly sideways, making a grab for his sword arm at the elbow.

She missed, and Brodie whipped toward her, placing the flat of his wooden blade to her collarbone.

“Too slow,” he barked. “I’d have already stabbed ye in the throat if it was a real fight.”

Greer muttered an oath. Curse her, she’d practiced that move countless times in her bedchamber earlier yet still hadn’t mastered it.

“Stay up on the balls of yer feet and keep moving,” Brodie said as they shifted apart once more. “The moment ye make yerself an easy target, ye are dead. Let’s go again.”

They did, a few more times, and Greer improved her technique. However, Brodie was always too fast, and too strong, for her.

“Let’s try a different type of defense,” he said eventually.

Out of breath, Greer nodded. “Aye, good idea,” she panted. Despite that she wasn’t a natural knife fighter, she’d overcome the awkwardness of her first lesson. She enjoyed parrying with Brodie and having him teach her. He was gruff, yet he didn’t lack patience.

Mouth quirking, Brodie flipped his wooden dirk from hand to hand. “Knife fights are usually fast … ye don’t want to show off like this.”

Greer snorted. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

“If someone attacks ye, and ye can’t run … yer next focus should be on disarming them,” Brodie continued. “Most warriors will slash low, toward yer stomach.”

He demonstrated this, stepping close and driving his wooden dirk forward, stopping as it pressed against her belly. He then took her through how to make a counter-strike, how to move with her attacker—and how to get them to drop the knife.

Eventually, Greer gave a huff of frustration. “Hades, ye always make it sound so easy.”

“Well, it’s not.” He inclined his head, a challenge sparking in his gaze. “Losing patience, are we? I’ve got plenty of work to be getting on with, if ye aren’t up to it?”

Greer’s chin kicked up. “Not at all.” Sometimes she suspected that Brodie thought her a daft lass, useless at anything that wasn’t ‘lady’s work’.

He’d never said as much, yet she at times caught a certain glint in his eye.

He’d agreed to teach her, yet he pushed her hard—almost as if he expected she’d eventually give up.

But she wouldn’t.

He stepped back then. “Ready to go again?”

Greer nodded, moving into a fighting position, her fingers tightening around the hilt of her wooden dirk. “Which are ye going to try … low or high?” she asked, hoping for some indication.

Brodie’s mouth curved once more, a challenge in his eye now. “Wait and see.”