Page 1 of Steel & Surrender

1: PROMISE ME

Duart Castle,

The Isle of Mull, Scotland

April, 1336

IT WAS SAID that everyone loved a good wedding.

Greig didn’t.

Weddings chafed him like wet leather. Everyone wore daft smiles, and the priest droned on forever. Folk acted as if such a day promised a blessed future. But that was nonsense.

It was just one day in a long life. A long marriage.

Even so, as he stood amongst the crowd of well-wishers, leaning heavily on his crutch, Greig had to admit that his cousin Maggie had never looked bonnier or happier. She stood on the steps of the chapel in Duart Castle’s outer courtyard, her fine blonde hair—so much like her mother’s—fluttering in the crisp spring breeze. And her husband-to-be, Rab, looked proud enough to burst. The man beamed, his eyes shining with love.

Greig fought a lip curl. Maggie was a sweet lass. As pretty as a nymph, yet she’d inherited her mother’s strong will. Rab would have his hands full. He almost pitied the man for looking so foolishly pleased with himself, as if wedding this woman was the answer to all life’s problems.

Bitterness coated Greig’s tongue, and he gingerly shifted position. His left leg ached piteously today. It did that sometimes. Nearly a year had passed since he’d taken the injury—since an English knight had slashed him from hip to knee—but it had healed badly. In the mornings and evenings, when he dressed and undressed, he preferred not to look at the mangled flesh. The scar was twisted, red, and angry. The sight of it made his gut clench.

He was the clan-chief of Mull’s firstborn son, destined to one day rule this mighty castle and this side of the isle. But his maimed leg made him feel unworthy of the role, as if somehow, he was going to let everyone down.

Swallowing hard, his gaze shifted from the happy couple to where the chaplain, Father Malcolm, still spoke. He was new to Duart, replacing Father Hector, who’d died two years previously. The old chaplain had been dour and bad-tempered, but he’d been here all Greig’s life. It felt strange to have someone else fill his place.

Greig’s attention moved next to where his parents stood to his right. They’d been wed well over twenty-five years, yet they were still as happy as they’d ever been. Standing close, arms linked, they watched the ceremony. His mother, Mairi, had tears in her eyes, while his father wore a pleased half-smile.

Loch Maclean had just passed his fiftieth winter, and he wore each one well. Streaks of silver marred his thick black hair tied at the nape of his neck, and his handsome face bore grooves that hadn’t been there a handful of years earlier. Even so, he was still strong and healthy, and Greig was glad of it. He adored his father, looked up to him, wanted to equal him in everything.

Or he had, before the maiming.

Greig cut his gaze away. That was what made it hardest to bear. He was no longer his father’s equal, nor the equal of any warrior inside these walls.

He was a cripple. Good for little these days.

“Ye are the blood of my blood, the bone of my bone. I give ye my body so we may become one.”

Rab’s voice, rough with emotion, drifted across the crowd, making Greig focus on the ceremony once more. At least the chaplain had finished his interminable speech, and the vows were taking place. The words were powerful, and despite his cynicism, a chill prickled Greig’s skin. It was quite a vow.

Quite a promise.

In truth, he couldn’t imagine ever feeling that deeply about a woman that he’d make such a one. That he’d say such raw words before a watching crowd, that he’d lay himself open and make himself so vulnerable.

A hush settled as Maggie repeated the words, their hands bound together by a ribbon of red and green Maclean plaid. When the vows were done, the chaplain stepped forward and slowly unwound the ribbon.

“Ye are now husband and wife,” he said proudly. He glanced at Rab. “Go on … kiss yer wife.”

A roar went up in the crowd, men’s and women’s voices thundering against stone and lifting high into the pale-blue sky. Greig didn’t join in the applause, although his brothers, who both stood to his left, did. Alistair hooted and clapped wildly, his dark eyes shining, while Davy whistled.

“Come on, ye miserable bastard,” Alistair jabbed Greig in the arm with his elbow. “At least clap.”

Pulling a face, Greig propped his crutch against his side and half-heartedly joined in.

“It’ll be ye next, brother,” Davy teased, a wicked glint in his eye.

Greig snarled. “I think not. Ye aren’t dragging me up there to make a great fool of myself over a woman.”

Davy cocked a dark eyebrow. Of the three brothers, he resembled their father the most—dark hair tied at his nape and a sharp, hawkish face.