Page 2 of Steel & Surrender

“Yer time will come, brother,” he said with a smirk. “As will all of ours.”

I have to get out of here.

The revelry following the wedding was in full swing, the shrill strains of a Highland pipe belting out a rousing skirl as men, women, and children whirled around the center of the Great Hall.

But Greig was done with it.

Gripping his crutch so tightly his knuckles creaked, he edged his way around the crowd. The rest of his family still sat at the chieftain’s table near the hearth, watching the dancing and enjoying goblets of wine. But he’d suffered the press of bodies long enough. It was time to escape.

He would have liked to grab a jug of wine on the way out, but maneuvering himself with the crutch was hard enough. He couldn’t manage carrying anything as well.

The reminder made anger curdle in his gut.

He truly was useless.

He couldn’t walk more than a few yards without this damn stick. God knew how he tried. His leg simply gave way beneath him. It had no strength. And if anything, the pain of late had worsened. The muscles seemed to be wasting.

Dread lodged in his throat.

What if one day he was confined to his bed?

There’d be no chance he’d become clan-chief then. What use would he be to his people—or to anyone?

Pushing his way into the entrance hall, he began the torturous climb up the spiral staircase.

Each step burned, yet he forced himself onward. If anything, the pain drove him. He took it like penance. For what exactly, he wasn’t sure.

Up and up he climbed, four floors, to the narrow stairs that led to the Winter Garden. By the time he pushed open the door and hopped out onto the secluded space, he was breathing hard, sweat slicking his skin.

Originally built for a grandmother who’d died a few years before his birth, this was now his mother’s refuge. The garden had been lovingly tended. A terrace overlooked Mull’s rugged eastern coastline, with stone benches facing the sea.

Leaning heavily on his crutch—and grateful there were no witnesses—Greig limped along the flagstones between lavender about to flower and rosemary already blooming. Bees hummed lazily in the air.

He ignored it all.

Instead, he heaved himself up the last steps and slumped onto a bench, panting. There. He’d done it. It had taken so much effort to get here that he didn’t intend to move for hours.

He’d stay. Watch the sky darken. Watch the stars appear one by one. Only then would he return, when the revelry had died.

Until then, he’d keep his own counsel.

A sea eagle wheeled overhead. Once, the sight would have filled him with awe. Now, it stirred nothing. Only bitterness, frustration, impotent rage.

Rage at the hand fate had dealt him.

Better that the English shitebag had slain him on the battlefield than leave him with this half-life. He was diminished now, and everyone in Duart knew it.

Davy’s jibe about taking a wife still galled him. Since his injury, he’d stayed away from women. He’d once frequented The Barnacle in Craignure, where the lasses bestowed their favors freely, and he’d spent hot, reckless nights upstairs. But he hadn’t darkened its door since his maiming.

He didn’t want to see the pity in the lasses’ eyes. Or disgust.

And though he knew, as firstborn son, he would be expected to wed one day, the thought sat in his gut like a brick.

He remained there until his arse went numb and the air turned sharp, stinging his cheeks.

Only when boots scuffed on stone did he turn.

His gaze narrowed as Alistair approached.