Page 34 of Steel & Surrender

“Men remember old grudges,” Loch replied, his voice lowering. “Longer than they admit.” He looked up then and glanced across at his sons once more. His lips pursed. “What happened to ye two anyway?”

Greig flashed him a hard smile. “We thought we’d teach those MacDonalds some manners.”

His father raised a dark eyebrow. “Well, they made a mess of ye both.”

Davy snorted. “Just scratches. Trust me. They got off far worse.”

Loch grunted. “Glad to hear it.”

Greig smiled before wincing as his split lip pained him. They both looked as if they’d been trampled by sheep. Davy’s left eye was swollen closed and blackened, his nose broken, and Greig’s cheek had a bruise blooming upon it, but they’d won that fight. Greig had limped his way out of The Bonnie Badger’s common room, leaving the four MacDonalds groaning and bleeding on the floor.

Highly satisfying.

He ached everywhere, but beneath it, pride burned. He’d stood his ground. His first fight since his injury.

He glanced down at his skinned and bruised knuckles. His head was sore from drinking too much ale the night before, yet that trip to Tobermory had been worth it in more ways than one.

He had completed another task on Alistair’s list—however, it was more than that.

He and Davy had shared some time together, and something had altered between them, a closeness forging that hadn’t been there before.

It was as if Alistair’s absence had created a void, one that had drawn his two remaining brothers together.

“Callum MacDonald can be highly persuasive when he wishes,” Loch said then, heaving a deep sigh. “And God knows what he might offer Mackinnon to try and buy his loyalty.”

Greig’s gut tightened at these words. Upon leaving Tobermory, he’d been sure Bran Mackinnon would throw MacDonald’s overtures back in his face, but his father’s concerns had him worried too now.

Their father had ruled long enough for him to trust his judgment.

“So, what are ye going to do?” he asked finally.

Loch muttered a curse under his breath. His wolfhound, sensing his master’s dark mood, gave a low whine and pressed close. Reaching down, Loch stroked its wiry head.

“One thing’s certain, I’m not going to sit on my hands here in Duart. If MacDonald has made Mackinnon any offers, I want to know. And if it comes to it, I’ll better them.” His dark eyes glinted. “I’ll have my men ready the Claidheamh na Mara, and we’ll head up to Dùn Ara tomorrow morning. I’ll take Finn with me, and ye too, Davy.”

His gaze swung to Greig then, pinning him to the spot. “While I’m gone, Greig … Duart is yers.”

Greig nodded, warmth suffusing his chest. He welcomed the responsibility.

Seeing his reaction, Loch’s expression turned searching. “Over the past year, I have let ye be, son … have given ye time to heal … to grieve” —he paused then, lifting his hand and rubbing his chin—“but ye are stronger now, and ye need a purpose. I’m giving ye the role of Marshal of Duart.”

Greig stilled, eyes widening.

An instant later, his gut hardened, the warmth in his chest dousing.

His father had just handed him much responsibility. Too much.

Loch’s last marshal had just stepped down from the role due to ill-health, and Greig had expected him to choose one of the seasoned warriors from the Guard.

A marshal was the clan-chief’s senior military officer, charged with the defense of Duart. Greig would train warriors, oversee arms and horses, and would have judicial and enforcement duties. He could shoulder all of those responsibilities, yet there was one that was beyond him.

Heat rose to his cheeks. They all knew it.

“But what about when the time comes to lead yer men into battle?” he asked, throat suddenly tight. “Ye know, I—”

“I won’t ask more of ye than ye can give.” His father stepped forward and placed a steadying hand on his shoulder. “And I wouldn’t ask this of ye, if I didn’t think ye were capable.”

Brìghde waited outside the gates of Duart Castle, astride Sradag.