Page 40 of Steel & Surrender

Then she smoothed the oil gently over his thigh and the knots of scarring and muscle.

A thigh should have been smooth, but his wasn’t. The flesh had healed in ridges and knots, the muscle pulled wrong beneath the skin.

Lifting the edge of his lèine, she slid her fingers over the end of the scar across his hip, and then gently she began to massage.

Her father had always told her she had healing hands.

Over the years, Breac Boyd had injured himself repeatedly, lifting things that were too heavy for him. A bad back was the most common of his ailments, and she’d spent many an eve kneading out the knots in his muscles.

She worked gently at first, testing and exploring the injury.

Greig loosed a sigh, and she glanced his way for the first time, noticing that his eyes had shut.

“That feels better,” he murmured. “A relief.”

“Aye, it will at present, but I’m going to start massaging a little deeper now,” she warned. “It’ll hurt a bit, but it will help.” She hesitated then. “Are ye ready?”

His eyes opened, his gaze fastening on her. “Go on then.”

And so, she began to press deeper, working into the knots.

Greig hissed between his teeth, his body stiffening under her care.

“Hold still,” she said, “and try to relax into it.”

He made a strangled sound. “Christ’s blood, woman. If I didn’t know better, I’d think ye’re enjoying hurting me.”

She snorted a laugh. “What makes ye think that?”

“As revenge? I’ve not exactly been charming toward ye, have I?” He paused then. “I apologized earlier today … but quickly forgot my manners afterward.”

Brìghde’s lips curved as her fingers pressed in once more, and a groan of pain rumbled from his throat. “But ye are a man who has endured hardships of late.” She paused then. “And ye will be my clan-chief one day.”

She slid her fingers into the part of the scar that was the most knotted and began to massage there too.

His face went rigid, his eyes screwing shut. Sweat gleamed faintly on his brow, and he shuddered with each kneading motion.

“Aye … one day,” he ground out. “My father has just made me Marshal of Duart.”

Surprise flickered through her at this admission, yet she didn’t cease the massage. “That’s an honor.”

“Aye … let’s hope I don’t let him down.”

Brìghde inclined her head. That was unlike him. A crack in his walls. Self-doubt wasn’t something she associated with Greig Maclean. “Ye won’t,” she assured him, digging her fingers a little deeper.

There was something satisfying about working on his leg and feeling the muscles bunch and then soften under her hands. The proud fool should have had someone do this every couple of days for him. He likely would have been in far less pain as a result.

And aye, there was a little vindictive pleasure in her.

There was a strange satisfaction in it—having him squirm beneath her hands.

She continued to massage his thigh and hip until finally he choked out, “Stop. That’s enough. Do ye want to see me beg for mercy?”

Now, that would be something, she thought wryly. Sitting back on her heels, Brìghde wiped her fingers off on the grass. The sharp herbal scent of goatweed drifted between them.

Greig’s eyes opened, and their gazes met once more.

“I know it hurt,” she said softly, “but it’ll feel better afterward. Ye’ll see.”