Page 94 of Steel & Surrender

It had come as a bit of a shock to hear that Alistair Maclean had carried a torch for her.

Aye, he had visited increasingly often and had seemed to linger sometimes, but she’d told herself he was being friendly.

She had no idea there had been more to his visits than that.

Greig had sullied everything. He had taken his brother’s list too far.

He’d kept a secret he had no right to. If he’d told her from the beginning that she’d been on Alistair’s list—that she needn’t worry, he had no intention of treating her like one of his challenges—she’d have understood. She would have respected him for it.

But no. He’d kept that knowledge to his breast, and he’d done so because he didn’t want her to know the truth. It was more important to him to finish that cursed list. Even more galling was that he’d initially sworn never to go near her. How he must have sneered at that ‘challenge’.

In a cruel twist, he’d actually won the Forge Maiden’s heart.

The bastard knew it too.

She’d given him her body willingly tonight because she loved him. In return, he’d taken it and trampled on it.

She hated him for that.

A real man would own his mistakes, not make excuses for them.

Misery clenched like a fist under her ribs before she raised a shaking hand, covering her eyes.

She didn’t want to weep. She didn’t want to rise the next morning with red, puffy eyes and face her family’s questions.

Snoring intruded then. Her brother had retired surprisingly early tonight, arriving home soon after her. He’d drunk too much, too fast, and had staggered past his mother and sister before collapsing onto his cot. He was now sleeping off a skinful of ale. The lad would have a sore head at the forge the next day, and she’d tease him about it.

She’d make sure he never knew just how much she was suffering.

She couldn’t let any of them know.

For she was ashamed.

Aye, she was. Greig Maclean had humiliated her, and she’d let him. She’d lived a fantasy and forgotten who she was and how people in Duart really saw her. She’d thought Greig was different, but he wasn’t. He’d never really wanted her.

Despite how hard she was clenching her eyes, hot tears escaped, trickling over her cheekbones and soaking into her hair. Brìghde pressed her fist against her mouth, stifling a sob. By the Saints, this hurt so much it felt as if it might kill her.

The door to their bothy slammed open—shattering the silence and ripping her from her grief.

Brìghde jerked, flying upright, her hand grasping the poker that sat by the hearth near her cot.

“What the devil?” Eòghan grumbled, pushing himself up from his own bed.

A big broad-shouldered figure loomed in the doorway.

“Up!” Ian barked. “MacDonalds—they’re in the village!”

“What?” Brìghde scrambled to her feet, still gripping the iron poker.

“A band of them has just landed at Duart Bay and has attacked,” he replied, voice harsh. “Some of them are trying to get inside the castle, while the others are torching the village. Ye must get out of here … now.”

Brìghde stared at his dark silhouette. She couldn’t make out his face beyond a few shadows, couldn’t judge his expression—yet despite that she had no time for this man at all, she believed him.

There was an edge to his voice. He was hiding it well, but he was fighting panic.

“Ma! Da!” she shouted. “Get up!”

Moments later, all four members of the Boyd family tumbled out of their bothy.