It was hard not to flinch under the clan-chief’s wrath, but Craeg didn’t. He wouldn’t back down. Not about this.
“Ye married an innkeeper’s daughter,” he said quietly.
The effect was immediate. Loch stilled, color flushing across his high cheekbones. “What did ye say?”
“Mairi. Yer wife.” Craeg forced himself to hold his gaze. “Ye caused a scandal when ye married her. The Maclean clan-chief should wed someone of noble birth. But ye didn’t care, did ye? Ye chose her anyway.”
Silence descended. Loch’s jaw flexed, and for a moment, Craeg thought the clan-chief might strike him.
“That was different,” Loch said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
Craeg was dancing on a blade’s edge here, yet he persisted. “How?”
“I wasn’t breaking a formal betrothal. I wasn’t dishonoring an alliance.”
“Ye were still putting love before duty,” Craeg replied. “So, don’t stand there and tell me I’m wrong for doing the same.”
Loch’s dark eyes narrowed dangerously. “Insolent whelp,” he rasped. “How dare ye—”
The door burst open.
Both men spun toward the intrusion. Finn MacDonald, captain of the Duart Guard, stood in the doorway, his lean face pale and strained. He was breathing hard, as if he’d sprinted up all three flights of stairs that led up from the inner courtyard.
“Greig has returned.” MacDonald’s voice was tight.
Loch scowled. “So soon?”
“He’s injured.”
Craeg’s pulse lurched.Injured?
Loch was already moving, shoving past Craeg toward the door. “How badly?”
“His left leg is a mess … sliced open from hip to knee. Donn is with him now.”
The clan-chief didn’t wait to hear more. He strode from the solar without a backward glance. Finn cast a sharp look at Craeg before following Loch.
Craeg waited until Greig was alone before visiting him.
It was time for supper; the aroma of roast venison and fresh bread wafted up the stairwell. Everyone was gathering in the great hall, but Craeg wouldn’t join them. Instead, he approached the door to Greig’s bedchamber and gently knocked.
“Come in.” A familiar voice, thin with pain, greeted him.
Pushing open the door, he entered.
Greig was propped up in bed. However, the sight of him made Craeg’s stride falter. His friend was normally like his father. Strong. He’d never seen him like this. Hollow-eyed and gaunt-cheeked. He lay upon the coverlet, wearing nothing but a long lèine. His left leg was thickly bandaged.
“I hear ye have been in the wars,” Craeg greeted him with more heartiness than he felt.
Greig snorted. “Dog-humping English bastard got me.”
Craeg eyed the bandage. “How bad is it?”
Greig grimaced. “The blade went deep … but the healer thinks he can save my leg.”
Relief barreled through Craeg. “I need a wine … do ye want one?”
“Aye … it’ll wash the foul taste of those god-awful herbs Donn gave me out of my mouth.”
