Page 13 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

N ew allies entered the Highland Confederation’s encampment early the following morning. Alisdair and Laird Fearghas McClain strode purposefully among the warriors, diverse clan banners flitting in the breeze.

“Keep the lines straight!” Alisdair commanded, his voice slicing through shield clangs and eager chatter. “We must become one clan under the same sky. Let naught divide us in our purpose!”

Amidst new arrivals, Brodie spotted Lucas, a restless figure whose gaze strayed to the distant peaks. He approached Lucas on dew-kissed grass.

“Ye seem distant, Lucas,” Brodie observed. “Is yer mind with those who’ve ye left to join us?”

“Aye,” Lucas admitted. “I’ve left behind kin and comrades… but I couldna follow Clyde Stewart’s command any longer. His reign…it’s harsher than our homeland’s windswept crags.” Lucas shook his head. “He threatened to kill me in front of me father.”

Brodie encouraged him to continue, listening intently as bitterness laced Lucas’s words recounting mercilessness and cruelty under Clyde Stewart. As they stood within their growing army, shadows of that dark regime loomed around them.

“Your courage willnae be forgotten,” Brodie said, gripping Lucas’s shoulder.

“Here, we fight as brothers for the freedom of these lands.” At least he hoped Lucas would stay true to their alliance and not return to the Stewarts.

There was no way of knowing though, and he must keep watch on the other man to keep those he loved safe.

The army slowly began to resemble a single, honed blade. Alisdair and Laird McClain worked among the men while Brodie stood vigilant—uniting and welcoming all.

*

The clash of steel echoed in the Highland air as warriors from various clans sparred upon the training field. Lachlan surveyed the melee for signs of discord.

“Mind yer stance, lad!” he called. The young warrior adjusted, and Lachlan nodded before moving on.

Two clansmen collided mid-thrust, their swords locked together. Tempers flared with accusations of dishonorable tactics. Lachlan strode toward them, commanding order. They had enough enemies to deal with without turning on one another.

“Enough!” His authoritative voice silenced the fighters. “We train as brothers-in-arms, not enemies.”

The men backed down and rejoined the fray under Lachlan’s watchful gaze. As exhaustion set in, a cry of pain disrupted the battlefield. Lachlan rushed to an injured man, blood seeping through his fingers.

“To the infirmary!” he bellowed, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. Another McClain warrior joined him, and together, they carried the wounded toward the infirmary.

“Have care with him,” he instructed as they entered the stone-walled sanctum. Ailis directed the healers with calm efficiency.

Lachlan whispered reassurances to the injured clansman and stepped back as they set him down in the infirmary.

Ailis would heal the man now. He hated that his grandfather couldn’t be called for every single injury, but it wasn’t practical to do so.

The entire Highlands need not know about the special powers of the McClains.

He returned to the somber field, reminded of the fragility beneath their hardened exteriors. With unity and resilience, they would face what lay ahead.

*

Ailis examined the gash on the man’s weathered skin. “Clean it first,” she instructed Elsa, handing her a cloth soaked in herbs. Elsa wiped the wound with steady hands, focused. “I am nervous. I’ve never stitched a man’s skin before.”

“Small and close stitches,” Ailis advised. Elsa nodded and carefully began her task.

“This is very different than stitching on cloth!” Elsa exclaimed as her needle sank into the man’s flesh for the first time.

Moira knelt beside another clansman, his ankle twisted harshly from training. She offered reassuring words as Ailis approached and prepared to realign the bones. Both sisters met each other’s gaze, understanding the pain to come.

“One… two…” On Ailis’s count, the joint was swiftly set into place, Moira holding the man steady despite his pained gasp.

“Done,” Ailis announced, wrapping the injured ankle.

“Rest now,” Moira added before rising from her position. She hated assisting with the setting of bones, but it couldn’t be done by one woman, and the men were all out training. If it must be her, then she would do her duty without complaint.

Lucas Gordon entered the infirmary. He approached Elsa, absorbed in stitching a wound, and complimented her skill.

Elsa’s cheeks flushed, but she remained silent. Lucas teased her about her quietness, leaning closer. He was obviously smitten with the lass, and it wouldn’t do. She was to marry another.

Moira noticed from across the room. She grabbed Lucas’s arm and led him outside. “Elsa is betrothed,” Moira warned. “Leave her be.”

Lucas feigned innocence, claiming it was friendly banter. Moira suggested he focus on getting to know some of the displaced Sinclair women instead.

Lucas’s silence filled the cold corridor until he finally spoke with a chilled voice. “Fine, I’ll seek company at supper with those less…spoken for.”

Moira assessed his resolve but didn’t coddle his wounded pride.

Sometimes it seemed as if Lucas was a completely changed man, and then she’d see him do something like this, and she wondered if he was even capable of change.

She shook her head. He was not hers to teach.

She turned and strode away, her thoughts shifting to the tasks ahead.

Outside, Moira found Brodie waiting in the crisp Highland air. They headed toward the forest line where deer trails crisscrossed. Their food supply was lower than Granny would like with all the extra soldiers to feed.

As they walked, Moira broached the topic on her mind. “Yer brother Boyd, ye said he had powers?”

Brodie kept his focus on the path. “Aye, Boyd doesn’t heal like me great-grandfather, but he can turn into any animal he chooses.”

“Is that why Ailis swears she saw him disappear before her eyes?”

He nodded. “He likes to choose a small insect so that it looks as if he is vanishing from sight. We’ve tried to convince him to be circumspect, but he simply doesn’t seem to have it in him to do so.”

“Why not bring yer grandfather to aid our infirmary?” she asked.

He slowed his pace before sharing an unsettling truth. “Moira, there are things about me kin not meant for others to ken. Revealing our secrets could bring more harm than good.”

“I understand,” she conceded, though her heart ached for the sufferings that might have been eased by such gifts.

They moved into the forest silently, determined to bring Granny deer for them to feast on in the days to come.

The forest enveloped Moira and Brodie as they ventured deeper into the ancient trees standing sentinel over their land. Brodie crouched, examining a set of fresh tracks pressed into the damp earth.

“Deer passed through here not long ago,” he whispered, motioning for Moira to follow. They moved with practiced stealth, bows at the ready.

A twig snapped in the underbrush ahead. Brodie froze, signaling Moira to do the same. Through the foliage, a majestic stag emerged, its antlers reaching skyward. Brodie nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring taut. Moira mirrored his actions, aiming true.

In a breath, they released their arrows. Twin shafts found their mark, and the stag fell, its life given to sustain the clans. They approached their quarry, offering silent thanks for its sacrifice.

As they prepared the stag for transport, a distant cry echoed through the trees. They exchanged a glance, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The cry came again, closer this time—a human voice tinged with desperation.

Without hesitation, they abandoned their kill and raced toward the sound, leaping over fallen logs and dodging low-hanging branches. They burst into a small clearing and froze at the sight before them.

A young woman, her dress torn and muddied, cowered against a tree as a group of rough-looking men circled her like wolves eyeing prey. The men turned at Moira and Brodie’s sudden appearance, sneering with cruel intent.

“Well, well, what have we here?” the apparent leader drawled, his eyes roving over Moira in a way that made her skin crawl. “Two more lambs stumbling into the wolf’s den, eh?”

Moira met the man’s gaze unflinchingly, her bow drawn and aimed at his heart. “Step away from the lass if ye value yer miserable lives.” The men wore the kilt of the Gordons, and she knew they had come from Sinclair lands to hurt those they could find.

The men laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the clearing. “Bold words for a wee lass,” the leader mocked. “Mayhap we’ll have some fun with ye too.”

Brodie stepped forward, his own bow at the ready. “Ye’ll not lay a finger on either of them, ye filthy curs. Now back away, or I’ll put an arrow through yer black hearts.”

The men hesitated, eyeing the deadly serious expressions on Moira and Brodie’s faces. The leader’s hand twitched toward the sword at his hip, but before he could draw it, an arrow from Moira’s bow pierced his throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling as blood poured from the wound.

Chaos erupted. The remaining men charged at Moira and Brodie with a roar of fury. Arrows flew, finding their marks in two more attackers. Brodie dropped his bow and drew his sword, engaging the closest assailant in a fierce clash of steel.

Moira rushed to the young woman’s side, pulling her to her feet. “Run, lass! Get to safety!” The terrified girl didn’t hesitate, fleeing into the trees as the battle raged behind her.

Moira turned back to the fray, drawing her own sword. She and Brodie fought back to back, their blades flashing in deadly arcs. The men were skilled fighters, but they were no match for the Highland warriors’ fierce determination.