Page 23 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)
T he warriors of the alliance, now bolstered by the formidable Sutherlands, gathered in the shadow of McAfee Keep. A sense of optimism infused the air, a shared sentiment that with this newfound unity, victory was within reach.
Lachlan’s eyes were trained on the imposing figure of Laird Sutherland amid the fray. The seasoned warrior moved through the men like a tempest, his broad shoulders flexing as he demonstrated a masterful stroke with his sword, his voice booming over the din of training swords.
“Position and balance,” Laird Sutherland commanded, his weathered hands correcting a young soldier’s grip. “Anticipate your opponent’s next move.”
Lachlan mimicked the maneuver, feeling the weight of his sword as an extension of his own will.
Around him, the faces of his kinsmen were filled with fervor, their movements growing more assured under Sutherland’s tutelage.
Lachlan hadn’t believed there was much he could still learn about swordplay, but Laird Sutherland had proven him wrong quickly.
Ailis watched from the fringes, her keen eyes assessing each swing and parry. She noted how Laird Sutherland instilled confidence into her clansmen, reinforcing their resolve with his steadfast presence.
“Ye see that, Lachlan?” she called, her vibrant green eyes reflecting the lively scene. “The men are finding their strength!”
“Aye,” Lachlan replied, sparing a quick glance in Ailis’s direction.
“Again!” Laird Sutherland barked, circling the soldiers who hung on his every word. He paused by a towering brute whose stance was too narrow.
“Plant your feet as if ye mean to uproot the very earth beneath you,” he instructed, setting the man’s boots firmly apart. The soldier nodded, his eyes gleaming with newfound determination.
Laird Sutherland stepped back, surveying the men with a critical eye. Pride etched into the lines of his face as blade met blade, ringing out like a chorus of hope across the Highlands.
“Remember, lads,” he said, his voice carrying on the chill wind, “a sword is only as strong as the arm that wields it, and the heart that guides it. We stand together, or not at all.”
And as the sun climbed higher, melting away the remnants of dawn’s chill, the warriors of the alliance trained with a zeal that could only come from knowing they were part of something far greater than themselves.
*
Moira’s boots sank into the mossy earth as she strode through the dense woods, a quiver of arrows slung across her back and a bow gripped firmly in her hand.
The crisp air filled her lungs, sharpening her senses as the sounds of clashing swords and grunts of exertion echoed from the distant training field.
She wasn’t alone. A band of women from the clan accompanied her, their faces set with determination and their weapons at the ready.
Moira knew their strength was not just in combat but in sustaining their people.
With the addition of the Sutherlands to their ranks, every mouth was another stomach to fill, and it was her task to ensure none went hungry.
“Keep yer eyes on the thicket,” she called, her voice confident but low, blending with the rustle of leaves around them. “The deer are plentiful this season, but they are wily.”
Eyes followed her gaze, scanning for any signs of movement within the greenery.
The women, each one capable and alert, mirrored Moira’s readiness.
They understood the importance of their hunt, not just for provision but for morale.
A well-fed army was an army with spirits high enough to face the coming challenge.
“Remember, aim true and be mindful of where you shoot,” Moira reminded them, her fiery red hair glinting like molten copper beneath the dappled sunlight that filtered through the canopy. “We’ll have no accidents today. We cannae afford injuries, not now.”
She led by example, moving with stealth toward a clearing where the brush gave way to a grassy expanse.
Here, the targets would be clearer, and the risk of stray arrows endangering their kin would be markedly reduced.
She paused, gestured to the others to fan out, and signaled them to ready their bows.
With a sharp intake of breath, Moira drew an arrow and nocked it. Her piercing gaze darted to a bush where a shadow stirred, and with the grace of a predator, she drew the string taut against the resistance. The world seemed to hold its breath, the wind momentarily stilling as if in anticipation.
“Steady,” she whispered, more to herself than to the others.
Her fingers released the arrow, sending it hurtling toward its mark with a whispering hiss.
The sound of impact was followed by a communal release of held breaths, and Moira allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as the others followed suit, their arrows flying true and clear, well away from the sounds of swordsmanship that resounded in the distance.
“Good,” she praised as they collected their quarry. “This will keep the fires burning and the stew pots full.”
*
The great hall of McAfee Keep buzzed with activity as Moira ushered her band of hunters through its heavy wooden doors. Women from the clan, aprons tied firmly around their waists, welcomed the party, their hands eager to relieve them of their burdens.
“Here, let me take that,” one woman said, reaching for a brace of rabbits dangling from Moira’s grasp.
“Careful with these,” Moira instructed, passing over the game.
“They’re to be smoked, every last bit of it.
” Her voice carried the authority of one who knew the importance of meticulous preparation in times of need.
She watched as the women set to work, laying out the fresh catch alongside the day’s earlier bounty.
There was an urgency in their movements—a shared understanding that each task completed brought them one step closer to readiness.
Moira rolled up the sleeves of her blouse and joined in, her skilled fingers making quick work of dressing the game.
Her red hair, plaited tightly to keep it from her face while hunting, seemed to catch fire in the glow of the hearth.
She moved among the kitchen stations, ensuring that every piece of meat found its way into the careful hands of those tending the curing racks and smoking pits.
“Ye’ve a steady hand, Moira,” one of the elder women remarked as she watched the younger lass deftly truss a pheasant for smoking.
“Steady hands make for full bellies,” Moira replied with a smile, tying off the twine with a practiced knot. “And full bellies make for strong warriors.” As much as Moira hated kitchen work, she was adept at it, and she would do whatever was needed to help their cause.
As the room filled with the comforting sounds of productivity—the chopping of vegetables for the stew pots, the clinking of ladles, the murmur of conversation—Moira’s thoughts drifted to the men outside, their swords clashing as they drilled under Laird Sutherland’s watchful eye.
She could almost hear the rhythmic cadence of their training calls, a warrior’s litany that pulsed in time with her own heart.
The alliance had brought more than just numbers.
The hope of the soldiers and clansmen alike had risen sharply.
They now felt as if they had the chance to actually end this war without too many more lives being lost. As Moira surveyed the bustling kitchen, the evidence of this newfound vigor was palpable.
Even the women in the kitchen were more hopeful.
There was no room for doubt in Moira’s mind, no space for uncertainty. Clyde Stewart would soon realize the futility of his ambition when faced with the united strength of the McAfees and McClains, as well as all the other clans in their alliance.
“Moira,” one of the younger girls addressed her, breaking her reverie, “where should I put these?”
“Over there by the east wall,” Moira directed, pointing to the designated area for smoked goods. “Make sure they’re well-spaced. We’ll need every strip preserved for the days ahead.”
“Of course, Moira,” the girl nodded, her eyes reflecting a mixture of respect and determination that mirrored Moira’s own.
“Mind the fire, lasses,” Granny called, her voice cutting through the din. “We cannae afford to waste a single morsel.”
Moira turned, ready to tackle the next task, when a gentle but firm hand clasped her elbow. Granny McAfee’s eyes, bright and knowing, peered into hers from a face lined with the wisdom of many Highland moons.
“Moira, my dear,” Granny’s voice was a soft yet commanding whisper, intended only for her ears amidst the hubbub. “There’s a fine line betwixt confidence and cockiness.”
Granny led her a few steps away from the hustle, close enough to still feel the kitchen’s warmth on their faces. “Ye’ve got the heart of a lioness, but even the mightiest beast cannae see all the dangers that lurk in the heather.”
Moira stood tall, though she had to tilt her head to look up at her grandmother’s sage gaze. “Granny, I ken yer concern, but the Sutherlands’ swords are sharp. The Stewarts will be scattered like leaves come autumn.”
“Perhaps,” Granny conceded, her eyes narrowing slightly, “but never underestimate an enemy cornered. We know not if other clans have cast their lot with the Stewarts.”
Moira listened, her jaw set firmly, the muscles tensing ever so slightly. Respect for her grandmother’s experience wove through her thoughts, yet her belief in their victory remained unshaken.
“Thank ye for the counsel, Granny,” Moira replied, her tone carrying the undercurrent of a river rushing against the rocks. “I’ll heed yer words, but the spirits of the glen are with us. We’ll stand victorious.”
Granny McAfee patted Moira’s hand, a knowing smile flickering at the corners of her mouth. “Just remember, the wind can change its course without warning. Keep yer eyes open, child.”
*