Page 24 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)
Brodie McClain pushed open the heavy wooden door, his muscles aching from the grueling swordplay.
As he scanned the room for Moira, the warm glow of the fire caught strands of her red hair, igniting them like the dying embers of the day’s sunset.
She moved among the tables with a grace that belied the strength in her step, ladling stew into bowls and exchanging jests with the men.
Brodie leaned against the stone archway, observing as one Sutherland warrior reached out, playfully tugging at a curl that dangled near Moira’s shoulder.
Her laughter rang clear, and she swatted the man’s hand away with mock severity before turning to share a conspiratorial grin with another clansman. The sight knotted Brodie’s insides.
Throughout the meal, Brodie’s thoughts churned like a stormy loch, his usual calm demeanor overshadowed by the sharp pangs of jealousy. He ate little, his gaze returning time and again to Moira, who was now refilling ale.
“Moira,” Brodie finally called.
She turned to him. “Aye, Brodie? Will ye be wanting more to eat?”
“Nay,” he replied, the word curt as he rose from his seat. “We’ll speak later.”
The evening waned, and the hall emptied as warriors sought their rest. In the quiet of their chamber, Brodie closed the door with a soft click that seemed to echo louder than intended. Moira, who had been unpinning her hair, turned to face him, her expression one of open curiosity.
“Ye’ve not spoken much this eve,” she observed, tilting her head slightly.
“Have I not?” Brodie’s tone carried an edge, his composure fraying. “It seems ye’ve talked enough to not notice.”
Moira’s brow furrowed. “What’s stirred ye, Brodie?”
“It’s just… ye’ve been giving much attention to the men. Some could take it the wrong way.”
“Take it the wrong way?” Moira’s voice rose, incredulous. “I’m making our guests feel welcome, nothing more.”
“Is that what ye call it?” Brodie stepped closer, unable to mask the tension in his jaw. “Flirting and jesting as ye go about?”
“Flirting?” Moira asked, every inch the Highland lass who knew her own mind. “I donnae know where ye get such notions.”
“Moira, I saw ye,” Brodie insisted, though his voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.
“Then ye saw wrong,” she shot back, her green eyes fierce. “I’m a McAfee, and we show hospitality. ’Tis all.” She clenched her fists at her sides, more frustrated with Brodie than she ever remembered being. She felt as if he was accusing her of cheating, something she would never do.
Brodie’s eyes narrowed as he studied her face, searching for any sign of deceit. But Moira met his gaze unflinchingly, her expression a mixture of hurt and defiance.
“Ye truly believe that?” he asked, his voice low and tight. “That yer behavior is naught but hospitality?”
“Aye, I do,” Moira replied firmly. “And if ye cannae see that, then perhaps ye donnae know me as well as ye think.”
Brodie flinched as if she’d struck him. For a moment, he looked lost, unsure how to respond. Then his shoulders slumped, and he let out a heavy sigh.
“Moira, I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I didnae mean to accuse ye of anything. I just… I worry, is all.”
Moira’s expression softened slightly at his admission. “Worry? About what, Brodie?”
He hesitated, as if struggling to find the right words. “I worry that one of these men might try to steal ye away from me. That they’ll see yer kindness and mistake it for something more.”
Moira stepped closer, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. “Brodie, ye great fool. Donnae ye know by now that there’s only one man for me?”
His eyes met hers, a flicker of hope sparking in their depths. “Truly?”
“Aye, truly.” She smiled up at him, her fingers tightening on his sleeve. “I chose ye, Brodie McAfee. And I’ll keep choosing ye, every day, for as long as ye’ll have me.”
“Then why flirt with others?” he asked, trying to comprehend her reasoning.
“I wasnae flirting!” Moira felt as if they were talking in circles, and she was done with their discussion.
Their words hung suspended in the cool night air, a silent witness to the gulf that had formed between them.
Brodie’s eyes searched hers for a moment longer, seeking the fiery spirit he admired even in the midst of his disquiet.
Finally, he sighed, the sound carrying with it the weight of unspoken fears and the shadow of doubt that crept into even the steadiest of hearts.
Moira picked up the tartan shawl from the chest at the foot of their bed, wrapping it around her shoulders with a brisk tug. The woolen fabric clung to her like a shield as she turned to face Brodie.
“Ye must ken I have no heart for flirtation,” Moira stated firmly, her words slicing through the heavy silence. “I was ensuring the men felt welcomed, nothing more. My sisters are doing just the same.”
“Making them feel welcome does not necessitate such…familiarity,” Brodie countered.
“Ye think I cannae discern between courtesy and flirting?” Moira’s voice rose, a spark of indignation igniting within her. “I know what is at stake, Brodie. I know the importance of unity in our alliance. Do ye honestly believe I would jeopardize that with idle dalliance?”
“’Tis not what I believe that troubles me,” Brodie admitted, pinching the bridge of his nose in an attempt to quell his frustration. “’Tis what others might perceive. I cannae risk men seeing me as a rival for yer affections.”
“Then let them perceive strength in our hospitality!” Moira shot back, her fiery hair seeming to catch the very essence of her fervor. “Let them see the McAfees stand firm in both battle and brotherhood.”
The room grew cold around them. They stood divided, two wills forged in the fires of clan loyalty and Highland pride.
With a curt nod, Moira turned away, letting the shawl fall from her shoulders onto the bed—a banner of defiance in the face of Brodie’s disapproval. She lay down without another word, facing the wall.
Brodie watched her for a long moment, the moonlight tracing the contours of her silhouette.
He knew attempting further argument was as futile as trying to calm a storm over the lochs with mere whispers.
With a heavy sigh, he extinguished the last candle, surrendering the chamber to darkness and unspoken discontent.
As sleep eluded them both, the air filled with the silence of unresolved tension.