Page 25 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

D awn barely graced the Highlands when the distant clamor of battle stirred McAfee Keep. Moira rose from the infirmary bench, heart pounding. Outside, the Stewarts and their allies appeared through the mist.

Moira’s skin prickled with cold sweat as she thought of her husband, Brodie. Their argument from the night before played on a loop in her mind.

“Moira?” asked Ailis, concern etched on her face.

Without responding, Moira hurried toward the door. Stepping out, she scanned the battlefield for Brodie. Her fiery red hair seemed to blaze with urgency as she spotted him fighting skillfully but surrounded by enemies.

Fear and resolve surged within her; she couldn’t stand idly by while he risked his life. Their last bitter words now seemed trivial compared to death’s indifferent gaze.

“Please,” she whispered into the wind, appealing to God or anyone who would listen. “Keep him safe.”

Her plea dissipated amid the chaos, yet it cemented her determination. Brodie’s memory emboldened Moira as she braced for the inevitable. With life and death hanging in the balance, there was no time for uncertainty.

Hoisting her gown, Moira dashed from the infirmary and onto the parapet. The Highland air bit into her cheeks as she surveyed the battleground below.

The odds were against Brodie—three men circled him like hungry wolves.

“I need to help,” Moira muttered, gripping the stone balustrade. “Brodie’s in peril!”

Fiona arrived beside her, arrow nocked. Twang! One enemy fell. Twang! Another collapsed.

“Nay,” Fiona replied when asked if she could reach the third. “He’s shielded by Brodie.”

“I must go to him,” Moira declared.

Fiona reached out a hand. “It’s not safe. You cannae go there!”

Fingers steady, she strapped on her sword belt; each buckle a silent vow.

“I will go, sister. My place is by his side.”

Fiona gestured to a band of clansmen. They nodded to Moira.

“We’ll cut a path straight to my husband. We cannae let him die. I need all of ye to fight off anyone on the way to him, and I will handle his opponent.”

The men nodded without question, each of them grabbing weapons. They moved through hidden passages, emerging into the courtyard where battle enveloped them. The sights and sounds ignited something primal within Moira.

“Protect Brodie!” she cried, charging across with her sword drawn, ready for vengeance or victory—whichever fate granted her that day.

The Highland air carried the scent of iron and earth as Moira raced across the bloodied ground. Her red hair streamed like a war banner, contrasting with the keep’s grey stone. Amid the fray, Brodie fought gracefully until a sword pierced his thigh, causing his legs to buckle.

“No!” The cry tore from Moira’s throat, raw and fierce. Time seemed to slow as she watched her husband collapse. Her heart clenched, but her resolve hardened like the steel in her grip. She would avenge her husband.

She reached him in a breathless moment, just as his attacker raised his sword for a final blow.

With a warrior’s cry, Moira intercepted, her own blade meeting his with a resounding clang.

The man was skilled, but fury lent her strength, and her next strike was true. The soldier fell lifeless before her.

“Take Brodie to the infirmary, now!” She commanded the men at her back, who hurriedly obeyed, lifting Brodie’s limp form with care born of loyalty and desperation.

Her green eyes stayed locked on his face, searching for any sign of consciousness, any flicker of pain or recognition. But he was still, too still, and she felt the icy fingers of dread creep into her heart.

“Moira! Come quickly!” It was Ailis’s voice, steeped in urgency.

With a final glance at the fallen enemy, Moira sprinted back to the keep, her chest heaving. In the infirmary, the grim chorus of groans and prayers echoed off the stone walls.

Brodie lay upon one of the makeshift beds, his face pale, his dark eyes closed against the world. Ailis and Fiona hovered over him, their expressions etched with concern that mirrored the tumult in Moira’s soul.

“His leg…” Fiona’s voice trailed off, her hands hovering above the wound as if afraid to touch it.

“We need to take it off,” Ailis said, her tone clinical yet tinged with fear. “The damage… I’ve not seen many walk away from such an injury. I’ll need my bone saw.”

“Ye will not take his leg,” Moira stated, her voice leaving no room for debate. She knelt beside Brodie, taking his hand in hers, feeling the faint pulse of his warrior’s heart. “We wait.”

“Moira, if we wait—” Ailis started, the healer in her battling with the sister.

“Wait,” Moira repeated firmly. Her gaze didn’t waver from Brodie’s ashen face. The healers exchanged a silent conversation, one laden with the weight of decisions that could mean life or death.

“Very well,” Ailis conceded after a tense moment. “Ye must clean the wound as well as ye can.”

Moira’s fingers deftly worked to clean and bind the wound with the skill of one who had tended to countless others before.

“Thank ye,” Moira whispered, pressing a kiss to Brodie’s forehead. The battle outside might have ceased, but within the stone walls of the McAfee Keep, a different kind of fight was just beginning—one for the life of Brodie.

Moira’s heart raced, watching over Brodie’s unconscious form on the cot. The infirmary air hung heavy with blood and pain-filled moans. Her gaze lingered on his bandaged thigh, the fabric stained red. “Ye will not take his leg,” she repeated, words anchoring her against consuming fear.

“Moira,” Fiona implored, her bow and arrows now forgotten in a corner, “he may never walk again if—”

“Then he’ll live without walking.” Moira’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing any further objections.

Brodie had made her promise not to ask his grandfather to use his mysterious healing abilities without consent.

Her word was her bond, stronger than the mightiest stronghold walls.

She couldn’t break it, not even for this.

“Moira, we must consider—” Ailis began, only to be cut off by the steadfast gleam in Moira’s gaze.

“Wait. Just wait,” she insisted, her hand tightening around Brodie’s. She could feel the throb of life within him, the silent plea for patience.

Outside the keep, the clamor of war had dulled to an eerie quiet.

Moira rose and moved to the narrow window, peering out onto the battlefield.

The once-vibrant grass was marred with the scars of combat, bodies strewn about like rag dolls discarded by petulant children.

The banners of the Stewarts, which had boldly proclaimed their intent at dawn, were now nowhere in sight, carried away on the wings of defeat.

Their allies, too, seemed like specters melted into the mist that now rolled in from the glens.

“Is it…” Fiona joined Moira at the window.

“Aye,” Moira confirmed, a bitter taste of victory on her tongue. “They’ve scattered. The Stewart will find no more clans willing to bleed for his cause.”

“Then it’s done,” Fiona breathed, relief laced with sorrow. “For now.”

“Until the next time the Stewart finds men desperate enough to die for him,” Moira added, her voice hollow.

Returning to Brodie’s side, Moira brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. The battle had ended, but the war…the war was fought here now, in the quiet determination of waiting, in the silent prayers to God, and in the strength of her love that refused to yield before the shadow of despair.

“Come back to me, me husband,” she whispered, pressing another kiss to his brow. “Ye must come back.”

The infirmary hummed with groans and whispered comforts while Moira attended the wounded. She briefly pressed a cool cloth to Brodie’s fevered forehead, her heart tightening at his pale face as the infirmary door burst open.

“Moira!” Alisdair’s voice, authoritative yet laced with a tremor of urgency, cut through the din.

She turned, her gaze locking onto the two brothers striding toward her. Alisdair, with his handsome features set in a frown of concern. Lachlan, his blue eyes stormy and jaw clenched with barely contained emotion.

“We must speak with ye,” Lachlan said, gripping her arm and drawing her aside with a gentleness that belied his desperate grip.

“What is it?” Moira asked, her heart hammering in her chest, dreading more ill news.

“Moira, we need ye to clear the infirmary,” Alisdair implored, his eyes flickering toward the unconscious form of their brother. “We need to bring our grandfather here.”

“Ye know I cannae do that.” Moira’s voice was firm, even as her insides quaked. “I promised Brodie—And there are so many other men in need of healing. I cannae force them to leave!”

“Moira, please,” Lachlan interjected, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear. “Ye ken what he can do. Ye ken what this might cost us if we donnae act.”

Their gazes met, a silent conversation passing between them, heavy with the weight of unspoken fears and the sacred trust of family bonds. Moira’s resolve wavered, but her promise to Brodie held her firm.

“Without Brodie’s leave, I cannot. And he cannot give it,” she said, pain and determination warring in her tone.

A moment stretched between them, fraught with the enormity of their plight. Then, without another word, Lachlan turned and strode from the room, his purpose etched in every line of his body.

Moira watched him go, her throat tight. She returned to Brodie’s side, her fingers tracing the lines of his face, willing him to awaken and grant the permission she could not give.

Time passed—an eternity in minutes—until the door opened once more, admitting a hush into the chaotic space.

The old man, Colin, entered, his presence commanding attention despite his aged frame.

Women moved aside, their hands ceasing their work as if by some unspoken command, their eyes filled with reverence and perhaps a hint of fear.

With solemn steps, Colin approached Brodie’s bedside. Without a word, he sat, his wrinkled hand hovering over Brodie’s chest. A stillness fell upon the room, the air itself holding its breath.

And then, Colin’s hand descended, touching the fabric of Brodie’s tunic gently.

A faint glow emanated from beneath his palm, subtle enough that one might think it a trick of the light.

Moira felt a warmth spread through the air, a sense of something ancient and powerful unfolding.

She said a silent prayer that the others in the room would not sense the same thing.

They could not let the world know about the powers of the McClain clan.

It lasted but a heartbeat before Colin withdrew his hand, the glow dissipating. He did not speak, nor did anyone dare to break the silence that followed. But in his wake, a new energy seemed to pulse through Brodie—a slight easing of his furrowed brow, a deeper rhythm to his breath.

Colin rose, his gaze meeting Moira’s, imparting a silent assurance before he turned and left the infirmary as quietly as he had come.

*

Ailis leaned over Brodie’s prone form, her expert hands carefully unwrapping the bandages that had been hastily applied in the chaos.

The infirmary was still thick with the scent of blood and herbal poultices, the moans of the wounded carrying the heavy weight of war through the stone walls.

Moira stood beside her sister, her red hair a vivid flame in the dim light, eyes fixed on Ailis’s every move.

“Ye’ve done well here, Moira,” Ailis said, her voice tinged with surprise as she peeled back the last layer of linen to inspect the wound on Brodie’s thigh.

In the flickering torchlight, the cut, though deep and threatening, appeared cleaner than one might expect from such a savage blow.

“I could swear it looked far worse when they carried him in.”

Moira’s gaze softened, relief mingling with concern as she watched Ailis probe the edges of the injury. “I just did what needed to be done,” she replied, her voice betraying none of the emotions that surged within her at the sight of Brodie’s pallid face.

“Ye didn’t just clean it,” Ailis observed, her green eyes reflecting a knowing spark as she met Moira’s gaze.

“Ye’ve cared for him with the hands of a healer.

This could have festered by now, but it’s on the mend.

” Her compliment, simple and heartfelt, held an underlying current of pride for her sister’s actions.

Moira nodded silently, her thoughts entwined with memories of the old man’s touch upon Brodie’s chest, the subtle glow that had seemed like a trick of the light yet promised something beyond their understanding.

She dared not speak of it, though. Colin’s silent assurance was etched into her mind.

He had told her without words that Brodie would walk again, and she’d clung to that hope.

“Let’s get this dressed properly,” Ailis said, breaking the quiet contemplation as she reached for fresh linen. Together, the sisters worked in harmonious silence, tending to Brodie with a meticulous care that spoke volumes of their shared strength in the face of uncertainty.