Page 26 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

T he infirmary was filled with activity as Moira sat beside Brodie’s cot, studying his wound. Fresh bandages contrasted with his tanned skin. The healers had done their part. Now Brodie needed to stand and test his strength.

Moira watched him, her red hair a fiery cascade over her shoulders, a silent sentinel in the dim light.

She remembered the weight of her sword in her hand as she fought beside him, and guilt knotted in her stomach for the argument that had divided their focus before the ambush.

Her heart ached with the need to mend things between them, but Brodie’s gaze when it met hers was as cold as the winds sweeping across the Highland moors.

“Ye need to try, Brodie,” she implored softly, her voice laced with earnestness. “The longer ye wait to start walking again, the harder it will be.”

“I ken what I must do,” he replied tersely, his deep brown eyes avoiding hers. His voice did not betray his pain, but Moira saw the tightness in his jaw, the slight pallor beneath his usual ruddiness.

“Forgive me for my part in our quarrel,” she said again. “I’d take it back if I could.”

“Your apologies won’t make me walk any sooner, Moira,” Brodie snapped, more harshly than she’d ever heard him speak.

His anger seemed rooted deeper than his injury, an infection of the spirit that no poultice could draw out.

For a moment, she wondered if his grandfather could heal his mind, but she didn’t dare ask.

Moira leaned closer, her fierce demeanor softening. “Brodie, please. Yer anger doesnae help ye heal.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her, and she saw something shift behind his gaze—a storm brewing, perhaps, or maybe just the reflection of her own worry. “I’m nae angry at ye for wanting to protect me, but your apology is a balm for neither my leg nor my pride.”

“Then let me help ye rise,” Moira urged, desperation edging into her voice.

“Later,” he muttered, turning his head away from her, dismissing her offer and her concern in a single gesture.

Her hands clenched into fists atop her tartan skirt, unable to fathom the distance that had grown between them.

As night descended upon the Highlands and the infirmary grew quiet save for the occasional groan of the wounded, Moira remained by Brodie’s side, her presence an unwavering constant like the ancient stones of McAfee Keep.

Yet as the hours passed, his refusal to meet her gaze stung more sharply than the bite of a Stewart blade.

*

The morning light filtered through the narrow window of the infirmary, casting a golden glow over Brodie’s somber expression. Moira exchanged a determined glance with Ailis, who nodded subtly. It was time.

“Let’s get ye to sit up, Brodie,” Moira said, her voice laced with dread, even as she tried to be cheerful. She had no desire to see him in more pain than he already was.

With gentle hands, they eased him upright, propping pillows behind his back for support.

Ailis stood on one side of the bed, her athletic frame poised with a healer’s grace, while Moira took her place on the other, ready to assist her sister.

Together, they guided Brodie’s injured leg off the edge of the bed, positioning it carefully to avoid any unnecessary strain.

“Ye can do this,” Ailis encouraged, her melodic lilt soothing yet firm. “We’ll move yer leg slowly to build strength.”

Taking the lead from Ailis, Moira grasped Brodie’s ankle and lifted his leg with a controlled motion.

His jaw tightened, and she wished she could take his pain away from him.

As she flexed his knee, helping him bend and straighten the limb, the whisper of pain found its way onto his face despite his stoic efforts.

“Enough,” he gasped after several repetitions, his breath coming in short bursts.

“Ye need to push through, Brodie,” Ailis pressed, even as her emerald eyes shimmered with empathy. “I know ’tis not comfortable, but the longer ye wait to stand, the harder it will be. Ye lose some of yer strength every day.”

“Can ye stand?” Moira asked, her piercing gaze meeting his, willing him to find the strength he needed.

“Nay,” he replied, the exhaustion evident in his voice. “I’ve not the strength to try walking or even standing now.”

“Brother, ’tis better to attempt while yer muscles are warm,” Ailis reasoned, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders as she leaned closer.

Brodie merely shook his head and turned away, closing his eyes against their entreaties.

Moira felt the weight of his refusal settle between them, an invisible barrier she could neither scale nor dismantle.

She bit her lip, the taste of iron sharp on her tongue, knowing that his reluctance was more than physical weariness—it was a sign of a spirit burdened by unspoken fears and unresolved anger.

*

As the sun cast a golden hue on the infirmary’s stone walls, Alisdair and Lachlan walked in, drawing the eyes of everyone inside. They whispered encouragement to the wounded men but continued to the room’s end where Brodie lay.

“Ye look stronger today,” Alisdair announced with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, his gaze locking onto Brodie’s.

“Strength is of little use when one’s legs refuse to bear him,” Brodie retorted, his eyes flicking toward his brothers’ unwounded limbs with a mix of resentment and resignation. “Do ye expect me to be carried into battle and fight while in a chair?”

“Will ye let us summon Grandfather Colin once more?” offered Lachlan, his suggestion breaking through the veil of pride that surrounded Brodie. “His healing could—”

“Enough,” Brodie snapped, cutting off Lachlan mid-sentence. “I will not be the reason others find out about his powers. I need no further aid.”

The two elder brothers exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before they nodded to Brodie and retreated, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.

Moira remained seated beside Brodie, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the fiery strands of her hair catching the fading light.

She watched as Brodie’s chest rose and fell with each labored breath, his frustration etched deep into the lines of his face.

She knew he must blame her for Lachlan going to fetch his grandfather, but she was not to blame!

Lachlan had done that on his own despite her protests.

Hopefully, Brodie would see reason when she explained it to him.

“Did ye send for him then?” Brodie’s voice cut sharply through the stillness, his brown eyes narrowing as he turned to fix Moira with an accusatory stare. “Did ye defy me and call upon me grandfather to mend what I’ve not given leave to heal?”

“Naught of the sort,” Moira replied calmly, meeting his intense gaze without wavering. “I gave ye my word, Brodie, and I am not one to break a vow lightly. ’Twas Lachlan who sought out the healer, despite my protest.”

“Ye did not protest loudly enough,” he countered, bitterness lacing his words. “Ye could have stopped him if ye truly wished it.”

“Stopping Lachlan would be akin to halting the wind itself,” she said, holding her ground. “Yer brother acts according to his own heart, same as any stubborn McClain man.”

Brodie’s jaw clenched, his anger simmering just below the surface, and Moira knew her words provided little comfort against his sense of helplessness.

She held his gaze, wishing she could ease the burden of pride and pain that anchored him to that bed, knowing that only Brodie himself could grant the forgiveness he sought from others.

Moira’s hand, callused from the hilt of her sword, hovered over Brodie’s clenched fist. The infirmary was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth and the occasional groan from a wounded soldier. She searched his face for some sign of solace or gratitude but found none.

“Brodie, I—” she started, only to be cut off by his sharp gaze.

“Ye killed him,” he said, voice hoarse but laced with an undercurrent of disdain. “The man who did this to me. Dead by your hand.”

His words were as cold as the winds that swept through the glens outside. Moira stiffened, feeling a strange blend of pride and confusion. “Aye, I did. And why wouldn’t I? He had wounded ye, and with all the blood, I wasna sure ye’d survive it.”

Brodie turned away, his jaw setting as if carved from the very stone of McAfee Keep itself. “Fiona, too. She took care of the others. Do you nae see? I dinnae need ye—or any woman—to fight my battles.”

Her heart constricted at his rebuke. Moira had been raised on tales of valor, where the line between life and death often rested on the edge of a blade. She couldn’t fathom why her actions, meant to protect, had kindled such anger in him.

“I dinnae understand, Brodie. What have I done that’s so wrong?” Moira pleaded, seeking the warmth of connection that once existed between them. “I sought only to save yer life.”

“Save it?” Brodie scoffed, his glare unwavering. “Or control it? Ye think because I’m laid up here that I’m helpless? That I need rescue?”

“Never helpless,” she countered, the fire in her belly stoking her words. “But even the mightiest oak needs shelter from the storm.”

“Then let the storm come!” he shot back. “I would rather face it on my own than have tales told of Brodie McClain, the warrior who owed his life to a woman’s blade.”

In that moment, the chasm between them felt as wide as the lochs dotting the Highlands.

Moira’s hands trembled with a mix of fury and sorrow.

She’d been certain that when the conflicts between their alliance and Clyde Stewart had ended she would be happy.

Now, looking at her husband, she wondered if she would ever be happy again.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Moira whispered, her voice barely above the murmur of the dying fire. “Perhaps I was wrong to assume you’d want to live to fight another day.”