Page 28 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

M oira entered the dimly lit infirmary, where the scent of herbs mingled with the moans of recovering men. She paused, scanning the rows of cots until her eyes settled on one figure in particular.

There he was—Brodie, cloaked in blankets that did little to hide his pallor. He was half-raised, propping himself up with a grimace that spoke volumes of the pain he concealed beneath his stoic facade. Moira’s heart contracted sharply.

Moira advanced with purposeful strides, her boots whispering against the stone floor. Each step brought into focus the stubborn set of Brodie’s jaw, the way his brown eyes, usually so observant and keen, now flickered away from hers.

“Good morn to ye, Brodie,” she greeted, her voice carrying the same authority she wielded when commanding her family’s warriors. “How fare ye this day?”

“Fair enough, considering,” Brodie muttered, shifting uneasily as if even speaking caused discomfort.

His glance skittered off to the side, avoiding the piercing scrutiny of Moira’s gaze—an evasion that didn’t sit well with the McAfee lass, accustomed to confronting issues with the directness of a charging bull.

“Ye dinnae sound convinced of yer own words,” Moira observed, folding her arms across her chest as she studied him with an intensity that left no room for pretense.

Her stance was as unyielding as the mountains from which she hailed, her presence an unwavering force in the sterile gloom of the healing quarters.

“Nor do I feel it,” Brodie finally conceded, his voice a rumble of contained frustration that echoed against the stone walls, resonating with the subdued tension that hung between them like a Highland fog.

The infirmary door creaked as Ailis slipped in, her presence weaving through the murmurs of the wounded. Her dark hair contrasted with the cold stone walls as it swayed gracefully, reflecting years spent navigating rough terrain.

“Ye look as though ye could use some respite, brother,” she said to Brodie. Her vibrant green eyes met his in a gaze that held none of Moira’s fiery challenge but offered solace instead.

Brodie’s scowl lessened almost imperceptibly at the sight of Ailis, her mere presence coaxing the rigid lines of his body to soften. She offered him a smile, its warmth cutting through the chill of his despondence. “A wee bit of effort each day, and ye’ll be running again.”

Moira watched the exchange, her own resolve reinforcing as she observed the calming effect Ailis had on Brodie. It was Moira who broke the silence, her words carrying the weight of their unspoken agreement. “Let us help ye stand, Brodie. ’Tis time to face this day’s challenge.”

Brodie’s gaze wavered, caught between resignation and the spark of pride that flared within him.

The wariness in his eyes wrestled with the innate resolve of a Highland warrior, and after a moment’s hesitation, his nod granted them permission to proceed.

It was a concession born not of defeat but the kind of bravery that acknowledged the need for allies in battle—even battles fought within the confines of healing walls.

Moira felt the coarse fabric of Brodie’s sleeve under her fingers as she and Ailis positioned themselves on either side of his weakened form. They both leaned in, ready to bear his weight, their faces mirrors of determination reflecting back at him.

“Ready?” Moira asked, even as her pulse quickened with anticipation.

Brodie nodded, his jaw clenching—a silent warrior preparing for an unseen foe. With each of them taking an arm, they hoisted gently, urging him upward. His body tensed, each muscle coiled like a spring, before he pushed against the cot with what strength he could muster.

His face contorted with the struggle, a deep furrow etching itself between his brows as his arms shook. It was a battle against his own flesh, a rebellion against the betrayal of limbs that had once carried him through the wilds of the Highlands with ease.

“Ye can do this, Brodie,” Ailis murmured, her voice a soft hum that danced around the effort-filled silence.

As Brodie came to stand, his legs trembled beneath him, as unsteady as saplings in a fierce wind. The growl that escaped him was both of frustration and exertion, a primal sound that echoed off the stone walls of the infirmary.

“Focus on us,” Moira said, her grip tightening, her knuckles whitening with the effort to steady him. “We’ve got ye. Just breathe.”

She willed her own stability into him, sharing the very essence of her resolve as she held him upright.

Brodie stood, wavering between Moira and Ailis. The room blurred at the edges, his focus narrowing to the piercing ache in his limbs, an unwelcome reminder of his frailty.

“Ye need not treat me like a bairn,” Brodie’s voice sliced through the tense quietude, roughened by disuse and spiked with ire. “I am no invalid to be coddled, Moira.”

Moira’s fiery eyes met his outburst with an equal force of will.

Her lips pressed into a thin line; her jaw set with determination.

She swallowed the retort that lingered on her tongue, letting silence carry the weight of her unspoken resolve.

He was in pain, and she needed to remain calm to help him through it.

“Och, Brodie,” Ailis chimed in, her voice carrying the lightness of a summer breeze over heather fields, “ye’ve got more fight in ye than the wildcats o’ the Highlands.”

The corners of Brodie’s mouth twitched, reluctantly conceding to the humor in Ailis’s words. His deep brown eyes, usually sharp with contemplation, softened slightly, allowing for a pained yet genuine smile to break through the storm of his frustration.

“Aye,” he responded, the growl in his voice now tempered by the flicker of amusement. “And that determination should help me now.”

“Ye must draw on it,” Moira said softly, pleased to see a smile whether it was for her or her sister.

The moment balanced between triumph and defeat as Brodie’s legs struggled to support him. His stoic determination shifted to uncertainty, and his strength vanished like mist over the moors. He groaned, echoing off the infirmary’s stone walls, and crumpled, his body betraying him again.

Moira, still at his side, put an arm around him, her movements synchronized with Ailis’s as they caught him in practiced arms. Together, they eased him back onto the cot, their efficiency a dance they had mastered over countless days of tending to the wounded warriors of Clan McAfee.

“Easy now, Brodie,” Moira said, her voice a stark contrast to the commanding tone she used when dealing with matters of the clan. She knelt beside him, folding her hands neatly atop the rough wool blanket that covered his legs.

“Setbacks are but part of the journey to mend,” she murmured, her piercing eyes softening with empathy. “Ye mustn’t let them daunt yer spirit.”

Brodie’s jaw clenched, and he turned his head away, fixating on the narrow window that showed just a bit of the Highland landscape.

In the silence that hung between them, his pride and vulnerability waged a silent war.

The steady rise and fall of his chest betrayed the depth of his internal struggle, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed smaller, contained by the confines of his own battered body.

Moira watched him, the lines of worry etched into her brow. She reached out, her hand hovering just above his arm before it fell back to her side, her touch withheld.

“Tomorrow,” she promised, “we’ll try again.”

Ailis stepped forward. She placed a comforting hand on Brodie’s tense shoulder, her touch as steady as the ancient pines that surrounded the keep. Her emerald eyes held a glimmer of solace as she leaned in, allowing her presence to envelop him like the Highland mists.

“Ye’ve the heart of the Highlands within ye, Brodie McClain,” she said, her voice carrying the melodic lilt of their shared heritage.

“The strength ye’ve shown is impressive.

” A small smile graced her lips, not one of mirth but of earnest assurance.

“Patience, like the deep lochs, holds its own power. Give yerself time to heal.”

Her words seemed to seep into the room, settling among the lingering scents of herbs and woodsmoke, a balm to the prickling tension that had gripped the space. For a moment, it was as if her unwavering belief could will his body to mend, her spirit to bolster his.

Moira rose from her kneel, the determination in her stance as unyielding as the stone walls that had safeguarded their people for generations. Her fiery locks swayed with her movement.

“Tomorrow, we rise anew,” she vowed, her gaze locking onto his averted face. “We dinnae yield today, nor shall we on the morrow. Together, we’ll face each dawn until ye stand proud upon this land once more.”

It was more than a promise to Brodie—it was a declaration to the very essence of their lives, an oath to endure, to persevere, to reclaim the strength that the Highlands demanded of its children.

Moira stood, going to the door of the infirmary. She wasn’t needed—or wanted—by Brodie, so she would make herself useful hunting or even helping in the kitchen.

“Moira…”

The voice halted her escape, a whisper threading through the stillness, taut with a raw edge she recognized all too well. She turned, her gaze sweeping past Ailis’s soothing presence to settle on Brodie, a shadow of the once indomitable warrior she had come to know and love.

His brown eyes, hooded with fatigue yet filled with an unspoken plea, met hers. “I fear…I may ne’er be the man I was before.” Brodie’s words trembled in the air, a confession so stark it seemed to echo off the walls, rebounding inside Moira’s chest.

She watched as the ghost of his usual confidence wavered.

This was Brodie laid bare, stripped of bravado and the comforting mantle of strength they both wore like armor against life’s cruelties.

Her throat tightened at the sight—at the vulnerability he rarely showed, the very one that bound her to him more fiercely than any clannish rite ever could.

“Ye are not alone in this, Brodie,” Moira said, her voice a clear, steady beacon as she took a step back toward him. The room blurred at the edges, the world narrowing to the space between them. “I’ll be by your side, and we will face whatever may come.”

Brodie’s gaze held hers, searching, as if trying to draw courage from the depths of her promise. There was a silent communion then, a melding of fears and hopes that transcended the spoken word. “Ye willna leave me?” His voice sounded like that of a defeated man, and she rushed to his side.

She leaned down to press a soft kiss against his lips, a promise between them that needed no words.

Moira turned once more, leaving Brodie for a while, but taking with her the weight of his confession and the fierce determination to see him restored.

Silence wrapped around Moira and Ailis like the Highland mists as they stepped into the chill of the stone corridor, the heavy door of the infirmary closing behind them with a soft thud.

Their footsteps echoed off the walls, a stark reminder of the emptiness that filled the spaces where laughter and chatter once lived.

Ailis’s gaze lingered on her sister for a moment, reading the storm of emotions in Moira’s eyes. Without a word, she placed a reassuring hand on Moira’s arm, her touch grounding, as if imparting the strength of the ancient pines that withstood the relentless winds outside McAfee Keep.

Moira’s thoughts raced ahead, weaving through the myriad challenges that lay before them—the weight of Brodie’s fears, the whispers of conspiracy that threatened to unravel the fabric of Highland unity, the Sinclair betrayal that cast long shadows over their clan’s future.

Each step they took was a silent vow, a commitment to not just heal Brodie’s wounds, but to fortify the spirit of the clans against the looming threat of the Stewarts’ ambition.

With a final glance back at the door that held more than just a wounded warrior, Moira turned away, squaring her shoulders against the tasks that awaited them. She felt Ailis’s presence beside her.

They hadn’t walked more than a few steps before they ran into Alisdair and Lachlan. “Are ye all right, lass?” Alisdair asked, studying Moira.

Moira nodded. “Thanks to Kevin, I am all right. And I willna be going to the forest alone at night again, especially without me sword.” She paused for a moment, biting her lip.

“But I do not think we should tell Brodie about my encounter in the forest. He needs to focus on healing and not worry about me.”

Lachlan and Alisdair exchanged a look. “If ye think that’s best, we will keep yer secret.”

“Thank ye,” Moira said. As she and Ailis kept walking, she quickly explained about running into a Sinclair in the forest.

“Ye must be more careful!” Ailis chided.

“I will do me best,” Moira agreed, though they both knew Moira found danger.

“Just promise to carry yer sword!” Ailis said.

“That, I will do.”