Page 32 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

M oira’s eyes lingered on the gathering of tartan and steel below the infirmary window.

Beside her, Ailis focused her intent gaze upon their clansmen—McAfee and McClain united for the coming battle.

The courtyard emanated tension as if from a taut bowstring.

As Moira met her sister’s eyes, an unspoken vow passed between them—a pledge to their kin and their sacred Highlands.

The morning sun cast long shadows over the warriors, each breath visible in the cold air. Duncan McAfee moved among them, instilling strength. His grizzled hair caught glints of light, and even from this distance, the girls could see his reassuring nod as he inspected a young warrior’s armor.

“Stay close to Lachlan,” Alisdair commanded. “Remember what I’ve taught ye, and fight not just with yer sword, but with yer mind.”

Nods rippled through the ranks as they prepared for battle; blades drawn, backs straightened. Alisdair rallied them: “Today, we stand for our lands, for our families! We are brothers bound by blood and honor. Fight bravely, fight wisely, and may our ancestors guide us to victory!”

A roar of unity followed, seeming to shake the very stones of McAfee Keep.

From the infirmary window, pride swelled within Moira. She watched as the men formed up—the anticipation palpable. Alisdair led the army a short distance from the castle to defend their beloved Highlands.

“May the wind be at their backs,” Ailis whispered.

“Aye, and our prayers with them,” Moira replied, heavy with emotion. They remained at the window, two sentinels watching until the last warrior disappeared from view—an emptiness filling the courtyard like a silent promise of return. This time they were ready.

The clamor of metal and cries of men filled the air as McAfee and McClain forces clashed with Clyde Stewart’s army.

Alisdair, at the forefront, led his men with seasoned precision, their movements synchronized like a deadly dance. In contrast, Stewart’s disarrayed forces stumbled over uneven ground, their attacks out of sync. None of the men seemed to be warriors, and that was good for their enemy.

Within the infirmary’s stone walls, Brodie strained to discern the battle’s tide through the racket outside. Moira stood beside him, recounting events relayed by runners. “Our men hold fast,” she said, “Alisdair leads them well. The Stewarts falter under our charge.”

Ailis added with determination and concern in her voice, “The McClains fight with honor, Brodie.”

“Keep faith,” Brodie murmured. “Our cause is just, and our arms are strong.”

In the distance, the sounds of battle continued to rage.

The clash of steel echoed through the highlands, an urgent call to the heavens. Below the infirmary window, battle lines shifted, the McAfee and McClain warriors advancing in fluid precision like a serpent through grass.

“Look at them,” Moira whispered, eyes tracking their clansmen’s swift maneuvers.

Ailis stood close, her hand gripping the windowsill tightly. “They move together, perfectly synchronized,” she said with a smile. “Alisdair, Lachlan, and Brodie have trained them all well.”

Their forces cut through Stewart lines, disarray spreading like wildfire among the enemy. Clyde Stewart’s men retreated before the onslaught, pushed back by claymore and targe.

Moira tensed as the adversaries fled; victory rang from below but tension remained on her face. Ailis touched Moira’s shoulder—a steady support—and their eyes met with unspoken understanding. Together they’d weathered the storm of war, still unbroken.

In shared silence, they acknowledged not just victory but its accompanying cost and sacrifices. The fight never truly over, future conflict loomed—but today, they stood united.

The clamor of victory subsided as Alisdair surveyed the scene. Around him, Clan McAfee and their McClain allies moved with purpose under the guidance of their lairds. Alisdair stood beside Duncan, instructing warriors to check for any enemies attempting a final stand.

“Ensure none are left to threaten our backs,” Alisdair commanded with unwavering resolve.

The warriors acted swiftly, their loyalty evident in their efficient execution of orders. The lairds’ presence served as an embodiment of pride and strength on the battlefield.

In the infirmary, Brodie McClain lay propped up on a cot, his body injured but his mind eager for news. Moira stood at his bedside, recounting the tale of the battle’s conclusion.

“Lachlan and Alisdair—they were unshakeable,” she said, admiration coloring her voice. “Their strategy was flawless, each move essential. Father is too old to fight, but he was there before the battle, and I ken he watched from a window like we did.”

Brodie listened intently as Moira described the battle. Her words painted vivid images that danced across his imagination. As she spoke of the battle’s end, a smile reached his deep brown eyes.

“Stewart’s men scattered like leaves before the gale,” Moira continued. “They fled into the embrace of the glen.”

“Then it is done,” Brodie exhaled with relief, picturing their lands now safe from immediate threat. Yet beneath his calm demeanor, he acknowledged the precarious balance between peace and peril in the Highlands.

“Done for today,” Moira stated, gripping Brodie’s hand. “But we remain vigilant.”

Brodie felt the truth of her words, and their bond eased the weight of his injury.

The clamor of battle faded to distant echoes across the heath, where remnants of morning mist clung to the hollows. Alisdair surveyed his warriors with discerning eyes. Beside him stood Lachlan and Fearghas McClain. The three of them were enough to scare off most enemies.

“Secure the perimeter! Leave no stone unturned!” Alisdair commanded as his men responded with focused determination. The threat of lingering enemies remained present.

Lachlan added, “We protect our lands and kin! Let no enemy find refuge within these hills!” His call rallied the clansmen, their unity immovable.

Together, the brothers moved among their men, binding those few adversaries who yet breathed, awaiting Highland justice.

Alisdair marched purposefully through the remnants of battle, his stride never breaking. In the distance, he spotted a figure crouching behind a fallen tree, a flash of Stewart tartan catching his eye. With a knowing glance toward Lachlan, Alisdair altered his path.

As they approached, the figure sprang up, revealing the cowering form of Clyde Stewart. His eyes, usually filled with cunning, now darted wildly in search of escape. Sweat glistened on his brow, mixing with the dirt and blood of battle.

“Leaving so soon, Clyde?” Alisdair called. “I thought ye’d stay to face the consequences of yer treachery. Ye disappoint me yet again.”

Clyde’s face contorted into a sneer, but fear lingered in his eyes. “Ye think ye’ve won, McClain? This is but a minor setback. The Stewarts will rise again, stronger than ever, and yer precious Highlands will be ours!”

“The Stewarts already rule the Scots. Ye are not one of the rulers.” Alisdair’s eyes narrowed, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Bold words for a man who hides behind fallen trees. Face me like a true Highlander, if ye have the courage.”

But Clyde had no intention of engaging in a fair fight. With a desperate lunge, he bolted from his hiding spot, his tartan cloak billowing behind him as he fled through the dense foliage. Alisdair wasted no time, reaching for his bow and nocking an arrow with fluid precision.

The bowstring thrummed as Alisdair loosed the arrow, its fletching carving a path through the crisp Highland air.

With unerring accuracy, the arrow found its mark, embedding itself deep within Clyde Stewart’s right buttock.

A cry of agony tore from Clyde’s throat as he stumbled, his flight abruptly halted by the searing pain that radiated through his body.

Alisdair and Lachlan swiftly closed the distance, their strides purposeful and authoritative.

They approached the fallen Stewart, who now lay writhing on the damp earth, his hands clutching at his wounded posterior.

The once proud and arrogant laird was reduced to a pitiful sight, his face contorted in a mixture of pain and humiliation.

“Ye’ll not escape justice so easily, Clyde,” Alisdair declared, his voice carrying the weight of the Highlands. “Yer treachery ends here.”

Clyde’s eyes blazed with defiance, even as he struggled to rise. “Ye think ye’ve bested me, McClain?” he spat, his words laced with venom. “I’ll see ye and yer kin destroyed, even if it takes my last breath!”

Alisdair’s grip tightened on his sword. It was all he could do not to laugh at the once proud man laid so low.

He towered over Clyde, his presence commanding.

“Yer fate lies not in my hands, but in those of the dowager queen. Ye’ll answer for yer crimes before her, and may the gods have mercy on yer blackened soul. ”

With a nod to Lachlan, Alisdair motioned for the soldiers to secure Clyde.

They bound his hands tightly, the rough hemp digging into his wrists.

Clyde’s face twisted in a mixture of rage, pain, and desperation as he was hauled to his feet, the arrow still protruding from his buttock, a testament to his cowardice and defeat.

As the soldiers led Clyde away, Alisdair turned his attention to the other prisoners.

He went into the dungeon to see who else needed to be sent to the regent for sentencing.

Among them, he spotted the proud figure of Arran Sinclair, the laird of Clan Sinclair, who had been in the McAfee dungeons for months.

Beside him stood his son, Callum, his youthful face marred by the grime of the dungeon.

Alisdair approached them, his steps measured and deliberate. The Sinclairs had long been allies of the Stewarts, their ambitions intertwined in a web of deceit and treachery. Now, with Clyde’s defeat, the Sinclairs found themselves at the mercy of the victors.

“Arran Sinclair,” Alisdair addressed the laird, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “Ye stand accused of conspiring against the McAfees and all of the Highlands. Ye will accompany Clyde Stewart to Edinburgh, where you can stand before the dowager queen, and she will decide yer fate.”

*

The clash of steel succumbed to labored breaths as weary men returned to the stronghold.

McAfee and McClain warriors tended to the wounded, their movements both methodical and gentle.

Calls for herbs and water mingled with murmurs of comfort offered to comrades in pain.

If the injury was bad enough, they were taken to the infirmary.

Exhaustion marked every face, but a swell of pride united them.

The day’s resolve had turned the tide against Stewart’s chaos, forging their camaraderie tighter.

Moira observed the makeshift triage in the courtyard, heart swelling at her people’s fierce care for one another.

Lachlan’s voice guided efforts to secure everyone’s safety.

“Come, Ailis,” Moira urged. “Our hands are needed outside.”

Ailis nodded, dark hair shimmering against the stone fortress backdrop. The sisters moved from the infirmary, steps echoing on cobblestone—a testament to Highland women’s strength. They passed men who nodded respectfully, eyes filled with gratitude and reverence.

Victory swirled in the courtyard, warriors laughing and recounting tales of bravery. Moira McAfee stood amidst the celebration, feeling the exhilaration that came from the conquering soldiers.

“Farlan broke through their flank!” one of the warriors said, mimicking the moment with broad gestures.

“And young Gilmore felled two men with a single swing!” another added, admiration in his tone.

Moira’s heart swelled with pride, but a shadow of foreboding lingered. They had won today, but more challenges awaited like hidden crags in the mist.

Her father, Duncan, touched her shoulder. His eyes held a lifetime of battles but softened as they met hers.

“Let us remember this day!” Duncan called. “For we’ve shown what it means to be of Clan McAfee!”

“And Clan McClain!” Lachlan called to laughter.

Cheers erupted again, lifting into the cool Highland air, carrying triumph and whispers of an enduring legacy.

Moira and Ailis retreated to the alcove, the noise of victory muted by stone walls. Clasping hands, they shared a meaningful silence before speaking.

“Today we’ve created legends,” Ailis said, her healer’s heart aching. “But at what cost? For every cheer, there’s a mother who weeps or a child who’ll know only tales of their father.”

“War is cruel,” Moira replied somberly. “Our kin fought treachery, but uncertainty remains.” Her grip on Ailis’s hand tightened as she felt the weight of responsibility.

“True,” Ailis murmured, “loyalty binds us to family and hard choices that protect our clan. Remember, it’s not just the sword that keeps us safe, but bonds forged in peace.”

“Peace… That’s the dream I’ll fight for,” Moira vowed.

“Let’s hope today brought us closer to that dream,” Ailis said, releasing Moira’s hand. Their eyes mirrored unspoken fears and hopes.