Page 35 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)
M oira’s laughter intertwined with Brodie’s. The Scottish Highlands stretched out around them, green hills rolling beneath an expansive sky. They rode side by side, unrestrained as they leaned into their gallops.
As they crested a hill, the breathtaking view of their homeland unfolded before them. They slowed their horses and dismounted, Moira’s boots touching dew-drenched grass while Brodie gestured toward a sunlit clearing among tall pines.
“Shall we?” Brodie teased.
“Let’s see if you can keep up,” Moira retorted, excitement in her eyes.
They faced off with swords drawn against the forest shadows. Their blades clashed in friendly combat, steel ringing amidst leafy whispers. Moira attacked with an elegant ferocity, while Brodie parried using calculated skill and strategy.
Their dance was an ancient rhythm—thrust and parry, feint and dodge. Moira’s passion ignited each swing. Brodie remained composed, his focus evident in every controlled strike and step.
With each move, their deep camaraderie was revealed—a connection born from shared battles. As the mock duel concluded, they exchanged a final flurry of blows before stepping back to catch their breaths, smiles wide and genuine.
“Nicely done, Moira,” Brodie praised.
“Likewise, Brodie,” she acknowledged. “Your defense is as impenetrable as the Highlands themselves.”
Laughter echoed again as they sheathed their swords and gazed upon the land that defined them.
Leaning against an ancient oak, Brodie caught his breath while Moira plucked wildflowers beside him.
“The seventh sons of the McClain family are born with gifts far beyond ordinary men,” Brodie said, his voice carrying generations of oral traditions.
“Gifts? Like healing the sick or moving objects without touching them?” Moira asked.
Brodie nodded, twirling a twig in thought. “The tales are woven into our heritage. Take Gavin McClain—he healed a whole village struck with fever during the harshest winter.”
“Conveniently, none around to confirm such claims,” Moira teased. “Maybe they could control the weather too?”
“Mayhap. In fact there are rumors of a woman of power who married one of me ancestors. She could control the weather according to family lore. I cannae promise it’s true, because I didn’t see it for meself,” he acknowledged, still serious. “But the power was always for the good of the clan.”
“Having seen it for meself, I cannae deny yer family is…special.”
“That we are.” He grinned at her. “Now just be happy that ye married me and not the seventh son.”
*
Moira and Brodie moved like shadows among the towering pines.
Their quarry, a regal stag, had led them on a chase through the forest. The thrill of the hunt pulsed through Moira, connecting her to Brodie and the ancient land they traversed.
Their teamwork was wordless yet seamless as they flanked their prey, surrounded by the scent of moss and earth.
“Imagine,” he whispered, “the ability to mend broken bones or stop blood without potions or stitches. To think thoughts and have the world bend to your will.” Moira found herself captivated by these possibilities.
The stag sensed this deepening connection and broke cover. In an instant, Brodie and Moira sprang into action, their earlier conversation forgotten amid the resumed chase.
*
At the brook, Brodie and Moira paused. Moira crouched by the water, dipping her fingers into the stream and watching ripples distort her reflection.
“Moira,” Brodie interrupted, “did I ever tell ye about the tradition of the seventh son marrying well and bearing another seven sons?”
She laughed, relieved. “Thank the saints, I’m not wed to a seventh son then. Can you imagine the chaos of seven children, especially if one had fantastical powers?”
“But think of the strength in numbers,” Brodie jested back, eyes full of humor.
“Strength, or a grand headache,” Moira teased back, smiling. “I’ll leave such curses to braver women than I.”
Brodie chuckled, their laughter easing the weight of clan politics and dark conspiracies for a moment.
*
Moira crouched beside the brook, her fingertips skimming the water’s surface.
The stream’s gentle burble accompanied her tumultuous thoughts as she contemplated Brodie’s stories of Highland lore and McClain pride.
She ran her fingers through the water, feeling them freeze almost instantly.
The first snows of winter were certain to come soon.
“Colin,” she murmured, recalling twisted ankles healed and fevered brows cooled with a touch.
Though skeptical, the memory of Colin’s glowing hand easing pain tempted her certainty.
Even having seen it with her own eyes, Moira had a difficult time comprehending that what Brodie said was true.
Surely, only his grandfather had powers, and the rest he was making up.
Though Boyd had disappeared in front of Ailis.
Moira considered herself grounded in reality—not in whispers and shadows. But this was difficult to wrap her mind around, as she’d seen it with her own two eyes.
Frowning, she struggled with the duality of her nature: rooted in the tangible earth but stirred by the inexplicable. Each story about Colin now felt like pieces of an incomplete puzzle. Did belief alone grant substance to legend?
Her gaze lifted to the rustling leaves above. If Colin had power, what did it mean for their lives and strategies against rival clans? The water flowed past her, indifferent to human turmoil and secrets.
“Come on then,” she called to Brodie, determination in her voice. “Let’s see what else this forest has to reveal.”
*
A soft hush settled over the highland glen as Brodie and Moira rested side by side on a bed of heather. The distant call of a buzzard broke the silence.
Moira caught Brodie’s eye, and a subtle smile played across her lips. His gaze held hers. It seemed as if the boundless skies and enduring mountains were etched into the lines of his face. In those moments, they acknowledged a kinship deeper than clan ties—a bond forged by their highland souls.
As the sun descended toward the horizon, casting shadows on the hills, they rose together, wordlessly agreeing to return to the keep. They approached their horses and mounted them with practiced ease, their breaths creating plumes in the cooling air.
The ride back was serene, a gentle amble through the forest and back across the glen. The fading sunlight transformed the highlands into fiery golds and deepening purples. Moira felt profound tranquility as the castle’s silhouette appeared against the twilight sky.
She glanced at Brodie, riding at her side, knowing that whatever lay ahead, be it trials of faith or clashing steel, they would face it as one. In the Highlands, where whispers of legend drifted on the wind and bonds were as steadfast as ancient stones, Brodie and Moira had found each other.
Moira couldn’t stop thinking about the things she and Brodie had discussed that day…and their laughter. Hearing him laugh again meant everything in the world to her.
She replayed their conversations about McClain heroes and mystic powers. The stories seemed more believable beneath the lengthening shadows, making her question the truth behind old clan tales. Moira was a woman of action, but she found herself considering an extraordinary path.
As they reached the towering gates, Brodie glanced over, his eyes reflecting the last embers of sunset—an acknowledgment of their shared secrets.
Dismounting gracefully, Moira felt grounded as her boots met the earth.
Brodie offered his hand not out of necessity, but as an unspoken vow of partnership.
They walked toward the stone fortress, laughter softening the hush of evening.
The breeze teased strands of Moira’s hair free from its braid.
Each step held a promise—not just for peace, but for understanding their land and legends.
As the gates closed behind them with a resonant thud, their bond solidified.
Their smiles were private oaths to the future as they moved through twilight into the castle’s warm embrace. Moira’s heart acknowledged something profound. Perhaps the extraordinary was already threading through her life, waiting for only her acceptance to reveal itself.