Page 5 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

A s dawn lit up the Scottish Highlands, Moira McAfee strode across the dewy heather, mist clinging to her cloak. Beside her, Brodie McClain surveyed the land with practiced focus.

“Are ye ready for what lies ahead?” Moira asked, eyes fixed on the distant mountains.

“Always,” Brodie answered, calm in the face of potential dangers.

Entering the shadowy forest, their path snaked through the underbrush. Moira led confidently, her red hair ablaze against the green. They journeyed until the sound of rushing water grew louder.

A narrow bridge formed from fallen tree trunks spanned a churning river below. “Carefully now,” Moira warned, studying its unstable structure.

The bridge creaked and swayed but they advanced together—a shared goal binding them as they navigated this wild terrain.

The heavens unleashed a torrent, turning the path beneath Moira and Brodie into a treacherous mire. The storm’s raindrops pelted them with relentless force.

“Och, what a lovely morning,” Moira remarked, her voice barely audible over the wind tearing through the trees.

“We should find cover,” Brodie replied, concern lacing his amusement.

As they darted toward a large tree, its thick branches promised refuge from the onslaught. Pressing their backs against its trunk, they huddled against the elements. Moira felt the rough bark biting into her skin.

Brodie leaned in close without encroaching upon Moira’s independence. She was strong within life’s storms—both literal and metaphorical—in the Highlands.

Peering through the veil of rain, Moira spotted ancient stones on a nearby hillock. “Look there, Brodie.”

He discerned the shapes amidst the grey curtain. “Aye, the old stone circles hold whispers of our ancestors.”

“Let us listen,” Moira urged, her adventurous spirit reignited.

They ventured forth despite the ground resisting underfoot. As they drew closer to the circle untouched by chaos, each monolith stood as a testament to the Highland way—stoic and enduring.

“Imagine the tales they could tell,” Moira murmured, reaching out to touch history itself.

“Aye,” Brodie agreed, his voice filled with reverence. “May they speak of peace.”

Within the stone circle, the storm outside vanished as time seemed to pause and echoes of the past called.

Moira traced the intricate carvings, her eyes narrowing, trying to decipher the ancient symbols. A shiver ran down her spine unrelated to the dampness on her skin. The etchings told a story—one lost to time and memory—but their meaning was elusive.

“Look at this, Brodie,” she exclaimed. “These must be me ancestors’ tales… battles fought, alliances forged. Sometimes it is hard to believe that our land wasn’t always Christian.”

Brodie stepped closer, examining the grooves in the rock as he tried to unlock the stone-held narrative. He glanced around cautiously before replying, “Aye, they may well be. But old tales can be perilous as well as enlightening.”

Before Moira could respond, a low growl echoed through the trees. She turned sharply toward it, reaching for her sword hilt. Shadows at the forest’s edge morphed into wolves with tense bodies ready to pounce.

“Back to back!” Brodie commanded, unsheathing his blade.

Though Moira’s heartbeat quickened, her grip on her weapon was steady. They positioned themselves back-to-back within the stone circle.

The wolves advanced with hungry yellow eyes.

“Remember what we’ve been taught,” she said firmly. “Strike true and stand firm.”

“Always,” Brodie replied, his calm presence balancing her fiery energy.

They moved in sync—two clans united in survival. As the wolves lunged, battle erupted amidst history’s whispers. The stones stood silent witness to an eternal struggle between man and nature.

Swords clashed, their metallic ring echoing through the Highland air. Brodie’s blade parried a wolf’s lunge, while Moira’s swift strike sent another assailant retreating.

“Watch your left!” Moira cried out. The two fought in sync, instincts honed from years of training. As they battled, the wolves’ numbers dwindled until the few remaining fled into the forest, leaving behind only heavy panting and two warriors standing back-to-back.

Moira and Brodie locked eyes briefly before sheathing their weapons. “Let’s keep to the open paths,” Brodie suggested. “The wolves are cunning, but we’ll see them coming in the clear.”

“Agreed.” Moira nodded, still exhilarated from battle. As they continued through the forest, they shared tales of their ancestors—stories of valor that shaped their people’s hardened souls.

“My father spoke often of a battle that took place near Dun Troddan,” said Brodie with reverence.

“And Father would recount a battle that took place near Inverlochy,” Moira added.

“Before me father became laird, the lairds had fought no battles in several generations. Father decided it would be best for the laird to train and fight with his men, and I know Boyd plans to do the same as Father.”

Their footsteps fell into a steady rhythm as each story forged a connection transcending clan boundaries. “Perhaps it is time for new tales to be told,” Moira mused. “Ones that speak of unity rather than discord.”

Brodie met her gaze, the weight of her words settling between them. “Aye, Moira. Perhaps it is.”

The Highlands’ craggy cliffs and heather-strewn hillsides converged around them as they ventured further into the wilderness. Moira’s boots found purchase on the uneven terrain, attuned to subtle shifts within nature.

“Over there,” Brodie pointed toward an inconspicuous opening in the cliffside, half-concealed by ivy and stone.

Moira’s pulse quickened as she approached the hidden aperture. With a nod to Brodie, they lit torches and cautiously entered the cavern, its air filled with the smell of damp earth. Moira led the way, her torch revealing undulating contours.

“Look at this,” Brodie murmured, gesturing to a collection of artifacts nestled in a natural alcove.

Crouching beside the relics, Moira examined fragments of pottery etched with intricate patterns; a rusted dirk telling tales of battles fought; and smooth stones adorned with symbols teasing recognition.

“Imagine what Granny would say if she saw these,” Moira said, thinking of Fiona’s granny and her troves of lore.

“Aye,” Brodie agreed, studying an ornate brooch. “The history of yer clan might be locked within.”

Together, they examined each artifact in hushed tones, conjuring images of ancestors who might have sought sanctuary or strategized within the very same cave.

The torchlight flickered, casting a stuttering glow on the jagged walls of the hidden passage. Moira peered into the darkness ahead, breath misting in the cold air.

“Are ye certain we should press on?” Brodie’s voice was steady, though concern tightened around his eyes. His hand rested lightly on his sword.

“Think of what may lie in the heart of this mountain,” Moira replied, her green eyes reflecting both fear and determination.

Taking a deep breath, they ventured further.

The passageway twisted and narrowed until cool dampness pressed against their outstretched hands.

Finally, it opened into an underground chamber.

Faint light filtered from above, casting a glow over faded frescoes and a sprawling mural depicting a ferocious battle.

Brodie traced the outline of a fallen warrior etched into the stone. Beside him, Moira hesitated to touch the depiction of chaos and valor. It wasn’t the clashing swords or cries of fallen warriors that captured her attention but the familiar faces staring back at them across centuries.

“This fascinates me.” Moira pointed at two figures in the mural’s center, locked in combat yet bound by kinship. “All the clans of the Highlands united against a common enemy. That’s what we need to make happen now. I wish I knew how to get all the leaders to see what Clyde is trying to do.”

Brodie studied the scene. “Aye, together against a common enemy. Perhaps we should send missives to the lairds of the clans we are not seeing in battle. They may be willing to help us turn the tide.”

“I wish we could show this to the leaders of the clans aiding us. There is still a great deal more arguing than allied clans should have.” Moira’s thoughts tangled with the revelation, her loyalty to her clan now bound with a need to uncover the deception.

“If only I could paint…” Brodie said, grinning at her.

“Don’t look at me,” Moira replied. “I never learned to make pretty art. But I can swing a sword with the best of men.”

He laughed softly. “You certainly can.”

The ground trembled beneath Moira’s feet, a low growl echoing through the cavern. Dust danced in the torchlight as Brodie gripped her arm firmly.

“Moira, we must leave, now!” His words cut through the panic with another rumble vibrating through the chamber.

She nodded, scanning for an escape. “This way,” she called, indicating a narrow crevice hidden by a fallen boulder.

Their breaths came in harsh gasps as they clambered over rocks and debris, the passageway constricting around them with every urgent step. The roar of collapsing stone spurred them on with desperate haste.

“Keep moving!” Moira shouted over the noise, barely audible. She felt Brodie close behind her, his presence grounding her.

Ahead was a tight squeeze leading upward to daylight. “It’s our only chance,” she muttered and hoisted herself up with practiced agility. Brodie followed quickly despite the danger.

As Moira breached the surface, the sounds of the cave’s demise peaked. They emerged onto the grassy land just before the earth groaned one last time.

They lay there briefly, covered in dust, silence enveloping them except for their labored breathing.

Moira looked at Brodie, her eyes meeting his steady gaze. Bound together by shared history rather than clan or feud, she asked with raw concern, “Are ye hurt?”

Brodie shook his head and sat beside her. “Nay, thanks to you.”

Dust clung to Moira’s red curls as they strode down the path through the Highlands, a reminder of the cave’s near collapse.

Each step brought them closer to navigating the world with their newfound burden.

The air was brisk, scented with pine, while verdant flora swayed gently in the breeze.

The beauty of their surroundings contrasted with the tumultuous history they had unveiled—a history that bound all the clans together unexpectedly.

If only they were still united as they had been in the mural.

Moira’s determination grew at every thought about their discovery.

She glanced at Brodie, whose contemplative silence weighed heavily.

He scanned the horizon like one searching for guidance.

“We must encourage all our allies to join together with all of their allies against the Stewarts and theirs. I believe our army could be much stronger if we would send emissaries to the clans who are not yet part of the war.”

Their journey back consisted of shared glances and nods—affirmations of their bond and purpose. As they neared Moira’s ancestral home, she resolved it would become a bastion of change.

“Only the beginning,” she repeated softly. They exchanged a nod and walked to the keep together. She was not looking forward to him returning to McClain land.