Page 8 of Highland Heroine (Brides of the Highlands #3)

D awn’s first light cast its golden fingers over the rugged Highlands as warhorns shattered the morning stillness.

Brodie’s heart thrummed, a rhythm echoed by the pounding hooves of enemy steeds.

The Stewarts charged, but the McClains and McAfees, along with their allies, stood ready, anticipating a silent, deadly promise.

Brodie surveyed the prepared defenses and his brothers-in-arms. Their strategy had been crafted under cover of darkness to outmaneuver the Stewarts’ expectations.

Moira held back her forces within the keep. Her absence on the battlefield would be their unexpected advantage. Brodie knew Moira’s mind was strategizing, her resolve unshaken amidst adversity.

The battle roared as metal clashed against metal. Brodie moved through the fray with lethal grace, his sword an extension of his will. A Stewart soldier lunged toward him, but Brodie sidestepped and delivered a swift counterstrike that felled the man.

“Stay focused!” he shouted above the din, locking eyes with a younger clansman who seemed momentarily dazed. The youth nodded and plunged back into the melee.

As skirmishes raged around him, Brodie predicted enemy strikes before they landed. He ducked a swinging claymore and dispatched another adversary with an upward thrust.

The Stewarts kept glancing behind them, expecting to be flanked. However, no attack came from the rear, allowing the McClain and McAfee alliance to press forward relentlessly. Without their anticipated pincer move, the Stewarts’ lines crumbled under sustained onslaught.

Amidst carnage, Brodie thought of Moira. Her unpredictability granted them the upper hand. He envisioned her within the keep’s walls, intellect sharp as the blade she wielded. Her fiery resolve ignited respect in Brodie that blossomed into something more potent.

The cacophony of combat was all-consuming, and Brodie fought with singular clarity. Each swing, each dodge moved them closer to victory and peace. Today, Brodie shone as bright as any warrior on the field, leading the charge that inspired courage in his comrades.

As the sun cast long shadows, Brodie’s arm ached from his sword’s weight, his breath labored. Spotting a standard-bearer rallying the enemy, he surged forward, cutting down anyone in his path.

Heaving the banner to the ground, its insignia muddied, the Stewart allies’ morale shattered. The second battle ended quicker than the first, their hopes dashed on the Highland terrain.

Brodie and his brethren stood victorious but weary, faces etched with exhaustion and bloodstained hands. Breathing in fleeting peace, they knew greater challenges lay ahead.

The remaining Stewarts retreated into the mist toward Sinclair territory. Weary yet resolute Highlanders dealt with war’s aftermath. Brodie helped carry wounded comrades inside McAfee Keep.

“Gently now,” he grunted as they laid an injured clansman among others. The air filled with the scent of blood, sweat, and herbs.

Moira moved among them, her red hair a flame against pale bandages. She passed clean linens to Ailis, who skillfully tended to the wounded.

“Will he be all right?” Moira whispered.

“Rest easy,” Ailis replied while tying a bandage. “He’ll walk again and have a tale to tell at ceilidhs.”

Moira scanned the room, her gaze landing on Brodie seated on a bench. Ailis approached him, needle and thread in hand, to tend to his deep cut. The crimson-stained tunic sleeve emphasized how danger had caught up with even the stealthy Brodie.

“Your arm,” Ailis instructed gently but firmly, beginning her work on the wound.

Brodie nodded stoically, his eyes betraying the pain. Moira resisted the urge to rush to him and offer comfort. Instead, she watched with gratitude and concern.

“Ailis, your healing hands are a blessing,” Brodie whispered, glancing at Moira before returning his attention to Ailis’s focused face.

“Stay out of trouble next time, McClain,” Ailis teased as she finished patching him up.

Moira’s cheeks flushed as Brodie thanked Ailis and stood flexing his newly stitched arm cautiously. He locked eyes with Moira, an unspoken understanding passing between them—an acknowledgment of life’s fragility and their shared emotions.

As twilight painted the land in hues of purple and gold, Moira stood beside Brodie, their hands barely touching as they watched the sun dip below the horizon. With each moment together, their bond solidified and tempered by past trials and those yet to come.

*

Brodie, his arm aching beneath fresh bandages, stood before Laird Duncan McAfee’s door. He knocked on the heavy oak, the sound echoing through the stone corridor.

“Enter,” came a steady voice from within.

Brodie entered and found Duncan at a table covered with maps and documents. The elder man lifted his eyes from his work, regarding Brodie with an assessing gaze.

“Good evening, Laird McAfee,” Brodie said, his voice urgent. “I’ve come to discuss an important matter.”

Duncan nodded and gestured to a chair across from him. Brodie remained standing—a statement of the gravity of his request.

“Speak your mind, son,” Duncan spoke evenly.

“I seek your blessing to marry Moira—immediately,” Brodie declared. “I understand tradition but cannot face what may come without her as me wife.”

Silence filled the room, charged with unspoken fears and impending battles. Duncan leaned back in his chair, examining Brodie intently.

“I hoped for new alliances with me daughters’ marriages. Yet they seem destined for McClains,” Duncan mused.

He looked at Brodie thoughtfully. “But I see how ye regard each other. No man should stand against that—not even a father.”

Brodie waited for the deciding words.

“You have me consent,” Duncan said firmly, nodding. “Wed her. May it bring joy in these dark times.”

“Thank you, Laird McAfee. I am forever in your debt,” Brodie replied, relief washing over him.

“Take care of her,” Duncan advised sternly. “Together, face whatever storms lie ahead.”

Brodie bowed deeply and left the chamber, heart filled with the prospect of a union forged not only in passion, but also shared purpose amid their turbulent world.

*

Brodie entered the infirmary, eyes locked on Moira as she tended to the wounded. Her red hair was pulled back, dirt smudged on her cheek emphasizing her pale skin. She was a comforting figure in the dim hall.

“Moira,” Brodie said, approaching her. She looked up, eyes connecting with his. “Can we speak?”

Understanding the urgency, Moira nodded and joined him in a quiet corner.

“I’ve spoken with your father,” Brodie started.

“And?” Curiosity danced across her face.

“He’s given us his blessing. I want ye to be me wife, Moira. Before the next battle, I need to know we belong to each other.”

Moira’s eyes displayed a storm of emotions before determination took over. “Ye need to know?”

“Aye,” he affirmed with conviction.

Her voice softened yet remained resolute. “My feelings for ye are strong, Brodie McClain.” She touched his bandaged arm lightly. “They won’t go away.”

“Then ye’ll marry me?”

“Aye, I will marry you. Before the next battle, ye shall have your wish.”

Gratitude swept over Brodie as he held her hands between his own. “Thank you, Moira.”

“Let us face what comes together, as husband and wife,” she replied, gripping his hands firmly.

*

The great hall of McAfee Keep was alive with the sounds of gathered clans, the lingering aroma of roasted meats mixed with the earthy scent of peat smoke filling the air.

At the center, Brodie’s heart pounded fiercely.

As Moira entered, her fiery red hair catching everyone’s attention, all whispers ceased.

She approached Brodie like a Highland legend, tartan draped over her shoulder. They exchanged vows before the clan, steady voices heavy.

Cheering erupted and bagpipes played, marking their union in a time of strife. Though the ceilidh began joyously, Brodie and Moira only had eyes for each other and slipped away into the shadows.

In their modest wedding chamber, they stood close by the fire’s warmth. A kiss spoke of battles fought and joys discovered while fingers traced lines across skin and stirred embers kindled in adversity.

“Ye are mine,” Brodie whispered reverently against her skin.

“And ye are mine,” Moira responded softly, guiding him to bed with care for his fresh wound—a testament to their fragile peace.

The tension between them was palpable as they sat across from each other at the small table. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across their faces, highlighting their raw, undeniable attraction.

She took a sip of her wine, her lips lingering on the edge of the glass just a beat too long. He couldn’t help but watch, mesmerized by the way her tongue darted out to catch a stray droplet. He shifted in his seat, feeling a sudden, insistent heat low in his belly.

He leaned forward, closing the distance between them. “You know what I want to do to ye right now?” he murmured, his voice low and rough with desire.

She raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “Tell me,” she breathed, her eyes locked on his.

He reached across the table, taking her hand in his. His thumb traced slow, deliberate circles over her knuckles, sending a shiver down her spine. “I want to show ye just how much I want you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

She bit her lip, her breath catching in her throat. “Is that so?” she whispered back, her own desire rising to meet his.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. “I want to kiss ye until you’re breathless, until you’re begging for more,” he continued, his voice growing more urgent. “I want to explore every inch of your body, to discover what makes ye moan, what makes ye tremble.”

She let out a soft gasp as his hand moved up her arm, tracing the curve of her shoulder before coming to rest on the nape of her neck. “And what if I say no?” she asked, her voice barely audible.