Lucas feigned innocence, claiming it was friendly banter. Moira suggested he focus on getting to know some of the displaced Sinclair women instead.
Lucas’s silence filled the cold corridor until he finally spoke with a chilled voice. “Fine, I’ll seek company at supper with those less…spoken for.”
Moira assessed his resolve but didn’t coddle his wounded pride. Sometimes it seemed as if Lucas was a completely changed man, and then she’d see him do something like this, and she wondered if he was even capable of change. She shook her head. He was not hers to teach. She turned and strode away, her thoughts shifting to the tasks ahead.
Outside, Moira found Brodie waiting in the crisp Highland air. They headed toward the forest line where deer trails crisscrossed. Their food supply was lower than Granny would like with all the extra soldiers to feed.
As they walked, Moira broached the topic on her mind. “Yer brother Boyd, ye said he had powers?”
Brodie kept his focus on the path. “Aye, Boyd doesn’t heal like me great-grandfather, but he can turn into any animal he chooses.”
“Is that why Ailis swears she saw him disappear before her eyes?”
He nodded. “He likes to choose a small insect so that it looks as if he is vanishing from sight. We’ve tried to convince him to be circumspect, but he simply doesn’t seem to have it in him to do so.”
“Why not bring yer grandfather to aid our infirmary?” she asked.
He slowed his pace before sharing an unsettling truth. “Moira, there are things about me kin not meant for others to ken. Revealing our secrets could bring more harm than good.”
“I understand,” she conceded, though her heart ached for the sufferings that might have been eased by such gifts.
They moved into the forest silently, determined to bring Granny deer for them to feast on in the days to come.
The forest enveloped Moira and Brodie as they ventured deeper into the ancient trees standing sentinel over their land. Brodie crouched, examining a set of fresh tracks pressed into the damp earth.
“Deer passed through here not long ago,” he whispered, motioning for Moira to follow. They moved with practiced stealth, bows at the ready.
A twig snapped in the underbrush ahead. Brodie froze, signaling Moira to do the same. Through the foliage, a majestic stag emerged, its antlers reaching skyward. Brodie nocked an arrow, drawing the bowstring taut. Moira mirrored his actions, aiming true.
In a breath, they released their arrows. Twin shafts found their mark, and the stag fell, its life given to sustain the clans. They approached their quarry, offering silent thanks for its sacrifice.
As they prepared the stag for transport, a distant cry echoed through the trees. They exchanged a glance, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons. The cry came again, closer this time—a human voice tinged with desperation.
Without hesitation, they abandoned their kill and raced toward the sound, leaping over fallen logs and dodging low-hanging branches. They burst into a small clearing and froze at the sight before them.
A young woman, her dress torn and muddied, cowered against a tree as a group of rough-looking men circled her like wolves eyeing prey. The men turned at Moira and Brodie’s sudden appearance, sneering with cruel intent.
“Well, well, what have we here?” the apparent leader drawled, his eyes roving over Moira in a way that made her skin crawl. “Two more lambs stumbling into the wolf’s den, eh?”
Moira met the man’s gaze unflinchingly, her bow drawn and aimed at his heart. “Step away from the lass if ye value yer miserable lives.” The men wore the kilt of the Gordons, and she knew they had come from Sinclair lands to hurt those they could find.
The men laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the clearing. “Bold words for a wee lass,” the leader mocked. “Mayhap we’ll have some fun with ye too.”
Brodie stepped forward, his own bow at the ready. “Ye’ll not lay a finger on either of them, ye filthy curs. Now back away, or I’ll put an arrow through yer black hearts.”
The men hesitated, eyeing the deadly serious expressions on Moira and Brodie’s faces. The leader’s hand twitched toward the sword at his hip, but before he could draw it, an arrow from Moira’s bow pierced his throat. He fell to the ground, gurgling as blood poured from the wound.
Chaos erupted. The remaining men charged at Moira and Brodie with a roar of fury. Arrows flew, finding their marks in two more attackers. Brodie dropped his bow and drew his sword, engaging the closest assailant in a fierce clash of steel.
Moira rushed to the young woman’s side, pulling her to her feet. “Run, lass! Get to safety!” The terrified girl didn’t hesitate, fleeing into the trees as the battle raged behind her.
Moira turned back to the fray, drawing her own sword. She and Brodie fought back to back, their blades flashing in deadlyarcs. The men were skilled fighters, but they were no match for the Highland warriors’ fierce determination.
Moira and Brodie fought with a ferocity born of righteous anger, their blades singing through the air as they cut down their opponents one by one. The remaining men, seeing their comrades fall, began to falter, their resolve crumbling in the face of the Highland warriors’ onslaught.
The last man standing, a hulking brute with a scar across his left eye, lunged at Brodie with a roar of fury. Brodie sidestepped the attack, his sword flashing out to slice the man’s sword arm. The brute howled in pain, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.
Moira stepped forward, her blade leveled at the man’s throat. “Yield, ye coward, or meet yer maker.”
