Chapter Twenty
Dawn barely gracedthe Highlands when the distant clamor of battle stirred McAfee Keep. Moira rose from the infirmary bench, heart pounding. Outside, the Stewarts and their allies appeared through the mist.
Moira’s skin prickled with cold sweat as she thought of her husband, Brodie. Their argument from the night before played on a loop in her mind.
“Moira?” asked Ailis, concern etched on her face.
Without responding, Moira hurried toward the door. Stepping out, she scanned the battlefield for Brodie. Her fiery red hair seemed to blaze with urgency as she spotted him fighting skillfully but surrounded by enemies.
Fear and resolve surged within her; she couldn’t stand idly by while he risked his life. Their last bitter words now seemed trivial compared to death’s indifferent gaze.
“Please,” she whispered into the wind, appealing to God or anyone who would listen. “Keep him safe.”
Her plea dissipated amid the chaos, yet it cemented her determination. Brodie’s memory emboldened Moira as she braced for the inevitable. With life and death hanging in the balance, there was no time for uncertainty.
Hoisting her gown, Moira dashed from the infirmary and onto the parapet. The Highland air bit into her cheeks as she surveyed the battleground below.
The odds were against Brodie—three men circled him like hungry wolves.
“I need to help,” Moira muttered, gripping the stone balustrade. “Brodie’s in peril!”
Fiona arrived beside her, arrow nocked. Twang! One enemy fell. Twang! Another collapsed.
“Nay,” Fiona replied when asked if she could reach the third. “He’s shielded by Brodie.”
“I must go to him,” Moira declared.
Fiona reached out a hand. “It’s not safe. You cannae go there!”
Fingers steady, she strapped on her sword belt; each buckle a silent vow.
“I will go, sister. My place is by his side.”
Fiona gestured to a band of clansmen. They nodded to Moira.
“We’ll cut a path straight to my husband. We cannae let him die. I need all of ye to fight off anyone on the way to him, and I will handle his opponent.”
The men nodded without question, each of them grabbing weapons. They moved through hidden passages, emerging into the courtyard where battle enveloped them. The sights and sounds ignited something primal within Moira.
“Protect Brodie!” she cried, charging across with her sword drawn, ready for vengeance or victory—whichever fate granted her that day.
The Highland air carried the scent of iron and earth as Moira raced across the bloodied ground. Her red hair streamed like a war banner, contrasting with the keep’s grey stone. Amid the fray, Brodie fought gracefully until a sword pierced his thigh, causing his legs to buckle.
“No!” The cry tore from Moira’s throat, raw and fierce. Time seemed to slow as she watched her husband collapse. Her heartclenched, but her resolve hardened like the steel in her grip. She would avenge her husband.
She reached him in a breathless moment, just as his attacker raised his sword for a final blow. With a warrior’s cry, Moira intercepted, her own blade meeting his with a resounding clang. The man was skilled, but fury lent her strength, and her next strike was true. The soldier fell lifeless before her.
“Take Brodie to the infirmary, now!” She commanded the men at her back, who hurriedly obeyed, lifting Brodie’s limp form with care born of loyalty and desperation.
Her green eyes stayed locked on his face, searching for any sign of consciousness, any flicker of pain or recognition. But he was still, too still, and she felt the icy fingers of dread creep into her heart.
“Moira! Come quickly!” It was Ailis’s voice, steeped in urgency.
With a final glance at the fallen enemy, Moira sprinted back to the keep, her chest heaving. In the infirmary, the grim chorus of groans and prayers echoed off the stone walls.
Brodie lay upon one of the makeshift beds, his face pale, his dark eyes closed against the world. Ailis and Fiona hovered over him, their expressions etched with concern that mirrored the tumult in Moira’s soul.
“His leg…” Fiona’s voice trailed off, her hands hovering above the wound as if afraid to touch it.
