The two elder brothers exchanged a glance, a silent conversation passing between them before they nodded to Brodie and retreated, leaving a heavy silence in their wake.
Moira remained seated beside Brodie, her hands folded neatly in her lap, the fiery strands of her hair catching the fading light. She watched as Brodie’s chest rose and fell with each labored breath, his frustration etched deep into the lines of his face. She knew he must blame her for Lachlan going to fetch his grandfather, but she was not to blame! Lachlan had done that on his own despite her protests. Hopefully, Brodie would see reason when she explained it to him.
“Did ye send for him then?” Brodie’s voice cut sharply through the stillness, his brown eyes narrowing as he turned to fix Moira with an accusatory stare. “Did ye defy me and call upon me grandfather to mend what I’ve not given leave to heal?”
“Naught of the sort,” Moira replied calmly, meeting his intense gaze without wavering. “I gave ye my word, Brodie, and I am not one to break a vow lightly. ’Twas Lachlan who sought out the healer, despite my protest.”
“Ye did not protest loudly enough,” he countered, bitterness lacing his words. “Ye could have stopped him if ye truly wished it.”
“Stopping Lachlan would be akin to halting the wind itself,” she said, holding her ground. “Yer brother acts according to his own heart, same as any stubborn McClain man.”
Brodie’s jaw clenched, his anger simmering just below the surface, and Moira knew her words provided little comfort against his sense of helplessness. She held his gaze, wishing she could ease the burden of pride and pain that anchored him to that bed, knowing that only Brodie himself could grant the forgiveness he sought from others.
Moira’s hand, callused from the hilt of her sword, hovered over Brodie’s clenched fist. The infirmary was quiet save for the crackle of the hearth and the occasional groan from a wounded soldier. She searched his face for some sign of solace or gratitude but found none.
“Brodie, I—” she started, only to be cut off by his sharp gaze.
“Ye killed him,” he said, voice hoarse but laced with an undercurrent of disdain. “The man who did this to me. Dead by your hand.”
His words were as cold as the winds that swept through the glens outside. Moira stiffened, feeling a strange blend of pride and confusion. “Aye, I did. And why wouldn’t I? He had wounded ye, and with all the blood, I wasna sure ye’d survive it.”
Brodie turned away, his jaw setting as if carved from the very stone of McAfee Keep itself. “Fiona, too. She took care of the others. Do you nae see? I dinnae need ye—or any woman—to fight my battles.”
Her heart constricted at his rebuke. Moira had been raised on tales of valor, where the line between life and death often rested on the edge of a blade. She couldn’t fathom why her actions, meant to protect, had kindled such anger in him.
“I dinnae understand, Brodie. What have I done that’s so wrong?” Moira pleaded, seeking the warmth of connection that once existed between them. “I sought only to save yer life.”
“Save it?” Brodie scoffed, his glare unwavering. “Or control it? Ye think because I’m laid up here that I’m helpless? That I need rescue?”
“Never helpless,” she countered, the fire in her belly stoking her words. “But even the mightiest oak needs shelter from the storm.”
“Then let the storm come!” he shot back. “I would rather face it on my own than have tales told of Brodie McClain, the warrior who owed his life to a woman’s blade.”
In that moment, the chasm between them felt as wide as the lochs dotting the Highlands. Moira’s hands trembled with a mix of fury and sorrow. She’d been certain that when the conflicts between their alliance and Clyde Stewart had ended she would be happy. Now, looking at her husband, she wondered if she would ever be happy again.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Moira whispered, her voice barely above the murmur of the dying fire. “Perhaps I was wrong to assume you’d want to live to fight another day.”
Turning her back to him, Moira walked toward the door. She didn’t dare look back, fearing her resolve would crumble under the weight of his silent scorn. She knew not what the morrow would bring, but tonight, she felt as though she had lost more than just Brodie’s favor—she had lost a part of herself in the battle for his life.
*
The infirmary doorcreaked open, cutting a sliver of daylight across the dim room. Moira’s head snapped up as Lachlan and Alisdair strode in, knowing they needed to explain to Brodie what had truly happened the day he was injured. She rose to her feet, her gaze flicking between the two brothers and Brodie’s sullen form on the bed.
“Ye need to explain what happened to bring yer grandfather to the infirmary to help Brodie. I’ve told him but he doesnae believe me,” she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging within.
Lachlan looked at his brother, appearing so pitiful in the cot. His broad shoulders squared as if bracing against an unseen adversary. “Aye, Brodie,” he said in that articulate, commanding tone he reserved for matters of clan importance. “It was me doing. I fetched him while she protested. Ye needed tending, and there was no time to waste. Ailis thought she would need to take yer leg!”
Moira shook her head. “Do ye see, Brodie? I didn’t ask yer grandfather to come.”
Brodie stared at his brother passionlessly. The only person he was angry with was Moira, and he couldn’t possibly explain why. “She shouldn’t have let ye.” In the back of his mind, he knew Moira was right, and there was no way she could have stopped Lachlan once he set his mind to doing something.
Lachlan stood watching his brother for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned to leave with Alisdair in tow, leaving no room for further argument. At the door, he stopped and said, “Ye need to make peace with yer wife, Brodie.”
Moira pulled a stool to his bedside and sat down, her hands folded in her lap. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the soft whistle of wind outside.
She reached out tentatively, her fingers brushing the back of his hand. Brodie lay still, his jaw set, eyes fixed on somedistant point beyond the walls of the infirmary. He seemed a statue carved from the very stone of the Highlands—cold and unyielding.
“Please, Brodie,” she whispered into the darkness. “Look at me.”
