Page 89 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The ride back to Armstrong lands felt like a triumphant procession. Word of their victory had indeed traveled swiftly, and as they crested the final hill before home, Morag gasped at the sight that greeted them.

The entire village had turned out to welcome them home. Torches blazed in the gathering dusk, and the sound of pipes and drums filled the Highland air with ancient rhythms. She could see the gleam of the great war pipes, their drone rising and falling in the traditional victory song her grandfather used to hum.

"Listen," Colin said softly. "They're playing 'The Laird's Return.'"

The melody was haunting and beautiful, telling the story of a Highland chief who'd fought impossible odds to protect his people. As they rode closer, Morag could make out the words the villagers were singing in Gaelic, their voices rising together in the old language:

"Thig an tighearna dhachaigh gu sàbhailte,

Le claidheamh geal agus cridhe làidir..."

"They are singing tae ye." Morag gasped, even as she listened to the emotion in their voices.

"Aye. 'The laird comes home safely, with bright sword and strong heart,'" Colin translated, his voice rough with emotion. "It's the song they sang fer me faither after the Battle of Glen Morven."

Young children ran alongside their horses, laughing and shouting, while older folk stood with tears streaming down their weathered faces. Morag saw women clutching babies, pointing at Colin and speaking in hushed, reverent tones.

"Math fhèin, Tighearna Iarainn!" an old woman called out. "Well done, Iron Laird!"

"Tha thu làidir mar na diathan!" shouted a young man, raising his fist in salute. "You are strong as the gods!"

The crowd parted before them like the waters of the Red Sea, moved by love, respect, and overwhelming gratitude. These people knew Colin had risked everything to keep them safe.

As they reached the village square, Morag saw that tables had been hastily assembled and laden with food. The women must have been cooking since word of the victory arrived. Oatcakes, roasted meat, wheels of cheese, and jugs of ale covered every surface.

The village and castle healer were both already waiting by a table to treat the soldiers returning from battle. As there were men more in need, Colin went to pick up ointments, bandages and a bowl of water to tend to Morag’s wounds himself.

“The Lady Armstrong needs tae clean up,” he said taking her by the hand and leading her to a quieter area by a fire. "Come, wife. I think we've earned. I can see ye favorin' that wrist."

Morag glanced down at her injured hand, surprised he'd noticed such a small thing amid everything else. "It's naethin' serious," she responded.

Colin leaned close to Morag's ear, his breath warm against her skin. "Let me be the judge of that." Colin's voice carried the gentle authority she was learning to recognize—not the Iron Laird giving commands, but a husband concerned for his wife. "Come. Let's get ye cleaned up and those wounds tended properly."

"Sit," Colin said gently. "Let me see that wrist."

Morag watched his face as he carefully examined the cut from the window glass. His touch was infinitely gentle, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes darkened when he saw how she'd been hurt.

"This could have been much worse," he said quietly, cleaning the wound with careful strokes. "What were ye thinkin’, trying tae jerk free of yer bounds?"

"I was thinking I needed tae escape," Morag replied honestly. "I just wanted tae get away from those horrible men. I love ye, Colin."

"Love," Colin repeated softly, his voice wondering. "Yer love fer me keeps growing, even after everything with the dowry, and ye would have never been taken by Fraser if I hadnae made ye so angry."

"Especially after that," Morag said firmly. "Ye risked everything tae save me, Colin. Ye came into an enemy camp greatly outnumbered, fought through an army, killed Fraser with yer bare hands. A man daesnae dae that fer political convenience."

Colin finished bandaging her wrist with careful precision, but Morag could see his hands trembling slightly. "There. That should heal clean now."

"Me turn," she said, standing and moving toward him with purpose.

"Morag, ye dinnae need tae⁠—"

"Sit down," she commanded, using the same gentle authority he'd shown her. "And let yer wife take care of ye."

Colin obeyed, settling with obvious reluctance. Morag began unlacing his bloodstained shirt, her fingers working carefully around the tears and stains.

"Ye're hurt worse than ye let on," she said, seeing the extent of his injuries as she peeled away the fabric. Cuts crisscrossed his chest and arms, some shallow, others deeper. "Colin, why didnae ye say anything?"