Chapter Eleven
New allies enteredthe Highland Confederation’s encampment early the following morning. Alisdair and Laird Fearghas McClain strode purposefully among the warriors, diverse clan banners flitting in the breeze.
“Keep the lines straight!” Alisdair commanded, his voice slicing through shield clangs and eager chatter. “We must become one clan under the same sky. Let naught divide us in our purpose!”
Amidst new arrivals, Brodie spotted Lucas, a restless figure whose gaze strayed to the distant peaks. He approached Lucas on dew-kissed grass.
“Ye seem distant, Lucas,” Brodie observed. “Is yer mind with those who’ve ye left to join us?”
“Aye,” Lucas admitted. “I’ve left behind kin and comrades… but I couldna follow Clyde Stewart’s command any longer. His reign…it’s harsher than our homeland’s windswept crags.” Lucas shook his head. “He threatened to kill me in front of me father.”
Brodie encouraged him to continue, listening intently as bitterness laced Lucas’s words recounting mercilessness and cruelty under Clyde Stewart. As they stood within their growing army, shadows of that dark regime loomed around them.
“Your courage willnae be forgotten,” Brodie said, gripping Lucas’s shoulder. “Here, we fight as brothers for the freedom of these lands.” At least he hoped Lucas would stay true to their alliance and not return to the Stewarts. There was no way ofknowing though, and he must keep watch on the other man to keep those he loved safe.
The army slowly began to resemble a single, honed blade. Alisdair and Laird McClain worked among the men while Brodie stood vigilant—uniting and welcoming all.
*
The clash ofsteel echoed in the Highland air as warriors from various clans sparred upon the training field. Lachlan surveyed the melee for signs of discord.
“Mind yer stance, lad!” he called. The young warrior adjusted, and Lachlan nodded before moving on.
Two clansmen collided mid-thrust, their swords locked together. Tempers flared with accusations of dishonorable tactics. Lachlan strode toward them, commanding order. They had enough enemies to deal with without turning on one another.
“Enough!” His authoritative voice silenced the fighters. “We train as brothers-in-arms, not enemies.”
The men backed down and rejoined the fray under Lachlan’s watchful gaze. As exhaustion set in, a cry of pain disrupted the battlefield. Lachlan rushed to an injured man, blood seeping through his fingers.
“To the infirmary!” he bellowed, applying pressure to stem the bleeding. Another McClain warrior joined him, and together, they carried the wounded toward the infirmary.
“Have care with him,” he instructed as they entered the stone-walled sanctum. Ailis directed the healers with calm efficiency.
Lachlan whispered reassurances to the injured clansman and stepped back as they set him down in the infirmary. Ailis would heal the man now. He hated that his grandfather couldn’t becalled for every single injury, but it wasn’t practical to do so. The entire Highlands need not know about the special powers of the McClains.
He returned to the somber field, reminded of the fragility beneath their hardened exteriors. With unity and resilience, they would face what lay ahead.
*
Ailis examined thegash on the man’s weathered skin. “Clean it first,” she instructed Elsa, handing her a cloth soaked in herbs. Elsa wiped the wound with steady hands, focused. “I am nervous. I’ve never stitched a man’s skin before.”
“Small and close stitches,” Ailis advised. Elsa nodded and carefully began her task.
“This is very different than stitching on cloth!” Elsa exclaimed as her needle sank into the man’s flesh for the first time.
Moira knelt beside another clansman, his ankle twisted harshly from training. She offered reassuring words as Ailis approached and prepared to realign the bones. Both sisters met each other’s gaze, understanding the pain to come.
“One… two…” On Ailis’s count, the joint was swiftly set into place, Moira holding the man steady despite his pained gasp.
“Done,” Ailis announced, wrapping the injured ankle.
“Rest now,” Moira added before rising from her position. She hated assisting with the setting of bones, but it couldn’t be done by one woman, and the men were all out training. If it must be her, then she would do her duty without complaint.
Lucas Gordon entered the infirmary. He approached Elsa, absorbed in stitching a wound, and complimented her skill.
Elsa’s cheeks flushed, but she remained silent. Lucas teased her about her quietness, leaning closer. He was obviouslysmitten with the lass, and it wouldn’t do. She was to marry another.
Moira noticed from across the room. She grabbed Lucas’s arm and led him outside. “Elsa is betrothed,” Moira warned. “Leave her be.”
