Chapter Twenty-Two
Moira entered thedimly lit infirmary, where the scent of herbs mingled with the moans of recovering men. She paused, scanning the rows of cots until her eyes settled on one figure in particular.
There he was—Brodie, cloaked in blankets that did little to hide his pallor. He was half-raised, propping himself up with a grimace that spoke volumes of the pain he concealed beneath his stoic facade. Moira’s heart contracted sharply.
Moira advanced with purposeful strides, her boots whispering against the stone floor. Each step brought into focus the stubborn set of Brodie’s jaw, the way his brown eyes, usually so observant and keen, now flickered away from hers.
“Good morn to ye, Brodie,” she greeted, her voice carrying the same authority she wielded when commanding her family’s warriors. “How fare ye this day?”
“Fair enough, considering,” Brodie muttered, shifting uneasily as if even speaking caused discomfort. His glance skittered off to the side, avoiding the piercing scrutiny of Moira’s gaze—an evasion that didn’t sit well with the McAfee lass, accustomed to confronting issues with the directness of a charging bull.
“Ye dinnae sound convinced of yer own words,” Moira observed, folding her arms across her chest as she studied him with an intensity that left no room for pretense. Her stance was as unyielding as the mountains from which she hailed, herpresence an unwavering force in the sterile gloom of the healing quarters.
“Nor do I feel it,” Brodie finally conceded, his voice a rumble of contained frustration that echoed against the stone walls, resonating with the subdued tension that hung between them like a Highland fog.
The infirmary door creaked as Ailis slipped in, her presence weaving through the murmurs of the wounded. Her dark hair contrasted with the cold stone walls as it swayed gracefully, reflecting years spent navigating rough terrain.
“Ye look as though ye could use some respite, brother,” she said to Brodie. Her vibrant green eyes met his in a gaze that held none of Moira’s fiery challenge but offered solace instead.
Brodie’s scowl lessened almost imperceptibly at the sight of Ailis, her mere presence coaxing the rigid lines of his body to soften. She offered him a smile, its warmth cutting through the chill of his despondence. “A wee bit of effort each day, and ye’ll be running again.”
Moira watched the exchange, her own resolve reinforcing as she observed the calming effect Ailis had on Brodie. It was Moira who broke the silence, her words carrying the weight of their unspoken agreement. “Let us help ye stand, Brodie. ’Tis time to face this day’s challenge.”
Brodie’s gaze wavered, caught between resignation and the spark of pride that flared within him. The wariness in his eyes wrestled with the innate resolve of a Highland warrior, and after a moment’s hesitation, his nod granted them permission to proceed. It was a concession born not of defeat but the kind of bravery that acknowledged the need for allies in battle—even battles fought within the confines of healing walls.
Moira felt the coarse fabric of Brodie’s sleeve under her fingers as she and Ailis positioned themselves on either side of his weakened form. They both leaned in, ready to bear hisweight, their faces mirrors of determination reflecting back at him.
“Ready?” Moira asked, even as her pulse quickened with anticipation.
Brodie nodded, his jaw clenching—a silent warrior preparing for an unseen foe. With each of them taking an arm, they hoisted gently, urging him upward. His body tensed, each muscle coiled like a spring, before he pushed against the cot with what strength he could muster.
His face contorted with the struggle, a deep furrow etching itself between his brows as his arms shook. It was a battle against his own flesh, a rebellion against the betrayal of limbs that had once carried him through the wilds of the Highlands with ease.
“Ye can do this, Brodie,” Ailis murmured, her voice a soft hum that danced around the effort-filled silence.
As Brodie came to stand, his legs trembled beneath him, as unsteady as saplings in a fierce wind. The growl that escaped him was both of frustration and exertion, a primal sound that echoed off the stone walls of the infirmary.
“Focus on us,” Moira said, her grip tightening, her knuckles whitening with the effort to steady him. “We’ve got ye. Just breathe.”
She willed her own stability into him, sharing the very essence of her resolve as she held him upright.
Brodie stood, wavering between Moira and Ailis. The room blurred at the edges, his focus narrowing to the piercing ache in his limbs, an unwelcome reminder of his frailty.
“Ye need not treat me like a bairn,” Brodie’s voice sliced through the tense quietude, roughened by disuse and spiked with ire. “I am no invalid to be coddled, Moira.”
Moira’s fiery eyes met his outburst with an equal force of will. Her lips pressed into a thin line; her jaw set with determination.She swallowed the retort that lingered on her tongue, letting silence carry the weight of her unspoken resolve. He was in pain, and she needed to remain calm to help him through it.
“Och, Brodie,” Ailis chimed in, her voice carrying the lightness of a summer breeze over heather fields, “ye’ve got more fight in ye than the wildcats o’ the Highlands.”
The corners of Brodie’s mouth twitched, reluctantly conceding to the humor in Ailis’s words. His deep brown eyes, usually sharp with contemplation, softened slightly, allowing for a pained yet genuine smile to break through the storm of his frustration.
“Aye,” he responded, the growl in his voice now tempered by the flicker of amusement. “And that determination should help me now.”
“Ye must draw on it,” Moira said softly, pleased to see a smile whether it was for her or her sister.
The moment balanced between triumph and defeat as Brodie’s legs struggled to support him. His stoic determination shifted to uncertainty, and his strength vanished like mist over the moors. He groaned, echoing off the infirmary’s stone walls, and crumpled, his body betraying him again.
Moira, still at his side, put an arm around him, her movements synchronized with Ailis’s as they caught him in practiced arms. Together, they eased him back onto the cot, their efficiency a dance they had mastered over countless days of tending to the wounded warriors of Clan McAfee.
