Chapter Twenty-Three
Moira McAfee stoodin the great hall, stone walls echoing with preparations. Her clan bustled around her, hanging tartan banners and arranging wooden tables for the evening’s ceilidh. Moira remained still, scanning the room to be certain all was at the ready. Anticipation weighed upon her, contrasting with the festive atmosphere and tightening responsibilities within her.
Young lads hoisted barrels of ale, laughter mixing with the noise of kitchen maids carrying trays of bannocks and smoked fish. Moira’s thoughts wandered to Brodie—the man whose quiet strength intertwined with her own unyielding spirit—his recovery tugging at the edges of their shared loyalties.
Taking a deep breath, Moira stepped into chaos. She navigated the hall, offering decisive guidance to her kinsmen’s questions.
“Moira, where d’ye want the fiddlers to set up?” asked a burly clansman.
“By the hearth, Hamish,” she directed. “The warmth will keep their fingers nimble for the reels.”
As she assisted with arrangements, Moira’s confident facade hid an internal struggle between duty and Brodie’s struggles.
“Moira, is it too much garland?” A timid voice drew her attention to a young girl holding fragrant pine and holly.
“Never too much,” Moira reassured firmly but kindly. “The greenery reminds us of life thriving even in winter. We celebrate not just our might, but our endurance.”
The girl returned to her task, encouraged by Moira’s approval. Observing her, Moira longed to join Brodie and see how her husband was doing that day, but she had other duties that must be seen to first.
“Ye seem lost in thought,” Beathan remarked, appearing beside her. “Troubles?”
“Only the usual concerns,” Moira answered with a fleeting grin.
Beathan gently reminded her that even the strongest needed a break. Grateful for his wisdom, Moira focused on getting the great hall ready for the ceilidh they had planned.
During the ceilidh, she sought a balance between duty and longing, her heart intertwined with Brodie’s.
Ailis approached quietly, her presence barely noticeable. Moira turned to see her sister’s eyes gleaming with resolve and a touch of apprehension.
“Moira,” Ailis said, “the ceilidh is more than just a celebration tonight. It’s necessary for maintaining our alliances.”
Moira understood the unspoken worries between them. “We’ll use it to remind everyone that our kinship is stronger than any outside threat.”
“And what about Clyde Stewart?” Ailis asked, concern in her voice.
“We’ll keep our allies close and make sure they know where we stand,” Moira responded firmly. “If Stewart raises another army, I’m certain we’ll hear about it long before he approaches.”
Ailis smiled at her sister’s determination. Moira then stepped outside into the courtyard, needing fresh air. There she saw Brodie sitting amidst wild thistles, a mix of pride and concern filling her.
“How did ye get out here?” Moira whispered, reaching out to brush his arm.
Brodie met her gaze, replying with a hint of a smile, “Me brothers told me I would rot if I stayed in the infirmary for another minute, and they carried me out here. I must admit that it’s doing me good to be in the fresh air.”
“Just dinnae overdo it. Ye’ve been in a bed for a week now, and ye’ve lost much of yer strength.”
Moira’s arm wrapped around Brodie’s waist. She studied his face, noting each wince he tried to hide.
“Talk to me, Brodie,” Moira urged. “Tell me what ye need.”
He leaned on his cane, searching her determined eyes. “I fear I’ll never be the man you need me to be.”
“Ye forget, my love,” she said, touching his cheek. “I chose ye because ye always walked with me.”
A fleeting smile crossed Brodie’s lips. “Aye, but now…with Clyde Stewart’s threat…”
“Ye are not a hindrance, Brodie McClain. Together, we are stronger than any looming threat.” She rested her head on his shoulder for just a moment.
Her words kindled a spark in his eyes—a glimpse of their shared passion.
