The Niece of His Highland Enemy by Alisa Adams

19

The armies of the Brodies and the Sinclairs crashed against each other like stormy waves against a rocky shore.

The Sinclairs fought like wild and rabid animals, their very mouths gnashing and foaming with fury. Half of them were armed with weapons meant for farming and fishing: pitchforks, scythes, nets, spears, and crude harpoons. But wielded with enough strength and savagery, these implements were more than a match for the more sophisticated arms of the Brodies.

Blood spattered upon the ground like raindrops in a deluge as the men hacked and tore each other to pieces. There were shrieks of terror, moans of anguish, and berserker cries of anger.

There were whimpered prayers from the dying as well.

It was like a scene from the goriest and most depraved depths of hell, and that was precisely how Fergus fought, with ferocity and grim determination, as though he were clawing his way from the blackest depths of the underworld and back to the light of a loving God.

More than anything, he wanted to check on Moire, to make sure that she was holding her own, but he could rarely spare a split-second to divide his focus from the legions of Sinclairs who assaulted him from all sides, and when he tried, his field of vision was entirely blotted with the bodies of men determined to murder each other.

The ground beneath his boots was red and slick, and it took all of his effort not to skid and slip upon it.

For her part, Moire was too canny to wade into the ocean of fighting men. She knew that her best chance of rescuing her siblings was to coerce Tremaine himself rather than waiting around to see how the battle turned out. Otherwise, the old monster might slip into the fort unseen and put a knife to the throat of one or both of the children.

She would not allow that.

So she skirted the edges of the conflict, her sword at the ready, fending off the occasional attack from Sinclairs instead of taking them on en masse. She moved quickly and stealthily, and within moments, she was within easy reach of Tremaine, who was far too distracted by observing the battle to notice her.

Until it was too late.

By the time he registered the sight of her and turned to face her, the tip of her short sword was aimed at his chest.

“You will take me inside,” she said through clenched teeth, “and either you will take me directly to my siblings, or—if you continue to deny that you have them—we will go from room to room together, and I shall leave a piece of you in every room we visit until we find them. A finger for the first room, an ear for the second, a tongue or a nose perhaps for the third…and after that, something lower and more precious to you, I think. Do we understand each other, you wretched, smelly old fool?”

Tremaine nodded slowly, his jaundiced eyes bulging with fright.

As it turned out, the man did not opt to lose any of his bits and pieces. He quickly led Moire to a chamber hidden behind a revolving wall.

When they stepped in, she almost could not believe her eyes.

There they were. Years older than the last time she had seen them, but unmistakably Sorcha and Aodh nonetheless.

He was fourteen, his eyes blazing with a fierceness and focus that almost frightened Moire. He was shirtless, and she could see numerous bruises and scars on his slender body. Every aspect of his being shouted the same story: that he had been sorely tested many times over, but never once had he been broken.

She was nineteen, a grown woman now, so far from the girl she had been just a handful of years earlier. Her eyes were darker and wiser than Moire remembered, haunted by the phantoms of a hundred different brutalities suffered at the hands of their captors. From the expression of her face, it seemed as though she was unable to make herself believe she was really seeing her older sister.

“Is it you, Moire, at all?” she whispered hoarsely. “Or merely another cruel trick my mind has conjured to torment me?”

“It is me, dear sister,” Moire replied, “here to liberate you both at last and bring you home where you belong!”

Then the three of them embraced, weeping, overcome with joy and relief.

Moire heard a flurry of footsteps and raised her head just in time to see Tremaine Sinclair flee the room as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him.

“Shall we pursue him?” From the tone of Aodh’s voice and the hard glint in his eye, he would have liked nothing more than to do so. Moire did not care of think of what the boy might do if he caught up to his former captor.

“No,” she replied, hugging him tightly once more. “He is no concern of ours anymore. Even if he gets past all of the Brodies out there, he will not have much of a life ahead of him, alone and on the run.”

“Indeed,” Aodh agreed solemnly. “I suppose I can always hunt him down later.”

“Where is Dand?” Moire asked. “Did he come for you, as he said he would? Have you seen him?”

Both of them shook their heads. “We thought he was still with you,” Sorcha said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“Some years ago,” she answered. “He grew restless and determined to find you both and liberate you. He wanted me to come with him, but…I was too afraid,” she finished, ashamed.

“Thank the Lord you did not,” Sorcha said, “else this happy day might not have arrived!”

“You are right, of course.” Moire put her hands on Aodh’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. The intensity that shone back at her made it feel as though she was staring directly into the sun. “Aodh, with Dand gone and Ronald disgraced, there will be no time for you to concern yourself with capturing and punishing Tremaine…though I can understand why such a thing would seem important to you.”

“It is important to me,” he growled. “If you knew half of the vile things he did to us while he kept us here…and Freya too…”

“You have far more pressing things to attend to,” Moire interjected. “You are the successor of the lairdship.”

The boy’s eyes widened, and his lips pressed into a thin line of surprise. “From prisoner to laird in a matter of moments?” he retorted, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “A strange circumstance indeed.”

“Laird Fergus of the Brodie clan is largely responsible for our reunion today,” Moire told him, “in ways which I shall explain in detail later. For now, all you need to know is that he is a good man and a kind one and that he will help you learn to be a wise and worthy laird.”

Sorcha arched her eyebrows in mild amusement. “Sister, have you fallen in love since last we spoke?”

Moire giggled and wiped tears from her cheeks, holding them close to her one more time. “Yes, Sorcha, I do believe I have.”

When the sun was setting,the outcome of the battle was decided. A third of the Sinclairs were dead, and the rest had surrendered unconditionally. Tremaine had indeed disappeared without a trace, but the other influential members of his clan—a crabber, a turnip farmer, and a tanner—agreed that all Brodie lands would be returned to them and that abject fealty would be sworn at once.

“It seems that we are now the proud owners of the Sinclair Clan and all its holdings,” Fergus commented to Edmund.

“A dubious reward, to be sure,” his friend sniffed, surveying the bleak landscape around them. “Even so, I suppose we have much to celebrate, do we not?”

“Indeed we do,” Fergus mused, watching from afar as Moire joked and laughed with her brother and sister. He looked forward to getting to know them better, and in particular, he looked forward to helping Aodh learn how to be a responsible leader.

Just a week before, I am not certain whether I would have trusted myself to give such lessons… Or whether anyone else would have, either,he thought.

But as he led his people back to the shore, he saw that they looked at him differently now.

They were proud indeed, this day, to have him as their laird.

Before returning to the ships that awaited them, they trekked back to the castle of the Campbells. Sawney Buchanan was waiting in the courtyard by the time they reached the gates, a hand on Freya’s shoulder. When her siblings came into view, Freya ran toward them as fast as her little legs could carry her, and her brother and sisters took turns hugging her tightly.

It was the first time that all of them had been together in years—minus Dand, of course—and it was clear to Fergus that Moire still fretted over that.

We will surely be revisiting the mystery of their oldest brother soon, no doubt,he thought.

The entire voyage back to the Isle of Skye, the Brodies sang songs of victory and joy and taught the words to the Campbell siblings, even the bawdy ones, though Moire fussed over them and tried to cover their ears while Fergus and Edmund laughed heartily.

When they reached the Isle of Skye, the ships were moored, and all aboard them made a grand procession to the castle with Ronald in tow. The younger Campbells skipped together hand in hand while Fergus and Moire rode together on the same horse, his arms wrapped tightly around her body.

The sentries of the castle saw their approach, and there were trumpets and drums awaiting them as they surged through the front gates triumphantly. Word of what they had done across the water spread from home to home like wildfire. Old men, women, and children left their houses to dance in the streets behind the conquering heroes as cheers went up among them: “The Campbells are our allies! The Sinclairs have been vanquished! Our lands are returned, and our kinsmen avenged!”

The dungeons beneath the Brodie castle had not been in use for over two generations. They were considered to be a relic of a more barbaric and less tolerant time, and they had since been used as wine cellars.

An exception was made for Ronald Campbell.

He was held in one of the few areas of the dungeon still separated by iron bars and fed on stale bread, water, and thin broth while he spent three days awaiting his trial. Moire and Sorcha, as the older of the siblings, visited him during that period to accuse him, to curse him, to yell at him for what he did to their parents.

After the first day, he stopped answering. He would only glare at them when they came or turn away, ignoring their words until they grew too frustrated to continue.

The trial of Ronald Campbell was short.

Sawney testified against him, and so did several of the guards who had heard his confession before breaking into his chamber. The evidence was too great for any to ignore, and he was sentenced to death. That was when his resolve was lost, and his stony silence was broken. He collapsed at the pronouncement, weeping and begging Moire and her siblings to show him mercy.

Moire wished she could feel wholly good about his execution, but much as she was loathed to admit it, even to herself, she still hated that her uncle had come to such a gruesome end. She had been his ward for such a very long time, and despite the fact that he had been horrid to her and kept her apart from her brother and sisters, she still had a hard time seeing him as anything other than her kin.

When the headsman’s ax fell upon the old man’s neck, she looked away.

Aodh did not.

The next night,a feast was held at the castle for a celebration of the clan’s triumph over the Sinclairs, the liberation of the Campbells, and the final punishment of the man who had separated them. There was wine and ale aplenty, and music, and dancing as well.

And when the night reached its peak, Fergus stood, raised his goblet, and demanded the attention of all in attendance.

“We have made peace with the Campbells,” he began, “and that is a blessing. But I believe that both our clans would be made stronger and more resilient if we were truly joined, in bloodline and in bond. With that in mind, I wish to ask Moire Campbell for her hand in marriage, that we might form such a lasting and wonderful union.”

Moire’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. She knew that they loved each other, even if they had not used that word yet—or fully acted upon it—but she’d had no idea that he might make such a proposal so soon.

Or that she would know with such utter certainty what her answer to it would be.

“Yes,” she replied, smiling. “I would gladly be your bride, Fergus Brodie, and make our heir the laird of both the Campbells and the Brodies!”

“And the Sinclairs, if they’ve got a mind to claim such a dung heap!” Edmund called out jovially to the amusement of all who were gathered.

Then Moire was held tightly by Fergus, and kissed, and made the happiest woman in the world.