Under the Highlander's Spell Page 12

  The news concerned him more than pleased him since gossip was more contagious than the pox and could spread with the same speed. He reiterated his order for James and Patrick to remain alert to anyone entering the village.

  He worried about keeping Zia safe, especially after last night. She had taken off for the river without even thinking, as if there were nothing for her to worry about. She never gave thought to possible danger. She simply did as she pleased, without considering the possible consequences of her rash actions.

  Not that he hadn’t enjoyed their night swim, though in truth they hadn’t swam much. He grinned at the memory. If he hadn’t controlled the situation, Zia would have sealed her fate in becoming his wife. As much as that would have made it easier for him, he’d realized he wanted more from her, a realization that surprised him.

  It was still another reason for getting Zia out of there. He wanted to be with her in normal surroundings so they could determine what it was they wanted and expected from each other.

  “Artair!”

  He looked up from where he sat on the bench of the cottage he shared with Zia. She had left while he still slept, and with James’s hurried steps, he suddenly wished he knew where she was.

  Artair stood and matched James’s rushed steps. “What’s wrong?”

  James shook his head. “A messenger from the village of Lorne has arrived.”

  “Damn,” Artair said, and ran rough fingers through his hair. “Where is he?”

  “He’s speaking with the elders of the village in the common shelter.”

  He could confront them, Artair thought, or wait to be summoned.

  His course of action was decided for him when a young lad rushed over to tell him the elders wanted to see him.

  As soon as he entered the large gathering room and saw the dire expressions on the elders’ faces, he knew trouble was brewing.

  The messenger who had arrived in Donnan from the village of Lorne didn’t give anyone a chance to speak. He swung an accusing finger at Artair. “He’s no husband to the witch.”

  “My wife is no witch,” Artair said firmly. “And if you continue to spread such lies, I will cut out your lying tongue.”

  The thick-chested man wasn’t swayed by the threat. His pointed finger disappeared into a clenched fist, which he shook furiously at Artair. “She has bewitched you. We warned you and you did not listen and now you have condemned us all.”

  “What nonsense do you speak?” Artair demanded.

  The man lowered his voice, his eyes shifting fearfully. “It is not nonsense. The witch works her magic with her potions and spells.”

  “Those potions heal the sick. And what spells? My wife cast no spells.”

  “Then why do you claim to be wed to her? Show me proof,” the messenger challenged, though now, at Artair’s adamancy, he did show fear, his voice quivering.

  It was just what Artair had been afraid would happen. He couldn’t help but think that if Zia hadn’t been so stubborn, this situation might have been settled without a problem.

  Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he advanced on the messenger. The man shrank away from him. “You dare call me a lair?” Artair demanded.

  “I only wish to protect you from evil,” the man hurried to explain.

  “My wife is not evil. She generously heals the people of this village.”

  The messenger spoke up bravely. “She did the same for us and then used her spells and charms to entice the men. If you had let us burn her—”

  “The good people of Donnan would be dead,” Artair concluded.

  His blunt remark had the elders whispering among themselves.

  “Don’t listen to him,” the messenger begged. “He is bewitched. She has him doing her bidding and will have all of you doing the same.”

  Odran, the oldest of the elders, spoke. “Zia has asked nothing of us.”

  The messenger cringed and covered his ears. “Do not say her name. I will not hear it and I will not look upon evil.”

  Artair wanted to beat the man senseless, but he knew that would only serve to reinforce the accusations against Zia. He had to show that he remained in control of himself.

  “The only evil here is the evil you speak against my wife,” he emphasized yet again. “She has tirelessly tended the ill of this village and has healed them.”

  “He is right,” Odran agreed.

  The messenger’s finger shot out again. “She is casting her spell over all of you. You should burn her now before it is too late.”

  Once again Artair was incensed. He almost grabbed the man—the blithering idiot—to smash his face in, but stopped himself and spoke with a calm he didn’t feel. “You’ve delivered your message, now leave.”

  “I will leave after you show me proof of your marriage,” the man said boldly.

  “It would settle the matter,” Odran said.

  It certainly would, Artair thought, and silently cursed himself for not insisting that Zia and he wed. But that did him little good now.

  “She’s tricked him into thinking he wed her,” the messenger accused.

  The elders mumbled among themselves, no doubt agreeing that proof was necessary for the protection of their village. And he couldn’t blame them.

  “Artair!”

  The men turned to see Zia, smiling, holding a bouquet of wild flowers in her hand. She looked more angel than evil, her blond strands forming a halo affect over her red hair, her cheeks tinged softly pink.

  She rushed over to him, holding out the bouquet. “Look what the women give us to celebrate our one week anniversary.” She looked from one startled man to another. “I’m sorry. It seems I’ve interrupted a private meeting.”

  The messenger raised a quick, outstretched hand to ward her off as he turned his face away. “Don’t cast your evil eyes on me, witch.”

  The elders ignored the messenger, and Odran said to Zia, “How wonderful for you, and how good of you to come to our village to help after being wed for such a short time.”

  “Illness never arrives at an opportune time,” she remarked.

  “Proof. Proof. Ask her for proof,” the messenger demanded irritably and with his glance cast to the ground.

  Zia slipped her arm around Artair’s. “Our marriage papers are with my belongings that were sent on to Artair’s home. We saw no reason to carry proof with us.” She cast a blissful glance at Artair. “Anyone who sees us knows we are madly in love and newly wed.” She chuckled. “Did no one see us sneak out of our cottage for a swim last night?”

  Odran smiled sheepishly. “Someone mentioned your husband chasing after you.”

  Artair joined in her game. “I bet that I’d beat her to the river.”

  Zia grinned. “He lost.”

  The elders laughed and nodded, recalling youthful follies of their own.

  “She lies!” the messenger screamed.

  “Enough!” Artair declared with strength that near shook the walls. “Did my wife heal your people?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Did anyone die?” Artair asked curtly.

  “No, but—”

  “Does your village suffer?”

  The messenger hesitated, then shook his head. “You don’t understand. You are bewitched.”

  “I do understand,” Artair confirmed. “You are ungrateful. Leave now. You are not welcome here with your lies.”

  The elders agreed with repeated nods.

  “You’ll be sorry,” the man vowed with a raised fist. “My village has contacted the church council and they will decide her fate.” He hurried to the door, stopped but didn’t turn around. “I will make certain a messenger is sent to Caithness to verify your wedding papers.”

  He left without looking back.

  “We are grateful for your help, Zia,” Odran said, and the others agreed. “We thought for sure that many would die, but your remarkable skills have saved us.”

  Was that a flash of skepticism he caught in the elder’s eyes?
Artair wondered. It worried him. All that was needed was a drop of doubt for problems to start, and the messenger had planted more than a drop. They had to leave the village, and soon.

  After exchanging niceties with the elders, he and Zia left the common shelter and walked arm in arm to their cottage, their smiles bright while they spoke softly to each other.

  “We can’t stay here,” Artair said. “Please tell me the child is well enough for you to leave.”

  “Her fever broke and no doubt will not return. The worst of this is over.” She kept her grin steady, aware that they were being observed. “Do you think the messenger will return with others for me?”

  “I doubt he’s given up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lurks in the woods waiting to talk to each of the elders alone and convince them of your magical powers.”

  He laughed joyously as if they had just shared a funny tale, slipped his hands around her waist to swing her up in the air and bring her back down for a kiss.

  “We need to wed before we reach my home,” he murmured as he set her feet back on the ground.

  Zia said nothing until the cottage door closed behind them. “You can’t mean to wed a witch.”

  He cringed. “Be careful what you claim.”

  “There are those who will believe I am, and once the church sends someone to investigate—” She shivered and dropped the bouquet on the table. “I could understand being accused of witchcraft if I made people suffer, but they accuse me because I make people well.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense. A true healer would never intentionally hurt anyone.”

  She pushed past Artair when he tried to embrace her, angry that she needed to defend her skills. “There’s no magic to my potions.”

  “To the less knowledgeable, it appears magic,” he said, and reached out to tug her into his arms. “But they have not seen what I have.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, her anger melting away as his powerful hands kneaded her arms.

  “All the hard work you do in preparation of tending the ill. Your healing basket doesn’t miraculously fill itself. Your potions don’t magically mix. Your healing plants don’t grow without care. Your knowledge doesn’t expand without study. You don’t make a remarkable healer by casting a spell. You work for it.”

  Zia was stunned by his words. He had noticed how much work it took to be a good healer, and he praised rather than criticized.

  “I like watching you work,” he said. “You have a caring touch and soothing words to offer the ill, and you do it with patience.”

  She melted into his embrace. “You do know I don’t always have patience.”

  “Really?” He looked startled, then laughed.

  She poked him in the chest. “I have patience when necessary.”

  “So I’ve noticed.”

  “What else have you noticed?” she asked.

  “That you don’t always see reason, which is why you need me.”

  She sighed dramatically. “How have I ever managed without you?”

  He rolled his eyes upward and shook his head. “Heaven only knows.” He kissed her quick. “But you needn’t worry any longer. I will look after you.”

  “I know you will, and that’s what worries me.”

  Chapter 16

  Artair kissed her lovingly, wanting to kiss away all her worries. “We will wed and you will be safe.”

  Zia slipped out of his arms as he tried to hold onto her, and it felt to him like a punch to his gut, a sense of deep loss overwhelming him. He wanted to reach out, grab hold of her and make sure she remained his. Instead he calmed his thoughts and confronted the situation more reasonably.

  “It’s the best solution to our problem,” he said.

  “Why do you want to continue to place yourself in harm’s way for me?” she asked.

  A good question, he thought, and until he had a good answer, she was staying with him.

  “Honora could use your help, and you can use mine. I’d say that’s a good exchange. Besides, you helped heal my brother Ronan. For that alone I and my family owe you.”

  “So you wed me to repay me?” she asked with a quick shake of her head.

  “It doesn’t hurt that we’re attracted to each other.”

  Zia threw her hands up in the air. “You owe me and we’re attracted to each other—”

  “You’re not denying it, are you?”

  “No, I’m not, but I’ve made it very clear why I will marry—”

  “Love,” he said, and nodded. “And given time—”

  “No!” she shouted, and shook her finger in his face. “Love first, marriage second. It’s that or nothing.”

  “You’re not being sensible. You need protection, and I can give it to you. I can also give you a good life.”

  “I already have a good life,” she said adamantly.

  He folded his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You constantly live with danger. That is no life.”

  She poked him in the chest. “My life. My choice.”

  “You can object all you want, and you can poke me all you want, but you will marry me,” he said confidently.

  She stepped back away from him and mimicked his confident stance. “No, I will not marry you. We will simply continue to pretend we’re wed.”

  “That won’t do. You heard that fool of a messenger say he will send someone to my home for proof.”

  She shrugged. “We’ll address that matter when the time comes.”

  “Then you’re willing to live with me as my wife once we arrive at my home?” he asked with a grin.

  “So far our pretense has worked,” she answered, with her own wide smile. “I don’t see why it cannot continue to do so.”

  He walked over to her and took hold of her shoulders. “Did you forget the other night in the river? What happens when you share my bed?”

  Her face shadowed with doubt. She knew as well as he did that they would be intimate, and soon. And he knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. So why did she fight it?

  “Wed me and be done with it. We are good for each other,” he said, trying to make her see reason, though he knew there was little chance of that. She was tenacious, which proved useful at times, and other times simply got in her way.

  She sighed heavily and battered her lashes. “Your romantic prose takes my breath away.”

  “Unfortunately, at the moment there is no time for romance. Reason takes precedence here.”

  “I will not be bullied into wedding you,” she said firmly. “We will continue to pretend to be wed—”

  “Until it is necessary that we do wed,” he finished.

  “If ever,” she added with a shrug.

  He knew better, but then she would see, given time, that marriage was the best solution. He didn’t intend to keep reminding her. She would realize it eventually, and he believed—or was it merely a hope?—that she would see the wisdom in such a choice.

  “We leave at first light tomorrow,” he said.

  “Good. That will give me time to leave instructions with the women and visit with those recovering.”

  He took hold of her hand, bringing it to his chest. “I think it would be wise if I remained by your side until we leave…or rather, until we reach my home.”

  He watched as her defensiveness melted as quickly as spring snow. “You truly are concerned,” she said, easing closer.

  “Finally you realize that,” he replied teasingly, and slipped his arms around her.

  “I realize more than you know. It is you who does not know what you commit to.”

  She settled herself in the crook of his arm, and he coiled it around her and rested his cheek on her head. Her hair was soft, the scent fresh, and he wished only to linger in the moment.

  A rapid knock at the door had them separating quickly, and Artair prayed that no one else had taken ill.

  Clare, Andrew’s mother, was there with a couple of other women who were concerned by the news they had heard. They wanted Z
ia to know that they did not believe her a witch and how grateful they were for her help.

  Artair retreated from the cottage, leaving the women to talk. He would speak to James and Patrick about departing tomorrow at first light and making it home to Caithness as soon as possible. The sooner he had Zia in the confines of his family’s land, the safer she would be.

  He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the church council decided against Zia and proclaimed her a witch. His family had power and influence, but no amount of influence could combat a judgment of witchcraft. He only hoped that her alignment with his clan could give her at least a degree of protection.

  Somehow, he would find a way to circumvent the situation. But that would take time, and making her his legal wife would go a long way toward securing her safety. He would see it all done; he merely had to remain patient.

  After firming plans for the next day’s departure with his men, he headed back to the cottage, hoping the women had left and Zia would be alone. He wanted her packed and ready to leave as soon as the sun peeked on the horizon.

  It annoyed him to find the cottage empty. He assumed she had gone to check one last time on those still ailing. He wished that she’d stayed put, but knew she would work until the very last moment, and then only reluctantly mount her horse, still feeling she hadn’t done enough.

  He browsed through the village, looking for Zia, and not finding her, began to worry.

  Then he spotted her in the open doorway of a cottage, her cheeks tinged pink and her smile bright. Seeing him as well, she waved and with a light step headed his way.

  He caught a swift movement out of the corner of his eye and yelled a warning, “Zia, watch out!”

  “Burn, witch, burn,” the messenger screamed, and flung the lighted torch he carried at her. Not waiting to see if he hit his target, he kept running until he vanished into the woods.

  Zia was holding her arm, her face twisted in pain when Artair reached her. She had deflected the torch with her hand, the brief contact scorching her flesh. He grabbed hold of her and winced when he saw her palm, which appeared charred.