Under the Highlander's Spell Page 6

  “Would you like to gather plants with me?” she asked, reaching out to take his hand.

  “Do I have a choice?” he asked laughingly as she tugged him along.

  “Not really.”

  He followed along willingly, eager to spend time with her, even if he had to collect plants to do it.

  Artair wasn’t surprised when Zia snatched a basket from the side of a cottage. He was learning that the village Black shared just about everything. The villagers were a contented lot, though not without imperfections, but they dealt with things with relative ease and unity.

  He realized why the village operated with almost no conflict. After speaking to several of the villagers he learned that many of them, if not all, found their way here after a great deal of suffering and none of them wished to jeopardize the safety and peace they found. And he certainly could respect that.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  Her question stopped him dead. Had he found what he was looking for?

  “Your brother? Did you find out more about your brother?”

  He hadn’t thought of his brother when she had asked her question. It had been Zia who entered his mind. He cleared his head as best as possible since thoughts of her continued to flit in his mind. “No, I didn’t.”

  She nodded and dropped down by a patch of ground covering and with her fingers gently snipped off leaves. “Then you will be leaving soon.”

  Artair hunched down beside her. “You wish to be rid of me?”

  “You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay.” She continued snipping leaves.

  “A few more days should do.”

  “Only a few?”

  She sounded disappointed, so he challenged. “Give me a reason to remain longer.”

  She dropped the gathered leaves into the basket and stared at him for a moment before reaching out and slowly running her fingers down the side of his face. “Perhaps there is more here for you to discover.”

  He liked her veiled invitation. And he more than liked her touch. It sent shivers through his insides that landed in his loins, and he had a hard time controlling his reaction, though managed to do so with great difficulty. He prided himself on his control, his sensibility, and while he found Zia appealing, he refused to lose sense of his senses.

  “We shall see,” he said, and gently, though regretfully, eased her hand away, so her touch could not create more havoc.

  She stood with a laugh, the basket looped on her arm. “That we will.”

  He followed her deeper into the woods, confident that while she controlled the path they took, he controlled the journey.

  He was impressed with her knowledge of the woodland plants, warning him of the dangers of some, the benefit of others, and the importance of knowing the difference.

  “Your grandmother taught you?” he asked, gathering pinecones at her request.

  She nodded. “And her grandmother before her and so forth and so forth.”

  “What of your mother?”

  “She died after giving birth to me,” Zia answered, scooping various shaped twigs off the ground.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She placed the few twigs in the basket. “I often wish I could have known her. My grandmother tells me that she was a special woman loved by a special man.”

  “And your father?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. My grandmother told me that he left before I was born and never returned. I believe him dead, since she said that he loved my mother beyond reason. You can’t leave and not return when you love someone that much.”

  “Perhaps there was a reason he could not return.”

  “What possible reason could a man have for not returning to the woman he loved?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Illness, detainment, imprisonment. It is wrong to condemn him when you don’t know what happened.”

  “I don’t condemn him. I believe him dead.”

  “But what if he isn’t?” Artair asked, thinking his sound reasoning might possibly give her hope.

  “He better be dead!”

  “What?” Artair asked, wondering over her surprising response.

  “If I ever found out that my father was alive and never returned to the love of his life, I would hunt him down and tell him what I think of him, which isn’t much.”

  “You’d rather he be dead than alive?” he asked curiously.

  “No, I prefer him to have loved my mother beyond reason.”

  “That makes no sense,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But it does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because love is what is important.”

  He shook his head again and hesitated attempting to understand her reasoning but finding it difficult. “Being prudent is important.”

  “It’s nonsense.”

  “Being practical is nonsense?” he asked calmly.

  “When it comes to love it is. How can passion exist if you are always practical?” she asked as if she made perfect sense.

  “Love and passion have a time and place.”

  “Love and passion know no bounds. They cannot be confined or manipulated or reasoned.”

  “Anything can be reasoned,” Artair said.

  “Not love.”

  “Yes, love.”

  She smiled a bittersweet smile. “Then, my dear Artair, you have never loved.”

  He felt a pang in his chest, near his heart. Had her remark disturbed him? Could there be a ring of truth to her belief?

  Once again he found her hand at his chest, firm and warm and pulsating with life…or was it passion that he felt emanating from her?

  “You feel love here, deep inside. It churns and burns and rushes out, consuming all of you until you think you are going mad.”

  “How do you know this? Have you loved someone?” he asked anxiously.

  She shook her head and sighed heavily. “No, I haven’t loved, though I have seen it in the eyes of the young and old couples alike. I have watched how one suffers for the other, watched one pray for the other and watched them grasp hold one last time. Love consumes the heart and soul and never lets go.”

  “Love is slow and steady and dependable,” he corrected, confident in his opinion.

  With a disappointed shake of her head, she stepped away from him. “It is not.”

  “It is,” he reasoned. “And it allows love to survive the difficult times.”

  “How can you believe that?”

  “How can you believe such fantasy?” he asked.

  She sighed. “It is not fantasy to me.”

  “You’re not being logical,” he said.

  She tapped his chest. “Precisely.”

  He laughed. “You make no sense and are proud of it?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  He scratched his head. “We are of different opinions. I reason with my mind, you reason with your heart.”

  A sudden frown surfaced on her face and while he thought she would argue with him she remained silent in thought until her expression turned troubled.

  “You think little of love,” she said.

  “I think highly of love. I just approach love differently than you, with more sense and reason.”

  “You think me a fool?” she asked bluntly.

  He was quick to correct her. “I didn’t say that.”

  “But if, as you suggest, I don’t speak with reason, then I must speak foolishly.”

  “You twist my words.”

  She smiled. “I clarify them.”

  He grinned. “You are quick-witted.”

  Her smile broadened. “I am knowledgeable.”

  “Then perhaps it would do me good to think over your words,” he said.

  “A wise choice,” she said with a nod, and walked off.

  He smiled, admiring her opinion on love even if it was unreasonable. Love required sensibility if it were to survive. He saw that with his father and mother. They did what was necessary. He wanted
the same, a dependable union.

  Artair followed after her. “Are there more plants to gather?”

  “You don’t need to help me. Take the time to think about love.”

  “I can do both. Besides, I enjoy helping you. Just tell me what to do.”

  “Truly?”

  He smiled at her teasing glint. “Within reason.”

  She sighed and shook her head, though the glint remained. “Too bad.”

  “For you or me?”

  “For both of us.” She turned and walked away swallowed by the dense foliage.

  She taunted him and it worked, and made him follow her yet again. He disappeared after her and found her near a stream, harvesting another plant with her tender touch.

  “Pudding grass,” she said without looking up at him.

  He noticed the change in her before he hunched down beside her. She was focused intently on her chore and working as usual with a delicate touch.

  “It makes a good stuffing mixed with honey and has good healing properties when brewed, though caution must be taken with it.”

  Following her directions, he helped her pick the hairy leaves and after they finished they sat by the stream beside each other. There was so much he could say to her and yet he chose to say nothing. He simply enjoyed sitting beside her in silence.

  “What is it you are looking for here?” she asked.

  He glanced over at her and wondered himself. Was he remaining because of his brother or because of her? He couldn’t answer, and that disturbed him. He turned and focused on her eyes, always so passionately bright. “I’m not sure.”

  “Then you should remain here until you are.”

  “I was thinking the same myself.”

  Chapter 8

  Zia yawned and attempted to stretch the exhaustion out of her body. After a lovely supper with her grandmother and Artair, she had hoped for some quiet time alone with him. She had no idea why she was attracted to Artair. She liked that he was considerate and intelligent and also charming, but she believed he reasoned more than necessary.

  How could anyone rationalize love? The idea still had her shaking her head.

  Another yawn reminded her why her plans had changed. The barbarian developed a fever, and it had taken hours of constant care to make certain he didn’t succumb to it. He was resting now, spent from his ordeal.

  Zia wandered outside the cottage, the late summer night cool and the dark sky clear, every star sparkling as if it had just been polished. The waning moon seemed to blink awake from a peaceful slumber, and she heard the occasional sound of nocturnal animals that prowled the night.

  She took a deep breath, drawing in the peace and beauty of the late night.

  “Tired?”

  Zia jumped, startled by the unexpected but familiar voice, then watched Artair emerge from the darkness. He was bare-chested, his dark green and black clan plaid wrapped smartly around him. His dark hair was tousled, which had Zia assuming he’d just rolled out of bed.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked curiously.

  “I woke, saw your bed empty and grew concerned,” he said, stepping closer.

  “Concerned for whom?”

  “You know full well who. I could care less what happens to the barbarian.”

  He cares about me.

  The thought yanked at her heart strings and filled her with joy.

  Oh, dear, is that good or bad?

  “The barbarian does well,” she said.

  “It’s you I wish to know about.”

  “I am fine.”

  “But exhausted.” He moved in closer and reached out to gently caress her cheek with the back of his hand. “I can see it in your face.”

  “A lass can’t be expected to look good all the time,” she teased.

  “But you do. You always look beautiful.”

  “Now you tell tales,” Zia said, though she smiled.

  “You believe me trustworthy, remember. So therefore I do not lie. When I say you always look beautiful, I mean it.” He cupped her chin. “Your loveliness plays havoc with my senses.”

  “Now you surely tease, for I am far from intoxicating.”

  He brushed his cheek faintly against hers. “I am besotted by your scent alone.”

  She pressed her cheek against his and could almost hear the sizzle of his coolness meeting her warmth. It sent tingles racing through her, and she knew at that moment that she wanted him to kiss her. She actually hungered for the taste of him, knowing his flavor would be tangy and bold and oh so delicious.

  “And what of taste?” she invited.

  He kept hold of her chin and stared into her eyes. “Spicy and audacious.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There is only one reasonable way to find out.”

  “Reasonable?” she repeated curiously. “You reason a kiss?”

  “Damned if I didn’t put my foot in my mouth,” he mumbled.

  “You don’t reason; you just kiss,” she said, as if speaking to a young child who needed instructions. “It happens—no planning, no reasoning, no wondering.” She sighed. “You simply kiss.”

  Zia was suddenly grabbed and yanked into Artair’s arms and his mouth captured her open one and within seconds he demonstrated his prowess. Good Lord, he knocked the breath out of her and she went limp in his arms.

  Her mind reeled, her lips pulsated, her tongue mated with his and her legs trembled. Heavens, could the man kiss.

  Her head fell to rest on his naked shoulder after the kiss ended, with reluctance on her part, though necessary since she needed to reclaim the breath he had so expertly stolen from her.

  When she was finally able and he certainly didn’t rush her since his arms remained firm around her as she lifted her head and with a soft smile said, “I liked that.”

  “As did I.”

  “It wasn’t planned. It just happened.”

  “Actually,” he said with a grin, “I realized that if you didn’t stop talking—”

  Zia stepped away from him and covered her ears with her hands. “Please don’t make it seem planned. It will ruin it for me.”

  “Why?”

  She pressed her hands tighter to her ears.

  He grabbed her hands, yanking them away from her ears. “Don’t be ridiculous. The kiss was fantastic. What difference does it make whether it was planned or spontaneous?”

  “Ridiculous? You think how I feel is ridiculous?”

  “Did you hear the part about the kiss being fantastic?” he asked, befuddled.

  “I agree it was fantastic.”

  “Then what is the problem? We shared an absolutely thrilling kiss. Nothing more needs to be said.”

  “That seems sensible,” she said softly.

  “Of course it does,” he said, reaching out for her.

  “One problem.” She stepped out of his grasp. “A first kiss shouldn’t be sensible.”

  Then she turned and walked into the cottage, closing the door behind her.

  Artair swore beneath his breath. She certainly wasn’t sensible; she was pigheaded and foolhardy. Their kiss was incredible, like none he had ever tasted in his entire life. It had nearly buckled him at the knees, not to mention the punch to his gut and the heat to his loins.

  A first kiss…

  It had been their first kiss, or had she meant her first kiss ever? Were his lips the first to ever touch hers? He grew excited at the thought. Maybe she was right. It was about the kiss and nothing else. No rhyme or reason, just pure passion, and he had certainly tasted that on her. Zia’s zest for all she did could prove to make life more interesting. Besides, as he got to know her, he’d be able to determine her nuances and deal with them in a more reasonable fashion.

  He laughed as he walked away. Reason would win over passion. It was inevitable.

  “Be careful. She is more of a handful than you think.”

  Artair jolted to a stop as Bethane appeared from the shadows, Nessie close to her side. “You saw?”
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  She shook her head slowly. “No, but your look tells me all I need to know—slightly dazed, but still confident.”

  Artair nodded. “That’s how I feel, thanks to your granddaughter.”

  Bethane wiggled two fingers at him. “There are two of you.”

  “Admonishment or advice, which are you giving me?”

  “Which do you need?”

  “Zia is very much like you,” he said.

  “Then you are a lucky man.” She smiled.

  “I’m beginning to think that.”

  “Keep that thought strong and it will never fail to help you.”

  “I’ll do that,” he said, aware that she offered wisdom. “Where do you go?”

  “It’s where I have come from,” she said, and pointed to the woods.

  “The woods are so dark at night. Why go there?”

  Bethane pointed to the night sky. “There are medicinal plants that can only be harvested under the waning moon or they lose their potency.”

  “You should have asked. I would have gladly gone with you.”

  “Nessie kept me company. Besides, you would have only slowed me down.”

  “I meant no disrespect. And as for my dog, it seems she favors a new master.”

  “I know it’s the warrior in you always looking to protect. As for Nessie,” she added, with a pat to the dog’s head, “she doesn’t require a master.”

  “You understand far more easily than your granddaughter, and far more than I do,” he said with a nod toward Nessie.

  “I have lived far more years and have gained far more wisdom.”

  “Then I can safely assume that Zia’s passionate nature will soften with age.”

  Bethane chuckled. “Now you’re asking for a miracle.”

  Artair laughed. He liked Bethane. It didn’t take long to realize that she was a remarkably wise woman, and obviously loved her granddaughter very much. He also was aware that she served as leader of the village, and did so with distinction and honor. Not that she would admit it, but it was her who the people turned to, not only when ill, but to settle grievances and to lend an ear when necessary.

  “The sun is only a couple of hours from rising. You should get some sleep,” Bethane said.

  “And you?”