Under the Highlander's Spell Page 8

  His family, Cavan in particular, would be pleased that he returned with a healer. Though their clan had women who helped heal, none could truly be called a healer. And his mother would surely be pleased, for she had done her share of healing over the years and often wished she had known more. She would be delighted to work with Zia, and that would keep her from feeling lonely.

  Zia believed wrongly that his mother would even want to love again, let alone need to love. But she would see that for herself.

  He sat up, stretching, and swung his legs off the bed. He was eager to make preparations to return home. He and Zia had spoken with Bethane last night at supper. He didn’t want to just snatch Zia away from her. That wouldn’t be right. Not after Bethane had been so kind to him.

  The three agreed that within a week’s time, Zia and he would leave. He looked forward to their departure, though he had to admit that he enjoyed his time at the village and wouldn’t mind returning now and again.

  He stretched himself off the bed and slipped on his shirt and plaid and tied his sandals. He drew the curtain back and wasn’t surprised to find Zia’s bed empty. He had thought he was an early riser, but Zia had him beat. She was always up before him. He usually caught up with her at breakfast. She always made a point of sharing the meal with her grandmother and he had grown accustomed to the same. He quite enjoyed it.

  Morning greetings were called to him as he meandered through the village to Bethane’s cottage. It was a beautiful sunny day and he’d never felt so alive. Life had suddenly become more potent and more pleasurable.

  He entered the cottage and stopped abruptly. It was empty. In the few days he had been there, he always found Bethane and Zia at the table sharing breakfast. What had happened?

  He began to worry.

  He walked around to the side of the cottage, certain he would find either of the women. He didn’t.

  Tara, a healer-in-training, was there, and she didn’t know where they were.

  Without hesitation, Artair began searching the village, but no one, not a single soul, could tell him their whereabouts.

  He decided to see if his men had seen Zia or Bethane.

  James shook his head at Artair’s approach. “Patrick has returned with bad news.”

  Artair had recently sent Patrick to the main road to see if there were any signs of John, the warrior he had sent to inform Cavan of their whereabouts.

  “Tell me,” Artair said, prepared for the worst.

  Patrick stepped forward. “The village that thought to burn Zia as a witch has contacted the church council claiming that Zia practices witchcraft. The council intends to investigate the accusation.”

  The news shocked and frightened Artair. How would he ever keep Zia safe? And how could he keep her safe if he didn’t know where she was?

  “Be prepared to leave,” Artair ordered, and his men nodded.

  He then continued his search of the village, and as before, no one could tell him where Zia or Bethane was and no one seemed concerned.

  By early afternoon he was beside himself with worry and wanted to rush and grab Bethane and hug her when he finally caught sight of her entering her cottage.

  He hurried to her, his silhouette filling the doorway. “Where have you been?”

  Bethane turned with a flourish. “Artair, you startled me.”

  “I have been looking for you and Zia. Where is she?”

  “Is something wrong?” Bethane asked.

  The older woman was perceptive; he should have known she would sense his concern. However, he couldn’t hide it. He was worried about Zia’s safety.

  “Where is Zia?”

  “What is wrong, Artair? Tell me,” Bethane demanded.

  Artair recounted the news he had heard from Patrick, and watched Bethane pale. He reached out and helped her to sit, and she took his hand.

  “Before sunrise an urgent message arrived from the village Holcote pleading for a healer. A difficult birth, we were told. Zia packed her basket and went to her aid.” Bethane shook her head.

  “Tell me.”

  “Holcote is not far from the village Lorne, which accused her of witchcraft.”

  “I’m going after her.”

  Bethane grabbed his arm. “She will not leave the woman in need regardless of her own safety. She will remain with her until the babe is delivered and both mother and child are safe.”

  “She’ll leave,” Artair said firmly.

  Bethane shook her head. “You know better than that. It will do you no good to force her, especially if you have feelings for my granddaughter.”

  Artair ran a frustrated hand across his chin. “I don’t know what feelings I have for Zia. All I know is that she won’t leave my thoughts and she frustrates the—” He took a deep breath and plopped down in the chair beside Bethane. “I need to keep her safe.”

  “You need to let her be who she is.”

  “That will only get her into more trouble.”

  “You know her better than I thought,” Bethane said.

  “I hope to know her even better.”

  “Then go and keep her safe.”

  “Nessie, come,” Artair ordered, and the dog plopped her bottom down next to Bethane.

  “I will look after her, go,” Bethane urged, and he did.

  Artair and his men made their way to Holcote with haste. He arrived at the village half expecting, or perhaps half fearing, that he would again find her tied to a stake. Instead he found a village in need. The cottages were in disrepair and the fields ravished, and not by the inhabitants, for most looked half starved. These villagers were vassals to a feudal lord whose only interest was his own prosperity.

  Several women lingered around one particular cottage, and Artair felt it safe to assume they were there to help in the delivery if necessary. Before dismounting, he spoke to James and Patrick.

  “Go hunt game for these people, and if anyone attempts to stop you, tell them it’s by order of the laird Sinclare.”

  Both men nodded and grinned. The Sinclare name was respected throughout the Highlands, and few would dare oppose them. Artair also knew that Zia would refuse to leave the village people in dire straits, but then neither could he. These people needed help, and he was capable of giving it to them. He could not just ignore them.

  The door to the cottage was open, and as he approached he heard the suffering moans of a woman and Zia’s comforting voice.

  “It won’t be long,” he heard her say, and hoped it was true. He wanted to get Zia out of there as soon as possible.

  “Zia,” he said, entering the cottage cautiously.

  She turned, and while her eyes brightened, she didn’t smile. “I don’t have time for you right now.”

  “We need to speak; it’s urgent.”

  Zia handed a mug to one of the two women in the room with her. “Make sure she drinks this. It will help dispel the babe.”

  Artair walked outside with her and kept his voice low. “You need to leave here.”

  Zia looked appalled. “You can’t expect me to leave this woman now.”

  “You are in danger.”

  “So is she, and what danger?” she demanded.

  “You are being investigated for witchcraft thanks to the village of Lorne. I need to take you somewhere I know you will be safe.”

  “I cannot nor will I leave this woman.”

  “How long?” he asked, having expected her response and prepared to do whatever was necessary to keep her safe until she was ready to leave.

  “Two maybe three days.”

  He nodded, not believing it a problem, since it would take time for someone to be sent to investigate. He believed he would be able to get her safely to his home before then. In the meantime, he and his men could protect her.

  “We will leave for my home when you finish here,” Artair said.

  “Are you certain?”

  He took gentle hold of her face. “Why would you ask that?”

  It bothered him that she
stepped away as if she wished to distance herself from him.

  “I do not wish to bring trouble upon your family.”

  He smiled, reached out and drew her into his arms. “My brothers relish a good fight.”

  “But this is a different type of battle.”

  “A battle nonetheless, and one we will win,” he assured her.

  An agonizing scream ripped through the air and all but ripped them apart.

  “I must go,” she said, already turning away.

  “Can I help?”

  Zia stopped at the open door. “Can you find a way to feed these people? They are starving.”

  “Already done,” he said.

  She smiled then, and it overwhelmed him, but not near as much as when she declared, “You’re my hero.”

  He never considered himself a hero, but he liked the idea of being her hero.

  His men were welcomed with tears and cries of joy when they returned with sufficient game for the whole village. It wasn’t long before the scent of roasting meat peppered the village and smiles decked most faces.

  Artair spent his time between helping his men and checking to see how Zia was doing. She worked tirelessly, limp curls plastering her perspiring brow. She encouraged the laboring mother with soft words and assured her repeatedly that all would be fine.

  Artair found the husband camped out on the side of the cottage, face in his hands, sobbing. He was barely old enough to be considered a man, but a man he needed to be.

  “Crying will not help her,” he said, reaching his hand down to the lad.

  The scrawny young man looked up, startled, wiped at his tears, then hesitantly grabbed for the offered hand. “I am Albert.”

  Artair yanked him to his feet. “Albert, you’re a man who is about to be a father. You must be strong for your wife and child.”

  “She suffers and I can do nothing,” he said.

  “She needs your strength.” Artair grasped his shoulder. “Come eat and strengthen yourself. Then clean up and be ready to go to your wife a man.”

  The lad nodded and stood a little taller as he walked with Artair to the roasting pit.

  The villagers feasted, laughed, and offered prayers for mother and child and the healer who had brought them such fortunate luck.

  That is until the feudal lord arrived with six of his men.

  The villagers grew quiet and huddled close to each other when he and his men rode up to the roasting pit and stared at what was left of the carcasses.

  His dark narrow eyes warned that he was not pleased and the tight set of his thin lips showed he fought to hold his tongue. He and his men looked well fed and their garments freshly woven. They obviously lived well off the sweat of others.

  Artair stepped forward before any could be accused of theft. “I am Artair, brother to Cavan, laird of the Clan Sinclare of Caithness.”

  The man’s eyes rounded and his demeanor immediately changed. “I am William, laird of the Clan MacWalter. You are most welcome on my land.”

  Artair knew the Sinclare clan would be recognized and respected, actually feared by some. His clan was known for its fierce and noble warriors, and many paid homage to them in hopes of earning them as friends rather than foes.

  “I appreciate your hospitality, William, though I am more than willing to reimburse you for the game my men hunted.”

  “Nonsense,” William said with a dismissive wave. “Sinclares are welcome to hunt on my property whenever they pass through.”

  “Your generosity is appreciated. I will be two, perhaps three days. My healer is seeing to one of the villagers.”

  “Someone is ill?” he asked sharply.

  Artair knew it wasn’t out of consideration that William asked, but rather, fear of catching a deadly illness. He set his mind at ease. “A difficult birth.”

  William sneered. “These pagans whelp their babes in the field and continue working. Do not waste your healer’s time on them.”

  “My healer helps all those in need,” Artair said firmly, knowing an altercation with this man would only provoke suffering for the villagers.

  William gave a curt nod. “As you wish.” He sent a stern look at the villagers. “This man is my honored guest; make certain you see to his care.”

  The villagers bowed their heads and kept them bowed until their liege lord had disappeared out of sight. Their frightened expressions showed that they feared reprisals. There was little Artair could do to help them since they belonged to another’s clan. He could, however, make certain that the village was supplied with enough game to smoke and dry for the winter.

  Nightfall arrived, though the babe didn’t. The longer it took, the more worried the women in the village became, and soon whispers were predicting that mother and child would not survive.

  Albert trembled with fear, and Artair walked him away from the gossiping tongues.

  “Zia is an excellent healer,” he said, hoping to reassure the lad, though wondering if there could be any truth to the chatter.

  “It has been nearly a full day my Ciley has labored to deliver our child. She must grow tired.”

  Before Artair could continue to reassure him, Zia stepped out of the cottage, a solemn look on her weary face.

  Albert rushed over to her. “Ciley?”

  “Is resting, go see her.”

  Artair waited until Albert was out of sight and joined Zia. “What’s wrong?”

  “I fear the babe is somehow stuck. I’ve seen it happen before.”

  “And?”

  Zia rubbed the back of her neck. “I’m not sure, but if I don’t deliver the child soon, neither of them will survive the night.”

  Artair wrapped his arms around her, and she immediately rested her head on his chest. “You’re tired.”

  “That doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me.”

  She smiled up at him. “It’s nice to have you here with me.”

  “I’m not much help.”

  Zia placed a hand to his cheek and a kiss to his lips. “You have helped more than you know.” She turned to reenter the cottage, but stopped and looked at him. “Keep Albert away until I come for him.”

  Artair nodded, and when the young man joined him again, he placed a supportive arm around him and walked Albert to the roasting pit to sit and talk with him.

  As the night wore on, Artair became more concerned for mother and child, but he did not let Albert see it. He kept him talking, even suggesting that Albert might find a better home elsewhere for his family, and telling him he’d be welcome in Caithness with the Sinclare clan.

  The young man had no chance to respond. Zia stepped out of the cottage and walked toward them. Artair stood along with Albert, intending to help the lad however he could, though he hoped it would be congratulations that he offered.

  Zia sighed and ran a hand through her choppy hair as she approached. With hands on her hips, she settled a hard glare on Albert. “So, are you ready to meet your son?”

  Albert broke out in a grin. Laughed, then cried. “A son?”

  “A big boy for sure, which is why you can have only a few minutes with Ciley and then she must sleep. She is exhausted.” Zia smiled and pointed at the cottage. “Go, they both wait to see you.”

  “Thank you. Thank you,” Albert said, bobbing his head as he ran past her to the cottage.

  Artair went to Zia, slipped his arm around her waist and ran a gentle finger under each eye. “You’re worn-out. You need to rest. A cottage has been prepared for you.”

  She nodded. “The women told me.”

  “I’ll take you there when you’re ready.”

  “I just need to give instructions to the women who will watch over Ciley throughout the night.” She rested her warm flushed cheek next to his cool one. “I won’t be long.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said, running his hand down her arm and lacing his fingers with hers, only to reluctantly release her and feel her fingers slip one by one from his grasp.

&n
bsp; He stood waiting where he was, and though she returned in mere minutes, it felt like much longer. He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers once again, and again not wanting to let go, yet knowing he would soon have to. Even with slow steps, they would be at the cottage much too soon.

  They strolled to the entrance and when they reached the door he planned to kiss her good-night. She surprised him and turned around, took hold of his other hand and hesitantly brushed her lips over his. “I want to kiss you,” she whispered as if seeking permission.

  “I want you to kiss me,” he said.

  She brushed her lips over his once again. “I want to keep kissing you.”

  A low groan rumbled in his throat. “I want you to keep kissing me.”

  Her lips kept brushing, teasing and tasting his until she pushed the door open and pulled him inside.

  Chapter 11

  Zia loved his arms around her, the strength of his kisses, the warmth of his body, but most of all his kindness. Artair might be a mighty warrior, but he was a compassionate man. He had helped the young father find courage, made certain the hungry were fed, and come after her, concerned for her safety. And more important, he was patient with her.

  She pressed her cheek to his and rested there, wishing nothing more than to remain close to him, feel his arms strong around her and know this moment was for them alone.

  She would kiss him again; she knew that, but for now this was enough. This was what she wanted, to simply be close to him.

  He obliged her by not moving, though he ran his hand up and down her back and it felt so wonderful that she could have remained there all night wrapped in his arms.

  However, her yawn interrupted them.

  “You need to sleep,” he said.

  Slipping her arms around his waist, she prevented him from leaving her. “Not yet.”

  “If I stay too long, I will not want to leave.”

  “Then stay,” she whispered in his ear.

  His inquisitive look questioned her motive.

  “Lie beside me and hold me, just hold me all night.”