Under the Highlander's Spell (13 page)

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

A
rtair 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 Zia 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.

“Tell me what to do?” he asked, swinging her up into his arms.

“You can put me down. It's my hand that has been burned, not my feet.”

He smiled at her humorous retort. “I'm sweeping you off your feet.”

“Ahh, another romantic moment.”

“Tell me how to take care of you,” he ordered, though with a smile.

She acquiesced with a nod. “Take me to the cottage and I will see to my hand.”

He started walking. “No,
I
will see to your hand.”

They laughed while debating who would be the healer, though when they reached the cottage and Zia winced, Artair would hear no more of her protests. He intended to see to her care, and that was that.

After placing her on a chair, he looked at her hand and flinched.

“It looks worse than it is,” she said, reassuring him, and stretched for her healing basket on the table.

“Stay put,” he said, and brought the basket to her.

“It's just a minor burn. Once I clean it, you'll see for yourself.”

She wiped the flesh with a damp clean cloth, and Artair was surprised when the blackened area turned pink. Her skin hadn't been charred; she was right, it didn't look as bad as he had first thought.

“Let me do that,” Artair said, and took the cloth from her. He didn't want to imagine what could have happened if the flame had caught her garments.

She touched him lightly in the spot between his eyes. “Frown lines. Something troubles you.”

“You could have gone up in flames, and if the village Lorne has anything to say about it, you will.” He threw the cloth aside, the pad of her palm a shiny pink.

He was ready to order their immediate departure when she smiled softly and handed him a small crock of salve. He didn't know if it was her tender smile that said “I trust you” or the fact that she gave him the salve to put on her injury that attested to her trust. Perhaps it was a combination of both.

“Thinking on it, I agree with you.”

He stared at her, startled.

“I may be stubborn, but I'm not ignorant. I realize that at the moment it will be far better for me, and those I care for, if I remain with you.”

Relieved that she would battle him no more, he almost reached out to hug her, but restrained himself. Instead he applied the salve to her palm with a gentle stroke.

“All are well?” he asked, wanting her to leave the village without worry.

“Yes,” she answered with a sigh, closing her eyes as he finished with the salve.

He watched her body relax, her shoulders slumping, her head waving from side to side as a gentle yawn slipped from a nearly closed mouth. He was glad she trusted him. It would make things easier for them both.

“I will send word to your grandmother so that if she should hear of this incident she will not worry,” he said, and held up a clean cloth, silently asking if he should bandage the burn.

She nodded. “Thank you. I appreciate you thinking of her.”

He wound the bandage around her hand, though her own hand stilled his after a few wraps.

“Let me show you,” she said, and guided the hand that held the bandage. “A light touch with only a few twists and turns will be sufficient.”

Her delicate touch was like a faint whisper on his flesh, a tingle to his senses. Her hand rested over his, as well as her glance, and it was as if time stood still and there was only the two of them.

She broke the trance, leaned forward and boldly said, “I think I want to kiss you.”

“And I you.”

He slowly captured her lips, and while he would normally tease a woman into responding, Zia needed no such enticements. She responded with enthusiasm that
rapidly turned passionate. Her fervent responses never failed to astound and excite him.

She stopped the kiss abruptly and with labored breathing said, “I don't know why I'm attracted to you.”

He was so stunned he had to laugh. “I'm not sure how to take that.”

“I'm not sure how it's meant.” She shook her head. “I mean, I can't seem to make sense of what I find appealing about you.” She continued to shake her head. “I mean—”

He took hold of her shoulders, then ran his hands slowly up and down her arms. “I think the problem is that I'm not quite the man you expected.”

She nodded. “You're right. You're nothing of what I expected of the man who I—”

Artair wanted to strangle whoever pounded at the door and interrupted. He stomped to the door, swung it open and instantly calmed himself at James's worried expression.

“We couldn't find the messenger,” James said, “but there's another problem. There are some—men, mostly—who are wondering how Zia escaped the messenger's wrath so easily.”

“That's how the problem started in Lorne, with the men,” Artair said.

“It won't take long to get out of hand,” James whispered.

Artair nodded. James was right. Before they knew it, Zia would be in trouble again, and with two villages
proclaiming her a witch, the church council was sure to condemn her.

“Be ready to leave shortly,” Artair instructed.

“Our hasty departure will raise suspicion.”

“Spread word that we've been summoned home immediately,” Artair said, and turned to tell Zia.

“I heard everything,” she said, “though understand none of it. I have done nothing wrong.”

“The gossip will stop as soon as we leave here,” he told her. “The people will return to their daily lives and soon forget you.”

“The village of Lorne is not going to allow that. They seem determined to see me condemned as a witch.”

“Let's get you to a safe place first and then we'll concern ourselves with the rest,” he said. “Now gather your things. We leave immediately.”

She stepped toward him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. You'll be safe at my home.”

“No, that's not what I meant,” she said, annoyed. “As I've expressed before, my presence could cause trouble for your family, and I—”

“Let me worry about that.”

He stopped any further protests by beginning to shove things haphazardly into her healing basket. Zia stopped him and took over, continuing the task more carefully. She remained silent, and Artair knew her to be deep in thought. And why wouldn't she be? There was much for her to consider, and this was only the beginning of it.

He walked up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Once we arrive at my home, I'll arrange a small wedding ceremony for us and—”

She pulled out of his embrace and moved around the table, continuing her task of packing her things while on the opposite side. “I told you I will not marry you, and don't ask me again until…”

“Until what?” he asked impatiently.

She threw the pouch she held in the basket. “Until you're finally not reasonable anymore.”

T
hey kept an arduous pace for four days, stopping more to rest the horses than themselves. Zia said nothing. She knew Artair's intentions were to get home to his village as fast as possible. They ate and slept little, and talked even less.

It didn't matter. She knew what he was thinking, and it annoyed her. He had it all planned and truly believed it would turn out
his
way. She might presently require his protection, but that didn't include marriage.

Besides, how many times did she have to tell him that she would marry only for love? He was thick-headed and much too reasonable, about which she had reminded him often enough. The man just wouldn't listen. He could be so frustrating. But he could also be kind and loving.

She sighed as they stopped once more to give the horses a rest. Her backside and thighs were sore and she was hungry.

“A brief stop,” Artair commanded. “I want to reach home by nightfall.”

Zia dismounted, and while her mare drank from the stream, she grabbed a couple of apples from the sack that hung from her saddle. Before biting into one of them, she took off her sandals and dunked her feet in the cool water.

It felt so refreshing that she sighed aloud.

“Feels that good, does it?”

She smiled, turning to face Artair, and threw him an apple. “Join me.”

He obliged, shedding his sandals and walking into the stream. He smiled broadly. “It does feel good, and even better, tonight you will sleep in a comfortable bed.”

“And whose bed will that be?” She raised her brow in question as she took a last bite of the juicy apple.

He hesitated, then said, “I must assume that my family has received news of our marriage, and if not, they would hear of it soon enough, so it would be sensible for us to arrive home as husband and wife.”

She shrugged. “I'll continue the pretense until it is no longer necessary.”

He tossed the finished apple aside. “And then?”

“I'll decide when the time comes.”

He stared at her while he called out orders to his men, then said to her, “We leave now.”

Zia splashed out of the stream and walked past him.

He grabbed hold of her arm. “Be sensible about this, Zia.”

She laughed. “Actually, I am.”

She hurried into her sandals and mounted her horse, and they were soon on the road again. Artair resumed their swift pace, and she had no doubt their arrival home would be as he predicted.

Dusk covered the land as they passed through the village and approached the keep. Those who were out and about called out greetings and congratulations to Artair. Zia could see that news of their union had reached the people of Caithness, so she knew the pretense of their marriage was necessary. She would do her part, but for how long? She decided not to put a time limit on it. She would know, would feel it when the time was right. Until then she would look after Cavan's expectant wife while seeing—she chuckled—just how sensible Artair could be.

Every part of her body ached as she climbed the few steps to the keep. What she truly wanted was food, bath, and bed, in that order, but there was his family to meet and Honora to look after, if necessary. She would do what she had to, as she always did.

A yawn escaped her just as they reached the door.

Artair's arm went around her. “Tired?” he asked.

“No,” she said, dropping her head on his shoulder. “I'm exhausted.”

The door abruptly swung open and a man with similar features to Artair—not as handsome, but with a charming smile—regarded them.

“We heard your approach,” he said. “I was just coming to welcome you home.”

“Zia,” Artair said, “my brother Lachlan.”

Lachlan smiled and reached out to snatch Zia from Artair's grasp. He wrapped his arm around her. “Come meet the family, sister,” he said cheerfully, and walked her into the great hall.

Boisterous cheers rang out, and she almost sighed in resignation. She always enjoyed celebrations, but not when exhausted. The hall was filled with people waving raised tankards in the air and calling out congratulations. Tables were covered with platters of scrumptious looking food that she wouldn't mind digging into, and wine and ale were flowing freely.

Artair slipped her out of Lachlan's grasp, though his brother protested.

“Wait a moment, I wanted to introduce my—”

“
My wife,
” Artair said. “Get your own.” And with a grin he guided her through a welcoming crowd. He leaned over before they reached a large table in front of the hearth and said to her, “I'll let them know you're tired and—”

“No,” she said quickly. “They wished to show and share their joy for you. I will not deprive them of that; besides, I'm starving and the food looks delicious.”

“Thank you,” he said, squeezing her close up against his side, the many onlookers smiling wide at the loving show of affection.

Zia immediately knew who Cavan was. Taller than Artair, broader and ruggedly handsome, he had a confident stance and a warm smile. His arm was around a very beautiful, pregnant woman whose smile matched his own.

Before the loving couple could greet Zia, a woman stepped in front of them, beaming. Though sadness lurked in her lovely green eyes, she stood with grace and beauty that age had not marred.

She spread her arms wide, tears glinting in her eyes, and Zia stepped aside so Artair could greet his mother with a hug.

“I am so happy for you,” Addie Sinclare said, her arms tight around her son. When she finally loosened her grip, she looked past him to Zia. “Another beautiful daughter. How lucky I am.”

Zia went to her and gave her a hug. “I'm happy to meet you. Artair has told me much about you.”

Addie turned to Artair and teasingly said, “What gossip do you spread about me?”

“The truth,” Artair replied with a smile. “That you are a loving and wonderful mother.”

A tear spilled from Addie's eye. She brushed it away and looked at Zia again. “Artair is a good man. I am proud of him. He will make you a good husband.”

Zia squeezed Addie's hand. “I know. A man who respects and treats his mother well will do the same for his wife.”

Addie nodded. “You were taught well.”

“As you taught your son,” Zia said, and kissing the woman's cheek, she whispered, “Thank you.”

Addie wiped another tear from her cheek. “Meet my oldest son Cavan and his wife Honora.”

Introductions were made, hugs and kisses exchanged, and finally Zia was able to sit and enjoy the
feast that had been prepared for them, while getting to know Artair's family.

“I am glad Artair wed a healer, and one whose skills precede her,” Cavan said. He and Honora sat across the table from Artair and Zia. “My wife hasn't been feeling well of late,” he added, and his arm went protectively around Honora.

“Give Zia time to rest,” she protested. “She must be exhausted after her long journey.”

“Husbands usually worry needlessly,” Zia said, noting that Honora's cheeks were ripe with color, her violet eyes sparkled, and her lips were flushed pink. She looked healthy, which was a good start.

“You but appease me,” Cavan said with concern.

Artair laughed and shook his head. “If it's one thing Zia doesn't do, it is appease.”

Zia leaned into the crook of her believed-to-be husband's shoulder. “He's right about that.”

“I think I'm going to like you,” Cavan said with a firm nod.

“You looked to be someone I could get along with,” Zia replied with her own firm nod.

Honora laughed. “You will fit well with the Sinclare clan.”

The festivities continued, food and drink devoured at a steady pace, with accompanying shared laughter and smiles. The celebration did not dwindle for several hours.

It was Addie, to Zia's relief, who suggested that the new bride needed rest.

“Bless you,” Zia said with an uncontained yawn followed by a generous smile when she heard Addie order a bath prepared for her. “You know my thoughts. How wonderful.”

Addie stood. “I'll help you.”

Zia shook her head as she dislodged herself from Artair. “No need. I can see to it myself. You stay with your sons.” She gave Artair a peck on the cheek and followed the young lass who had been directed to help her.

She was relieved that no one had insisted and followed her. She wasn't accustomed to so much attention, and preferred the peacefulness of solitude. It gave her time to think or simply empty her mind and relax. At the moment, her body and mind screamed for rest.

The bedchamber she entered reflected Artair's practical nature. It was orderly, with everything in place, and she laughed softly knowing it wouldn't remain that way for long with her around. It might not be fair, but he wanted to play at husband and wife so he would have to suffer the consequences.

Her small sack was on the bed, and she opened it, shaking out the only other skirt and blouse she had brought with her. She hung them on a peg near the door, then shook out her plain linen nightdress and laid it on the bed.

Zia couldn't discard her garments fast enough once the tub was filled, and shooed the young girls away with a wave, insisting that she preferred to tend to her own needs.

It didn't take long for the steaming water to penetrate her flesh and soothe her weary and aching bones. She washed her hair and body quickly before the water cooled, and barely rested her head back on the rim when she began to doze off. She jolted awake and told herself to get out and go to bed. She was bone-tired, and if she didn't get out would fall asleep there, which wasn't a good idea. It wouldn't do having her pretend-husband find her like that, naked in the tub.

 

After the hall emptied, Artair was left at the table with Cavan. He thought his brother would want to wait until morning to speak with him, but when Honora had gone to bed without her husband, Artair knew that Cavan wished to talk.

“You have made a good match,” his brother said. “And one that will benefit our clan. I am happy for you and proud of you.”

“Thank you,” Artair replied, though knew soon enough he would have to confide the truth to Cavan. “It would have been better if I had returned with Ronan.”

Cavan didn't agree or disagree. Instead he asked, “What did you learn of him?”

Artair shared the news, and Cavan shook his head.

“Why would Ronan leave the place that saw to his care and safety?” Cavan asked.

“I don't know, and neither does Zia or her grandmother Bethane.”

“Are you sure of that?” Cavan asked skeptically.

Artair took no offense to his brother's question. After all, it was a practical one. “I asked the same myself, but from what I learned of the village Black and the people, I couldn't see any reason for anyone to keep the truth from me.” He shook his head. “Though…”

“You feel you weren't told the whole of it?”

“There remains a nagging doubt,” Artair confirmed.

“And the other question that remains is, if Ronan left the village of his own volition, why hasn't he returned home?”

“I've wondered over that myself. Perhaps wherever he went, he continues to heal, and once fully healed he'll return to us.”

Cavan shook his head. “Something about the whole thing doesn't sit right with me. I feel as you do. We haven't been told the whole of it. Someone is leaving something out—and on purpose.”

“Do you refer to my wife?” Artair asked, again not taking offense. His brother's duty was to protect the clan.

“I like your wife, and after telling us of the troubles she has faced due to her healing skills, I'd say she's a brave woman.”

“Sometimes foolish,” Artair said with a laugh.

“What woman isn't?”

“I wouldn't let your wife hear you say that.”

Cavan laughed along with his brother before his tone once again turned serious. “I am truly grateful that you have wed such a gifted healer, though it is selfish on my part. I worry about Honora. She continues to not feel
well and has fainted twice since you've been gone. I feel better with a skillful healer being here.”

“Zia is a remarkable and diligent healer. I've seen it with my own eyes, which is why she has been accused of witchcraft.”

“The clan will keep her safe, though it is better she remain on Sinclare land until the whole matter is settled,” Cavan said, then lowered his voice, though no one was about. “It makes no sense that Ronan left the village where he was cared for.”

“I thought the same myself. Why leave a safe place?”

“Something forced his departure,” Cavan said.

“I do not think Zia or Bethane had a hand in it. Their concern is to heal.”

“Then as it seems you suspect, there is more to Ronan's departure from the village Black than you have been told.”

“True enough, but what reason could there be for keeping any pertinent news of Ronan from his family?”

The answer struck him before Cavan could answer.

“Zia is trying to protect us from something.”