Enchanted Cottage (Avador Book 3, Books We Love Fantasy Romance) (10 page)

No matter what his father said or how he felt about a suitable wife for him, Colin vowed he would return to Alana.

Chapter Eleven

On a warm day in late spring, Alana worked her way down the rocky path for her last swim in the Nantosuelta River.
Conflicting thoughts tumbled through her mind, of bidding farewell to her cottage, to all the joys and sorrows it held. She would cherish memories of Colin for the rest of her life, and she knew no other man would measure up to him. Even now, when he was gone from her life forever, she saw his suntanned face and dark hair, his rare smile that meant so much to her. As if he were with her now, she heard his rich baritone, that voice she would never tire of hearing.

As she
wound her way past the maples and oaks, the lone willow tree, she stifled her sobs, resigned to getting on with her life without him. Wearing her sandals to save her new shoes, she watched her step on the slippery ground, where protruding rocks and thick tree roots posed a hazard. She kept her eyes alert for the furry snakes, whose sting could kill in an instant.
Caracobs
screeched from branches overhead, and a rustling in the bushes might mean a rabbit or an angry bear. Nearing the shore, she heard the roaring river, saw the rainbow in the misty spray as the sun rose over the horizon.

Balancing herself beside one of the boulders, she slipped out of her sandals and bent over to remove her dress.

“Dear child, it seems you have good news.”

Alana pressed her hand against her chest. “Oh, you scared me. You come and go so quickly.”

He grinned from his perch on a boulder.
“‘Tis my way. But it looks to me that you have reason to be happy.” He wore the same brown robe as before, his gray hair lifting in the breeze.

Her hands flew to her cheeks.
“Thanks be to the Goddess, my blemishes are gone. It’s a miracle!”

He nodded, looking somber.
“Could be. And your young man, where is he?”

She looked down at her feet.
“He’s not my young man, and he left for his home not long ago.”

“Ah, I see.
And will you remain in the forest?”

“No, I’m heading home, back to my village to face the witch who brought this curse on me.”

“Your village?”

She sat back on a boulder, resting her feet in the cold water.
“Cairn, a small village just beyond the woods, not far from Moytura.”

“The witch,” he intoned.
“You have to be brave. You can defeat her if you try.”

“Of course,” she replied with false courage.

“You can do it,” he said, then disappeared.

She glanced in all directions, then smiled at her foolishness.
He surely must be one of the strange folk who lived near a
sidhe
, one of the sacred mounds. Keeping her shift on, she raised her dress overhead and tossed it onto the bank. She waded into the water, taking careful steps on the rocky ground.

Shivering in the cold water, she swam far out.
She wished she could dismiss her heartache, the emptiness inside her since Colin’s departure. Her confrontation with Morag and the villagers loomed ahead. How she wished she had that ordeal behind her. She swam farther out, then floated on her back with her eyes closed, the warm sunlight on her face. If only she could stay here, but she knew she had to return to her village.

Back on the shore, she dressed again, then retraced her steps back to the cottage.
Inside the small wooden structure that had been her home for so long, she prepared to leave for Cairn. Fighting tears, she rested her hands on the stone counter, recalling all the meals she had fixed here. Her gaze took in the fireplace and all the implements she’d used for cooking. Lovingly, she touched every object, her fingers lingering on each one. Noting that a fire still smoldered in the fireplace, she banked the fire with sand in a bucket. She opened the door and emptied the pan of water, then looked around to make sure she would leave the cottage as she’d found it. The bedroom with its small bed and dresser spurred memories of her first night in the cottage, her utter desolation at finding herself alone with an ugly face she’d feared would never heal. And oh, yes, the nights Colin had lain in this bed as she’d nursed him through his fever, and either she or the grace of the Goddess had saved his arm and his life. Tears streamed down her face as memories—good and bad—swamped her. She sank onto a chair, struggling with so many recollections, not to mention dread of facing Morag and the people of her village.

Carefully folding her dresses and cape, she placed them in the bag the dressmaker had given her.
She would have liked to wear one of her new dresses, but the wool dresses would be too warm, and the blue linen was too fine for a trek through the woods. She dropped her sandals in the bag and gathered her personal items: cream, soap, and comb. Looking around to make sure she had all of her possessions, she smiled at the thought; possessions, all of which she could fit in one small bag. Ready to leave, she fetched her gold bracelet from her dresser drawer.

She opened the door and walked down the steps, bidding goodbye to her sanctuary, then headed for Cairn.
Recalling the young boy Colin had found to chop wood for her, she wondered if she should stop by his village, even though it would be out of her way. But no, plenty of time remained before cold weather arrived. She would visit him later and tell him she no longer needed his services.

Her heart beat faster and doubts accompanied her during the entire trip to Cairn.
Courage, you must have courage.
What would the villagers think or do when they saw her again? Would they welcome her, or would they spurn her as they had before? But why would they ostracize her, now that she had her looks once more? They could no longer accuse her of being a witch. Another quandary captured her mind: Did she want to resume her life with the villagers again, these people who had chased her from her home?

She trod past ash and chestnut trees, pushing branches aside,
while her skirt caught on bushes from time to time. Miles later, as the sun rose overhead, she reached the narrow dirt road that led into her village. Small cottages squatted on both sides of the road, the village well located in the center. Beyond the cottages stretched miles of farmland.

Her new shoes were coated with dirt, her dress clinging to her, but she held her head upright as she strode past the blacksmith’s, the rows of cottages and shops.
Simple wattle and daub structures with one or two rooms and thatched roofs that needed replacing, the cottages evidenced the villagers’ poverty. Since her father had been a teacher to wealthy students, their house was larger and more substantial than most. A thought struck her: strange she hadn’t thought of it sooner. Had the villagers been jealous of her father’s good fortune and taken their resentment out on her after her parents were gone?

Her heart pounding, her head near to bursting, she absorbed the old familiar surroundings, the apothecary’s shop, the bakery, the candy shop whose meager earnings enabled Mavis McClaine to supplement her husband’s income as a farmer.
Alana caught the aroma of baking bread but ignored her hunger, anxious to dispense with her task and resume her life.

One by one, the people left their houses to gape at her.
Dressed plainly, their faces tanned, the men, women, and children looked her up and down. She stopped by the well in the center of the village and dropped her bag. Soon, dozens of people surrounded her.

“Alana Cullain!
Where have you been all this time?”

“Yes, we haven’t seen you since
—“

”Since you chased me from the village.”
She didn’t even try to keep the hurt and anger from her voice. She hoped her long dress would hide the shaking of her knees.

“But we thought, that is, Morag told us
—“

“
That I was a witch, is that right? And speaking of witches, where is Morag Delaney?”

As if on cue, Morag stepped out of her hut.
She stood on the edge of the crowd, her eyes wide with shock. She wrung her hands as her gaze shifted from Alana to the others and back again. Brendan followed her, looking as stunned as the witch. Alana wondered why Brendan lived with Morag but shelved that question for later.

Brendan pushed through the crowd.
“Alana! Morag told me you married a man from Ros Creda.”

Alana laughed bitterly.
“And you believed her?”

“Goddess help me, yes.”
He looked about to cry.

As the minutes went by, hundreds of people gathered by the well.
Farmers left their fields, their tunics and trousers stained with sweat and dirt.

Morag hung back on the edge of the throng.
Defiance coupled with fear showed on her face, as if she didn’t know whether to confront Alana or run away.

Alana’s gaze caught hers.
“Ah, Morag, just the person I want to see. Why don’t you come forward, so that I can address you better.”

Alana’s heart pounded against her chest, but she would not betray her fright, the very real fear that Morag would cast another spell on her.

The people exchanged puzzled looks, as though Alana spoke a language all her own, a speech beyond their comprehension.

Morag elbowed her way through the crowd and faced her.
“So you’re back. What do you want, a celebration of your return?”

Alana shook her head.
“What I want is justice, to set the record straight. You accused
me
of being a witch, of killing the villagers, of killing my p—parents.” She fought the sob that threatened to escape. Low murmurs rose from the crowd, whether from doubt of her word or anger at Morag, she wasn’t sure. “I believe you have your facts confused. Who is it who has the crystal ball? And who is it who made nasty remarks about the druids and who called them stuffy old men?”

Morag shrugged.
“Your word against mine.”

Voices swelled among the villagers, the people looking from one to another, unsure of what to believe.

Morag turned to face them, her face red with anger but contempt in her voice.
“Are you going to accept her word? Don’t you remember all the people who died because of her black magic and—“

”No, Morag, I have never practiced magic, black or otherwise.”
She spoke to the crowd. “Haven’t any of you ever wondered what happened to Maude Mulligan? Where did Maude Mulligan go?”

And then, the strangest, weirdest, eeriest thing happened, an event the villagers would tell their grandchildren for years to come.
A dog trotted out from the crowd and stopped in front of Morag. Slowly, its legs lengthened, its back began to straighten. Clear skin replaced patches of fur. Its doglike facial features gradually transformed to human ones. Its bark turned to a human moan. Aware that this person—whoever the creature was—would be embarrassed to find herself naked—someone tossed her a cape, which she clumsily caught in her paw/hand. As she continued to transform before the stunned people, she wrapped the cape around her, her paws now becoming hands, and tied the cape in front.

The transformation complete, she pointed a finger at Morag.
“You! You’re the one who did this to me! You evil witch!”

Morag opened her mouth to speak and raised her hand, a sure indication she intended to cast another spell.
But Brendan stopped her in time. With one hand over her mouth, he enclosed her hands in his large one. “Someone have a scarf, a rope, anything I can tie her hands with?” One of the women nearby untied a scarf and tossed it to him. He tied her hands behind her and spoke through gritted teeth. “Now, I’m going to take my hand from your mouth, but I warn you—if you open your mouth to cast a spell, I’ll wring your Goddess-damned neck with my bare hands.”

An uproar erupted among the villagers, everyone talking at once, yelling insults at Morag.
She screamed, “Brendan, don’t do this to me! What will happen to me?”

“I’ll tell you what will happen.
I’ll turn you over to the druids—“

”No!” she screeched.
“They’ll burn me at the stake!”

“Not so,” Alana said, raising her voice above the people’s.
She lifted both arms high for attention and raised he voice. “Please, let’s not everyone talk at once.” Her heart still thudded against her chest, but the feeling of a job accomplished, of justice done, eased her mind.

The shrieks became murmurs, the voices gradually quieting, enabling Alana to speak in normal tones.
“If the druids, these holy men of whom you spoke with such disdain—if they find you guilty, you will be hanged.”

“No!”
Morag spat and hurled obscenities. Saliva ran down her chin, her face red with anger. She struggled in Brendan’s hold, but he held fast, his mouth twisted in derision. The villagers muttered among themselves and looked on in fascinated disgust.

“Brendan!
Don’t you know I love you? How can you do this to me?”

“You love me,” he scoffed.
“Your misfortune, for I don’t love you. Oh, at first I thought I did, but now I suspect you cast a spell on me. So you’ll get what’s coming to you, witch!”