Under the Highlander's Spell (11 page)

Z
ia found Donnan in worse shape than she had expected. About a quarter of the village suffered from a low, persistent fever accompanied by aches and pains. The least resilient suffered; the very young and the elderly were forced to remain abed.

The story she and Artair had concocted concerning their recent marriage didn't matter to the villagers. Their only thought was for the healer who had come to help them. Zia hadn't spared a moment once she arrived. She quickly deposited her personal items in the cottage made ready for her and, with her healing basket, began making rounds of the village.

Within a few hours she knew she had a problem on her hands. She had seen this ailment before, some resulting in dire circumstances, while on other occasions it proved less severe. Try as she might, she couldn't find the source.

She had been recording her findings in her journal, where she kept a wealth of information. Old ways mixed with new ways on the pages, helping her to better
understand illnesses and cures. Now, in the cottage of a young couple whose two-year-old little boy suffered from the mysterious ailment, she pored through the journal.

She knew, without a doubt, that she wouldn't be leaving Donnan until all in the village were healed. Artair would not want to hear as much, since to him her safety came first, but there was no way she'd leave these people to suffer, or perhaps die.

“What is this?” Artair asked, peering over her shoulder at her journal, while holding the rocking chair she sat in so it remained steady.

“My secrets,” she whispered.

He arched a concerned brow.

She shook her head, her expression grim. “You think it is a book of spells?”

“Quiet,” he urged in a harsh whisper, and cast a quick glance around the sparse room.

“It is only young Andrew, you, and me here. His parents have gone to a friend's cottage to get some much needed rest. They are worried senseless over their only child.” She shook her head. “Do you think me a wi—”

Artair pressed his finger to her lips. “Do not even speak such nonsense. I worry more what others will assume if they saw your book. To you it is an accumulation of knowledge; to the less wise, it would appear arcane writings meant to hurt and destroy.”

She reluctantly agreed with him. “Unfortunately, you're right, which is why I call it my secret book.
The knowledge within is best kept for my eyes alone.”

“But you let me see it?”

She smiled and patted his hand where it rested on the chair. “You are my husband.”

He nodded with a grin. “It is a wise wife who does not keep secrets from her husband.”

“I would never keep secrets from my husband. There would be no reason to.”

“You are a good wife already.”

She chuckled. “Don't speak too soon.”

They both laughed softly, and he pointed to the open pages of her book. “Can you find something that will help?”

“I'm trying a combination of things, but I have found that with an illness such as this, sometimes the only thing that can be done is to let it run its course.”

“Then the village will survive this strange outbreak?” Artair asked with concern.

“I can't be sure. It seems the very young and the elderly have the hardest time battling the sickness.”

“Those with strength survive?” he asked.

“It seems that way, which is why I try to strengthen the less hardy.”

“There is nothing more you can do?”

“Patience is a big part of a healer's strength,” she said.

Artair leaned down and whispered in her ear. “Patience and passion, not a harmonious match.”

His warm breath felt like feathers tickling along her
neck, and her flesh instantly prickled. She shuddered as she turned a smile on him. “It takes patience to know true passion.”

“I never thought of it that way.”

“That's because you're too practical. But you'll learn,” she said.

“So confident.”

She stretched, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “In you? Always.”

His hand caressed her neck. “I knew you would make a good wife.”

“Of course I would,” she whispered. “But will you make a good husband?”

The young lad woke crying, and Zia jumped out of the rocker, closing her book and handing it to Artair. “Keep it safe.”

She didn't hear his response, or perhaps was too focused on the lad to have heard it. She needed to get more of her brewed broth into him and to make certain he got as much rest as possible.

The lad took the broth without a problem. Zia had prepared a tasty brew so the ill wouldn't refuse to drink it. However, Andrew didn't want to go back to bed, so she returned with him in her arms to the rocking chair.

After a short time he fell asleep, and as she stared at him, his full cheeks flushed with fever, she thought of how much she looked forward to having her own children, lots of them.

With her free hand, she reached in the basin near the
chair, squeezed the cool cloth, and gently caressed his feverish brow. He squirmed and cuddled in her arms. She held him close and comforted with soft words and the cool cloth.

“You'd make a good mother,” Artair said, stepping out of the shadows.

“You didn't leave?” she asked quietly, noticing he still held her journal.

“I thought you might need help, but I saw how easily and gently you handled the child. I amend what I said before, though I believe it a quality you alone possess. You have the patience to heal and the passion for healing, which makes you an amazing woman and healer.”

Zia was glad that the arrival of Clare, the lad's mother, interrupted any further discussion. Artair's compliment had overwhelmed her, and she wasn't certain how or if she should respond.

“Is my Andrew all right?” the young mother asked anxiously.

“He's fine,” Zia said, and motioned her over. “Why don't you put him in bed; he needs his rest.”

Clare nodded as Zia placed the sleeping lad in her arms. She hugged him close and kissed the top of his head.

“He's such a good son.” She looked to Zia with tears in her eyes. “He'll be all right, won't he?”

“I believe so, though he needs to rest and drink the broth.”

Clare nodded. “He hadn't wanted to eat, and barely drank anything until you gave him that broth.”

“It helps heal,” Zia assured the worried mother.

Clare rested an anxious hand to her cheek after placing Andrew in bed. “Good Lord, I almost forgot. You're needed at old Mary's. She isn't doing well.”

“You know what to do,” Zia confirmed with Clare, and as soon as the woman nodded, Zia hurried out the door.

Artair followed her.

“Please put my journal in my garment sack.”

“Then?” he asked, keeping pace with her.

“Then you're on your own,” Zia said, and sped off.

 

Artair roamed the village after doing as Zia asked. He had instructed his men to become familiar with the layout of Donnan and with its people and to report any change in talk or behavior to him immediately. And to be wary of any strangers who arrived, especially with word spreading that a sickness had hit the village. No one would dare come there unless…

Someone was interested in the healer.

He kept close watch over Zia, following her from cottage to cottage, and after a few hours wondered how she kept up her frantic pace. She no sooner got finished with one ailing person than another summoned her, and then there were those whom she revisited more often—whose fevers had spiked and who appeared to be losing the battle. But like any courageous warrior, she refused to give up. She fought on.

While he admired her tenacity, it also worried him. Zia constantly put the well-being of others before her
self. No matter how tired she was, she kept going and didn't complain. She seemed to thrive on it.

Passion.

He had known passion with more than one woman, and on more than one occasion. But that was different. Or was it that Zia was different? She seemed to embody passion in everything she did. It was a significant part of who she was, and he doubted she could ever do without it, though he did wonder if in time it might dim or burn out completely. After all, it wasn't reasonable to think that her extraordinary passion could last forever.

By late afternoon he realized that Zia had eaten nothing all day. Between tending people, she'd been busy crushing leaves and brewing broth, and was now baking bread to distribute among the ill. And it was only their first day in Donnan.

He caught up with her in old Mary's cottage—Mary being the oldest and weakest of those ill.

He stood in the open doorway, his hands braced overhead on the wooden frame. “You bake bread but have eaten nothing.”

Zia looked up from her task, smiled, and dusted her hands on the faded and stained white apron that hugged her waist and protected her dark blue skirt. She walked over to him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I'll have a rest right here,” she said with a sigh.

His arms coiled with a gentle strength around her. “Rest as long as you like.”

“I wish it could be for…”

A heavy sigh followed, and he wondered if she wished as he did, that they could remain this close forever.

“You need rest and food,” he said, caressing her back.

“There's no time.”

“We'll make time,” he insisted, her welfare his only concern.

“There are many who need me.”

“If you are too tired or take ill, you will do them little good,” he said.

She rubbed her face in his shirt and took a deep breath. “I love the scent of you. It reminds me of woods and earth and fire.” She sighed again. “And you are right. I should eat.”

His only thought for a moment was that she liked the scent of him and he liked the way she snuggled her face into his chest. He almost had to shake his head to clear it and he had to tame his stirring passion. This was about her, not him. “You also need help. There are too many ailing villagers for you to look after.”

“Once I have enough broth and bread made, I can distribute it to the families who have ailing relatives and they can help see to their care.”

“You can take a few moments and eat first.”

She glanced up at him with a smile. “Is that an order, husband?”

He liked being addressed as her husband, and smiled. “No, a concern.”

“A thoughtful husband. I like that.” She patted his chest. “I just need to set the bread to baking and then I can spare a little time to eat, though I would prefer to remain close to Mary.” She turned and looked at the old woman asleep in the bed. “I'm worried about her. She's so frail.”

Artair nodded. “I'll get us some food and we can eat right outside. It's warm and the sun is bright. I'm sure you can use some fresh air.”

Besides, part of him was selfish; he wanted some time with her, even if it was only a short time. He knew she'd be back to healing the sick soon enough, but for now he'd have her to himself.

He sat on a bench just outside the cottage door. When he requested some food for the healer from the villagers, he was given more than he needed, but accepted it with appreciation. These people were grateful for her help and they showed it.

When Zia joined him and quickly dug into the basket of food, he wasn't surprised. “I told you that you were hungry,” he said, laughing.

She nodded, her mouth full.

He didn't interrupt her meal with senseless chatter. He enjoyed sitting in silence watching her take pleasure in every morsel she put in her mouth, and the way she tilted her head back now and again so the sun could kiss her face. She relished her life; whether healing or simply sitting, she found pleasure in it all, and suddenly he wanted some of that enduring passion. He wanted her.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

Her smile and eyes brightened simultaneously. “You really mean that.”

“Why wouldn't I?”

She shook her head slowly, the brightness in her face never fading. “It's just that I could see it your face.” She stretched her hand out, her fingertips grazing along the corner of his eye. “Here. I see the depths of truth here, and it touches my heart.”

He would have kissed her then and there if an anxious woman hadn't interrupted them.

“Another young one has fallen ill,” the plump, tired-eyed woman said, twisting her hands fretfully.

Zia stood and without a word went off with the woman. Just when she almost disappeared from sight, she turned and waved at him. He understood her well enough now to not take it as an afterthought. It pleased him that he had entered her thoughts and that she had acknowledged him.

He wasn't sure about what was happening or certain of the feelings stirring inside him, though he knew that he wanted Zia in his life, and not just as a brief interlude. He sat there for a while thinking that only a few days ago he hadn't even known her, and now thought of her as a permanent part of his life. He most certainly must be foolish.

Foolishly in love
.

He would have laughed if it wasn't so serious. He couldn't possibly believe he was in love with Zia. That he was attracted to her, cared about her, admired her—
yes. But love? That was something else that took more than a few days to determine.

He continued to sit there as the sun wilted in the sky, luscious scents drifted out of the cottage chimneys, villagers meandered to their homes, and evening settled around them. And still…

He continued to think of Zia.

Z
ia rubbed the back of her neck and down along her shoulder. The stiffness would grow worse but it couldn't be helped. There were too many ill people who continued to need her. She worried that if she didn't get the illness under control it would infect the entire village. She had worked endlessly, and prayed that she would soon see good results.

Now and then, when she could, she caught a wink of sleep. In the three days she had been there, she had managed only a few hours. Artair had made certain that she ate, bringing her food when she hadn't even realized she was hungry.

His attentiveness had caught the attention of the village women, and many remarked to her how considerate and patient her husband was. They were right. Artair was patient. He didn't grow angry with her or make demands. He would reason with her and of course he would make sense and she would do as he suggested.

She had realized soon enough what a good man he
was, but it startled her to realize the full depth of his genuine character. And she actually felt a sense of luck that he should be the one to rescue her, though perhaps fate had something to do with that. Or could it have been love that brought Artair to her?

What most fascinated her about him was the way he controlled his passion. It sparked in his eyes now and again, though he never let it flare. And she felt it in his touch, especially when he held her and caressed her back. He was careful where he touched, never going beyond the proper boundaries. She reminded herself that they had only met and she shouldn't expect more And yet?

She smiled and hugged herself. She wanted much more from him. She wanted to taste deep passion, kisses that ignited, touches that demanded. And, eventually, if he proved the right man?

Intimacy
.

She was glad that her healing skills had allowed her to learn about intimacy without actually experiencing it. She'd been forced on many occasions to ask personal questions in order to treat a woman, and often the women provided more than she needed.

So now it was easy to understand why her body heated just at the thought of their naked bodies rolling around in bed together.

It was sheer anticipation.

“Are you feeling all right?'

She turned from the table where she had been mixing crushed leaves to see Artair enter their cot
tage. He hurried toward her and reached out to feel her forehead.

She ducked under his arm after grabbing a handful of leaves off the table, dumping them in the cauldron of water hanging over the flames. “I'm fine.”

He pressed his hand against her forehead as soon as she turned around.

“You are warm,” he said.

She heard the concern in his deep voice, felt it in his tender touch, and her traitorous body flushed with desire for this man who seemed to stir her soul with a simple touch.

She stepped away from him, returning to busy herself at the table. “Of course I am. I've been working too long near the hearth, that's all.”

“Are you sure? Your cheeks are flushed.” He rested the back of his cool hand against her hot cheek.

How could his simple touch stimulate her senses so very much? She wanted to sigh and surrender and beg for a kiss, a touch that would ease the ache inside her. Instead she turned away again and proceeded to mix leaves that were already well-mixed. And to convince herself that she had more important matters that needed her attention. There was no time for this nonsense now.

“I'm a healer,” she said, reminding herself rather than him.

“Healers can fall ill. I do not want that to happen to you.”

“It won't,” she said, and a yawn rushed out of her mouth.

He grabbed her chin. “You will come to bed tonight.”

Her insides tingled from the innocent demand.

“We've been here three days and you have yet to sleep in our bed.”

Our bed
.

Did he have to remind her that they played at being wed? And also remind her how wonderful it had been to sleep in his arms that one night? They fit each other as if made for one another.

“You will sleep in our bed tonight,” he said.

“Will I, now?” she asked, her desire for him sparking frustration.

Instead of arguing, he slipped his arms around her and cuddled her close to him. How could she get annoyed with a man who hugged her rather than fought with her?

“A few hours away from your healing will not hurt anyone. And everyone knows where to find you if you are needed.” He hugged her tighter and rested his cheek next to hers. “Besides, what kind of husband would I appear if I did not try to get my wife into our bed?”

She was grateful for the rap at the open door that drew their attention.

“I'm sorry to bother you,” Clare said, appearing embarrassed that she had disturbed them.

“You're not bothering anyone. Is Andrew all right?” Zia asked, slipping out of Artair's arms.

Clare stepped into the cottage with a smile. “That's why I came. To tell you that he's much better. He wants to eat more than just the broth and the bread.”

Zia clapped her hands together, a sense of relief rushing over her. “That's wonderful, but one more day of bread and broth to make certain, and then he can eat other foods.”

Clare nodded. “I hear old Mary is feeling better as well, and that no one else has turned ill.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I was so afraid—”

Zia hurried to her side and took hold of her hand. “Don't even think about it. Andrew is well and will stay well.”

“Because of you,” Clare said, and hugged Zia. “You truly are a
special
healer.”

“My wife is a
skillful
healer,” Artair corrected.

Zia turned a curious eye on him and was surprised to see concern in his eyes.

After Clare left, she turned to him. “What disturbs you?”

“She called you a special healer. No one else has taken ill. No one has died.”

Zia realized what he was suggesting and was about to argue when she realized that was how her problems had started at Lorne. People began thanking her, praising her, and then accusing her.

“You understand what I'm saying?” he asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“A day or two more is all we should spend here.”

“As long as no one else turns ill,” she said, and stopped his protest with a shake of her head. “I will not leave if I am needed.”

He held up two fingers. “Two days, and if everyone has improved and no one else turns ill, we leave.”

“Agreed,” she said, knowing that if in two days time all looked good, she could depart without worry.

He walked over and took her hand. “I will leave you to your work, but if you are not in our bed tonight, I will come find you and bring you there.”

She had to smile. “That sounds like an interesting prospect.”

“I can heft you over my shoulder and cart you off, if that is what you want.”

“Telling me takes all the passion out of it,” she complained.

“Being carried off like booty from a battle isn't passionate,” he said.

She slipped her hand out of his. “When you put it like that it isn't.”

“Like what?”

“Booty from battle?”

He shook his head. “It expresses it perfectly.”

“Perfectly practical,” she shot back. “Why even bother suggest it?”

“I didn't,” he said. “I simply stated—”

“It wasn't simply. You made it appear as if you'd drag me to your bed.”

“I would never drag you to my bed.”

“Why not?” she asked curtly.

“I prefer you willing,” he chortled.

“And what if I'm not willing to come to bed tonight? What then?”

He leaned in close. “I'll see that you do.”

“How?”

He tapped the tip of her nose. “Don't challenge me.”

She poked him in the chest. “I love a good challenge.”

“You may get more than you bargained for.”

“I can handle it,” she said confidently.

“Why must you always prove your courage?”

His question startled her, and she took offense. “I don't need to prove my courage to anyone.”

“No, you don't, but it appears you need to prove it to yourself.

A call from outside the cottage prevented the reply stuck in her throat. Zia hurried outside to discover that she was needed at old Mary's cottage. After returning to grab her healing basket, she stopped and stared at Artair.

“I'll be waiting for you,” he said.

She nodded and rushed off, running from his question or the answer, she wasn't certain. Or was she running because he was waiting for her? And he would indeed wait, and with patience, damn him.

She tried in vain to keep him from her thoughts and concentrate on her work. Old Mary had developed a rash on her arm, but once she took a look, she knew it
wasn't anything serious and began putting a generous layer of salve on it.

The older woman was recovering nicely, with color highlighting her thin cheeks and her green eyes lively. She might look frail, but Zia could see she was far from it. She had a tenacity about her that couldn't be missed.

“I heard you got yourself a good husband,” Mary said as Zia applied the salve.

“Artair is a good man.”

“How did you find him, or were you just lucky?” Mary winked.

“I believe a little bit of both,” she answered, ready to tell the story she and Artair had concocted, but only if necessary.

“Make sure you hang onto him. A good man is not easy to find,” Mary said, nodding slowly. “I know. I had one, and we had twenty-five wonderful years together. He's been gone five years now and I still miss him terribly.”

“So you had all good times, no fights?”

Mary laughed till her thin body shook. “Good lord, lass, fighting comes right along with marriage. You're going to fight. You need to fight. The trick is not to hold onto the anger. Spit it out and then forget it or it will eat your marriage up, and worse, it will eat you up.”

Zia chatted for awhile, then made to leave when Mary started nodding off.

But before she stood, Mary took hold of her hand
and said, “Love that husband of yours every day. You don't know how long you'll have him.”

Zia didn't know what to think and didn't have time to ponder this advice. She was summoned to several cottages, where people praised her healing skills. Fever lingered in a few, but it remained low, and with vigilance and healing broth she was certain they would recover as well.

She made her rounds of the remaining cottages, and when finally done, realized that night had nearly fallen and Donnan had grown quiet. Standing in the center of the village, she could almost feel the calm that had been restored.

It was what she enjoyed most about healing—restoring hope and peace.

Why do you always have to prove your courage?

Artair's words reminded her that it sometimes took a tremendous amount of courage to enter villages, and even more courage to try and heal, for when she failed, it hurt her heart. Her grandmother had told her that time would teach her how to deal with such loss, but she feared she'd never learn.

What then?

She sighed and shuffled along, going nowhere in particular and not in a hurry to go anywhere.

Not only did she have her healing work to concern her, but she now had a make-believe husband. She thought she would have been married long before now. At twenty and two years, most women were mar
ried several years already, but she had been so involved with her healing work, a husband simply never materialized.

Now she had a good man, but he lacked passion. He was practical about every single solitary thing he did. You couldn't ruffle his feathers. He remained calm and in control even when passion sparked in his eyes.

It was a good quality, so why then did she question it? Why did it bother her?

Zia
.

It sounded as if her name drifted on the warm night air, coming from far away. She looked around and saw no one.

Zia
.

She smiled and knew her grandmother thought of her.

Artair is good for you and you for him.

Her grandmother must have thought she needed reminding. She smiled, realizing that perhaps she did.

“Zia.”

She tilted her head to listen more closely. Had someone actually called out her name?

“Zia.”

She turned, and seeing Artair, smiled. He was such a handsome man, she thought, watching him approach, so confident in his stride, his muscular body so deliciously appealing. Damn, if her body didn't tingle just looking at him.

“Have you come to collect your battle booty?” she teased with a laugh.

He knocked her laughter out of her when he scooped her up, flinging her over his shoulder. “No, I came to sweep you off your feet.”