Under the Highlander's Spell (12 page)

A
rtair hadn't planned on scooping her up and carrying her off, but when he saw her standing alone, and with such a concerned look on her face, he didn't hesitate. He snatched her up, wanting her in his arms where he could heal
her
.

Zia needed someone to look after her. She pushed herself until exhausted and barely ate enough to keep her going.

And yet?

Her zeal for her work kept her going regardless of anything else.

But it was different now. She had him, and he would be more sensible than Zia was. He'd see that she was taken care of, whether she liked it or not.

He had expected her to complain, but she remained quiet after he scooped her up. He wondered if she was just too tired to voice her opinion. He smiled and almost shook his head. Zia would never be too tired to give her opinion.

Yet she hadn't said a word to him since he hefted her over his shoulder.

He entered the cottage and kicked the door shut behind him. Walking straight to the bed, he gently lowered her down onto it.

He rested her head against a pillow and ordered, “Stay.”

She made a move to bolt off the bed, and he pointed a finger at her. “Stay where you are. I'm going to fix you the brew that you favor.”

“Really?” she asked with a tender smile, and leaned back against the pillow.

He fussed with the leaves, hoping he'd watched her enough to know how to prepare the concoction the way she liked it. “How is everyone doing?”

“Much better. Old Mary has improved greatly, and most have no fever. I think the illness is finally under control.”

“That's good to hear,” he replied.

“It's a relief for all concerned,” she said.

He brought the mug to her and after handing it to her, he nudged her legs over so that he could sit down beside her. “Tell me about you.”

She sipped then shrugged. “There's not much to tell.”

He smiled warmly. “I beg to differ. There's more to you than anyone can see. Or should I say, that you
allow
anyone to see.”

“Isn't that true of us all? To an extent, we all keep something of ourselves secret.”

He ran the back of his fingers down her cheek. “I want to know all your secrets.”

“And will you share yours with me?”

“I keep no secrets.”

She laughed. “We all keep secrets. Some large, others small, but they are there, tucked safely away where no one will ever find them.”

Artair smiled sadly, her remark reminding him of an incident when he was young.

“See, you recall one of those tucked away moments,” Zia said. “Tell me.”

“I haven't thought about it in years,” he said, shaking his head. “I suppose I wanted to keep it so safe that I forgot about it until this very moment.”

“Please,” she said, taking hold of his hand. “Share it with me.”

Her hand was warm from the mug, and he watched her slowly lace her fingers with his until their hands were wound together snug and firm, a perfect fit. Would their joining be as perfect?

He chased the lustful thought from his head and returned to the memory she had inadvertently stirred. “I was just a young lad of five and my brother Cavan and I were playing in the woods. He was seven, old and knowledgeable to my young mind.

“Cavan had a wicked imagination and would create a world where we were mighty warriors fighting hordes of all manner of imaginable enemies. Cavan would have us gather fallen branches and use them as weapons. He told me that we must always be prepared. One
day while I was supposed to be gathering branches, I got lost in my own imaginary world and started tracking a hare. Slow and steady the little beast moved, and I inched right along with it, thinking it an enemy I had to keep in my sights.

“I lost track of time while tracking the hare and didn't bother to gather any weapons when I heard Cavan yelling. I ran to him and stared in horror as he tried to fight off a wild dog with what sticks he had. He saw me and called out for me to use my weapons. I had none, and Cavan saw that.”

Artair shook his head. “Cavan continued to battle, and after I finally got my wits about me, I picked up stones and started throwing them at the dog. Together we chased him off. Cavan never asked me why I didn't have any weapons. Instead, he claimed me a brave warrior.

“I did not feel like one. I felt ashamed that I had not followed his orders. I wasn't prepared to help him defend against an enemy.”

“And you never told him that you were tracking a hare instead of gathering weapons,” she said.

“I was too ashamed and I didn't want him to be disappointed in me, so I never told him the truth.”

“But he wasn't disappointed, for you didn't fail him. You came to his aid and used weapons at hand. Your brother spoke the truth when he claimed you were a brave warrior.”

“Perhaps, but as I said, I didn't feel like one, and from that day on I made certain I was always pre
pared.” He looked at her then. “Now it's your turn to tell me a secret.”

Zia sipped at the brew and wrinkled her nose.

“Too many to choose from?” he teased.

“No, I want to share a special secret with you. One I have kept close to my heart.”

He squeezed her hand. “I'd like that, and know that your secret will always be safe with me.”

“I know, or else I would never chance sharing it with you.”

It pleased him that her trust in him was growing stronger. It was a good sign, for trust was important to a marriage, and the more he got to know Zia, the more he realized that she would make him a truly good wife.

Zia began. “There was this place on the hillside I liked to go to pick flowers and just sit and watch the sky. I loved the clouds and the way they would float by in all different shapes. I would talk to them, ask them where they were going and make up answers.

“One day while talking to the clouds, I suddenly got an idea. I asked them if they would go find my father and bring him to me. I told them that I missed him, though I had never met him, and I was sure that he must miss me. I was only five that first time I asked, but I continued asking and only recently stopped.”

She handed the empty mug to him. “That was delicious. Could I have another?”

He took the mug from her and raised their joined hands to gently kiss her fingers. “You never shared this with your grandmother?”

She shook her head. “I think I was afraid she would tell me that it was a useless task, that my father was never returning. And as a young child I didn't want to think that I had a father who not only didn't want me, but didn't love me.”

He felt her ache, her emptiness, and the fear that goes with not knowing where a loved one was or if that loved one was all right. Ronan's disappearance had taken its toll on him and his family, and it was drawing close to two years since he'd been gone. He couldn't imagine what the pain was like for a child who longed to know her father.

“I will help you find him,” Artair said.

“Perhaps someday,” she said with a sad smile.

Artair stood, kissing her fingers one more time before releasing her hand and walking over to the hearth to prepare another mug of tea for her. “Whenever you're ready, you just say the word and I will find him.”

“You sound so confident that you could,” she said, surprised.

“Just as I search tenaciously for my brother, I would search the same for your father.”

“That is generous of you. But why? You barely know me.”

“Barely know you?” he said in feigned surprise. “We just shared intimate secrets no one else knows about us. I'd say that makes us at least best friends.”

Her face lighted with joy. “I'd love to be best friends. You share everything with your best friend.”

He handed her the steaming mug. “I want you to share everything with me, and I will do the same.”

She placed the mug on the chest beside the bed. “Good, then since you're my best friend, I wish to ask a favor.”

“Anything,” he smiled. “Within reason of course.”

She laughed and shook her head. “What if it's not reasonable?”

“I'll consider it but I can't make any promises.”

She bounced off the bed and took his hand. “Come take a swim with me.”

“You need food and rest,” he argued.

“But I want to take a swim.”

“The water will be—”

“Warm and welcoming,” she finished, and tugged him toward the door.

He stopped abruptly, jolting her to a halt. “Early morning would be better.”

She stood staring at him for a moment, then smiled. “I'll go myself.”

She was out the door before he could stop her. He stood for a second, cursing her stubbornness, then went after her. She shouldn't be going off to the river at night by herself. All kinds of danger lurked in the dark.

He had forgotten how swift she was on her feet, and by the time he found her, she had already stripped and entered the water. The partial moon cast a soft glow along the surface of the river, and he watched her swim, her hands and arms skillfully cutting through the water.

She was a vision to behold. Her wet ivory skin glistened in the moonlight and the blond tips of her hair sparkled like stars around her head. She turned, her chest arching as her arms churned in powerful backstrokes, her tight nipples cresting the water just enough to send a flash of heat to his loins.

Join her.

He shot down his wild thought before it could gain momentum. He had no intention of taking advantage of her. She had invited him for a swim, not sex.

Or had she?

Wishful thinking, he told himself. He wanted her, that was a certainty, but he wanted more than just sex from Zia. The more he learned about her, the more interesting and appealing she became, and the more he wanted to know.

She turned again, spotted him and waved for him to join her.

Should he? Was it wise? Could he keep his hands off her?

She bounced along in the river, her persistent wave continuing to urge him to join her.

“Hell,” he muttered, and striped off his clothes.

He hit the water in a run and dove in, coming up not far from Zia. With a few quick strokes he was beside her and speechless. Her wet flesh shimmered like the dew on a blooming white rose and gave her a luscious appeal. His only thought was to touch and taste her.

“Warm and welcoming,” she said.

“What?” he snapped.

“The river is warm and welcoming,” she repeated.

It wasn't the river he wanted to greet him. He stared at the droplets of water that clung to her lips and thought of licking them off one by one. A quick lick with the tip of his tongue and they'd be gone, and he'd want more.

He played it safe and kept his distance.

“It's not wise to swim naked with a man.”

“True enough, but you're a safe man to swim naked with.”

“Why is that?” he asked, not sure if he should be insulted or pleased.

“You're a practical man I can trust, especially when I'm not being sensible.”

“Like now?” he asked, forcing a smile.

“Precisely. I know you will not do anything improper.” She reached out and patted his shoulder. “You're a good man.”

“That I am,
wife
.” His hands shot out and took hold of her waist, dragging her against him.

Their bodies connected with an impact that sent water shooting up between them, and by the time it settled over them, he had his mouth against hers, hot and urgent and looking for more.

She didn't protest. She returned the kiss with even more fervor.

His hands slid up her midriff until they rested
beneath her breasts, and his thumbs began to play against her hard nipples. They felt so good that he had to taste them, and he tore his mouth away as he lifted her up and settled his lips over one nipple at a time.

She dropped her head back with a groan, and it fired his loins to an awful hard ache. He knew if he didn't stop, if he didn't put distance between them, that in the next few minutes he would slip inside her and make her his, and permanently.

Passion had quickly consumed both of them, and he could quickly satisfy it, but he wasn't looking to give Zia a quick romp in the river. He wanted something more with her, something that would last their entire lives and always remain special to them.

He didn't want only sex with her; he wanted love.

He eased her back down into the water, not daring to let her flesh meet his, and pressed his wet cheek to hers. “Another time, another place, and I'll make you mine.”

She wasn't only stunned; he saw disappointment on her face.

“Time to go,” he said.

Surprisingly, she followed him without protest. She didn't utter a word, not when he stepped out of the water before she did or kept his back to her while he dressed, affording her the privacy to do the same.

Silence went home along with them, even into the cottage. He didn't join her in bed until after she had changed into a linen shift and climbed under the light
blanket. With only his plaid on, he climbed in beside her and fitted himself against her back, wrapping his arm around her, his hand resting firmly beneath her breast.

“Rest well, I will be right here,” he whispered, and kissed her cheek.

Z
ia lay awake long after Artair fell asleep. She couldn't get the strange evening out of her mind. Artair had startled her in more ways than one. First, when he swept her off her feet. She was too shocked to protest, but liked that he'd done it. And then she was shocked again when he fixed her favorite brew.

She had assumed that after depositing her on the bed, he intended to kiss her. While she would have invited it, she thought it endearing that he made her favorite brew, and even knew what it was. And made it so perfectly. She wondered if he had practiced.

And then their tryst in the river. She had realized she was tempting fate, actually tempting him beyond reason. She chuckled. She hadn't really expected him to join her, especially after he suggested that she wait until morning. And once he did join her, she wanted much more than it seemed he was willing to give.

She smiled, recalling his words.

Another time, another place, and I'll make you mine.

Just the thought enthralled her, tingles prickling her skin.

And then, when their brief tryst was over, he'd been such a gentleman. He didn't gawk at her, but instead he respected her privacy.

And finally, she recalled how he wrapped himself so lovingly around her when they were in bed, and assured her that he'd remain beside her.

His body continued to warm her and his muscled arms kept her in a protective embrace. Even his steady breathing soothed her while faintly tickling the back of her neck.

It hadn't been two full weeks since she met this man, yet she thought of him as a friend she'd known since she was young. Someone with whom she could safely share secrets, tell her troubles to, laugh with and when necessary cry with.

She wondered how they had bonded so quickly, but then silently laughed the thought away. Her grandmother had told her that Artair was good for her. Why question it? Why not simply wait and see where it led? He would reason over it enough for the both of them; for her part, she would let fate take its course.

It had been an interesting evening, and she could only imagine, with a flutter of anticipation, what the immediate future would bring.

With exhaustion overwhelming her bevy of thoughts, Zia fell asleep with a smile.

 

Their departure was delayed because of a young child whose fever remained constant. Until the fever broke and the child's appetite returned, Zia refused to leave, and Artair remained concerned.

The villagers thought highly of Zia and treated her with respect, and Artair suspected that much of it was because they believed she was his wife. His men had confirmed his suspicions when they shared what village gossip they heard.

James, with Patrick corroborating, told him how the women believed that Zia and he were a good match, and how lucky she was to have a husband who not only allowed her to heal, but was patient while she did. Yes, the women had claimed them an extraordinary pair.

The news concerned him more than pleased him since gossip was more contagious than the pox and could spread with the same speed. He reiterated his order for James and Patrick to remain alert to anyone entering the village.

He worried about keeping Zia safe, especially after last night. She had taken off for the river without even thinking, as if there were nothing for her to worry about. She never gave thought to possible danger. She simply did as she pleased, without considering the possible consequences of her rash actions.

Not that he hadn't enjoyed their night swim, though in truth they hadn't swam much. He grinned at the memory. If he hadn't controlled the situation, Zia would have sealed her fate in becoming his wife. As
much as that would have made it easier for him, he'd realized he wanted more from her, a realization that surprised him.

It was still another reason for getting Zia out of there. He wanted to be with her in normal surroundings so they could determine what it was they wanted and expected from each other.

“Artair!”

He looked up from where he sat on the bench of the cottage he shared with Zia. She had left while he still slept, and with James's hurried steps, he suddenly wished he knew where she was.

Artair stood and matched James's rushed steps. “What's wrong?”

James shook his head. “A messenger from the village of Lorne has arrived.”

“Damn,” Artair said, and ran rough fingers through his hair. “Where is he?”

“He's speaking with the elders of the village in the common shelter.”

He could confront them, Artair thought, or wait to be summoned.

His course of action was decided for him when a young lad rushed over to tell him the elders wanted to see him.

As soon as he entered the large gathering room and saw the dire expressions on the elders' faces, he knew trouble was brewing.

The messenger who had arrived in Donnan from the village of Lorne didn't give anyone a chance to speak.
He swung an accusing finger at Artair. “He's no husband to the witch.”

“My wife
is no witch,” Artair said firmly. “And if you continue to spread such lies, I will cut out your lying tongue.”

The thick-chested man wasn't swayed by the threat. His pointed finger disappeared into a clenched fist, which he shook furiously at Artair. “She has bewitched you. We warned you and you did not listen and now you have condemned us all.”

“What nonsense do you speak?” Artair demanded.

The man lowered his voice, his eyes shifting fearfully. “It is not nonsense. The witch works her magic with her potions and spells.”

“Those potions heal the sick. And what spells? My wife cast no spells.”

“Then why do you claim to be wed to her? Show me proof,” the messenger challenged, though now, at Artair's adamancy, he did show fear, his voice quivering.

It was just what Artair had been afraid would happen. He couldn't help but think that if Zia hadn't been so stubborn, this situation might have been settled without a problem.

Placing his hand on the hilt of his sword, he advanced on the messenger. The man shrank away from him. “You dare call me a lair?” Artair demanded.

“I only wish to protect you from evil,” the man hurried to explain.

“My wife
is not evil. She generously heals the people of this village.”

The messenger spoke up bravely. “She did the same for us and then used her spells and charms to entice the men. If you had let us burn her—”

“The good people of Donnan would be dead,” Artair concluded.

His blunt remark had the elders whispering among themselves.

“Don't listen to him,” the messenger begged. “He is bewitched. She has him doing her bidding and will have all of you doing the same.”

Odran, the oldest of the elders, spoke. “Zia has asked nothing of us.”

The messenger cringed and covered his ears. “Do not say her name. I will not hear it and I will not look upon evil.”

Artair wanted to beat the man senseless, but he knew that would only serve to reinforce the accusations against Zia. He had to show that he remained in control of himself.

“The only evil here is the evil you speak against
my wife
,” he emphasized yet again. “She has tirelessly tended the ill of this village and has healed them.”

“He is right,” Odran agreed.

The messenger's finger shot out again. “She is casting her spell over all of you. You should burn her now before it is too late.”

Once again Artair was incensed. He almost grabbed the man—the blithering idiot—to smash his face in, but stopped himself and spoke with a calm he didn't feel. “You've delivered your message, now leave.”

“I will leave after you show me proof of your marriage,” the man said boldly.

“It would settle the matter,” Odran said.

It certainly would, Artair thought, and silently cursed himself for not insisting that Zia and he wed. But that did him little good now.

“She's tricked him into thinking he wed her,” the messenger accused.

The elders mumbled among themselves, no doubt agreeing that proof was necessary for the protection of their village. And he couldn't blame them.

“Artair!”

The men turned to see Zia, smiling, holding a bouquet of wild flowers in her hand. She looked more angel than evil, her blond strands forming a halo affect over her red hair, her cheeks tinged softly pink.

She rushed over to him, holding out the bouquet. “Look what the women give us to celebrate our one week anniversary.” She looked from one startled man to another. “I'm sorry. It seems I've interrupted a private meeting.”

The messenger raised a quick, outstretched hand to ward her off as he turned his face away. “Don't cast your evil eyes on me, witch.”

The elders ignored the messenger, and Odran said to Zia, “How wonderful for you, and how good of you to come to our village to help after being wed for such a short time.”

“Illness never arrives at an opportune time,” she remarked.

“Proof. Proof. Ask her for proof,” the messenger demanded irritably and with his glance cast to the ground.

Zia slipped her arm around Artair's. “Our marriage papers are with my belongings that were sent on to Artair's home. We saw no reason to carry proof with us.” She cast a blissful glance at Artair. “Anyone who sees us knows we are madly in love and newly wed.” She chuckled. “Did no one see us sneak out of our cottage for a swim last night?”

Odran smiled sheepishly. “Someone mentioned your husband chasing after you.”

Artair joined in her game. “I bet that I'd beat her to the river.”

Zia grinned. “He lost.”

The elders laughed and nodded, recalling youthful follies of their own.

“She lies!” the messenger screamed.

“Enough!” Artair declared with strength that near shook the walls. “Did my wife heal your people?”

“Yes, but—”

“Did anyone die?” Artair asked curtly.

“No, but—”

“Does your village suffer?”

The messenger hesitated, then shook his head. “You don't understand. You are bewitched.”

“I do understand,” Artair confirmed. “You are ungrateful. Leave now. You are not welcome here with your lies.”

The elders agreed with repeated nods.

“You'll be sorry,” the man vowed with a raised fist. “My village has contacted the church council and they will decide her fate.” He hurried to the door, stopped but didn't turn around. “I will make certain a messenger is sent to Caithness to verify your wedding papers.”

He left without looking back.

“We are grateful for your help, Zia,” Odran said, and the others agreed. “We thought for sure that many would die, but your
remarkable
skills have saved us.”

Was that a flash of skepticism he caught in the elder's eyes? Artair wondered. It worried him. All that was needed was a drop of doubt for problems to start, and the messenger had planted more than a drop. They had to leave the village, and soon.

After exchanging niceties with the elders, he and Zia left the common shelter and walked arm in arm to their cottage, their smiles bright while they spoke softly to each other.

“We can't stay here,” Artair said. “Please tell me the child is well enough for you to leave.”

“Her fever broke and no doubt will not return. The worst of this is over.” She kept her grin steady, aware that they were being observed. “Do you think the messenger will return with others for me?”

“I doubt he's given up. I wouldn't be surprised if he lurks in the woods waiting to talk to each of the elders alone and convince them of your magical powers.”

He laughed joyously as if they had just shared a funny tale, slipped his hands around her waist to swing her up in the air and bring her back down for a kiss.

“We need to wed before we reach my home,” he murmured as he set her feet back on the ground.

 

Zia said nothing until the cottage door closed behind them. “You can't mean to wed a witch.”

He cringed. “Be careful what you claim.”

“There are those who will believe I am, and once the church sends someone to investigate—” She shivered and dropped the bouquet on the table. “I could understand being accused of witchcraft if I made people suffer, but they accuse me because I make people well.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense. A true healer would never intentionally hurt anyone.”

She pushed past Artair when he tried to embrace her, angry that she needed to defend her skills. “There's no magic to my potions.”

“To the less knowledgeable, it appears magic,” he said, and reached out to tug her into his arms. “But they have not seen what I have.”

“And what is that?” she asked, her anger melting away as his powerful hands kneaded her arms.

“All the hard work you do in preparation of tending the ill. Your healing basket doesn't miraculously fill itself. Your potions don't magically mix. Your healing plants don't grow without care. Your knowledge doesn't expand without study. You don't make a remarkable healer by casting a spell. You work for it.”

Zia was stunned by his words. He had noticed how much work it took to be a good healer, and he praised rather than criticized.

“I like watching you work,” he said. “You have a caring touch and soothing words to offer the ill, and you do it with patience.”

She melted into his embrace. “You do know I don't always have patience.”

“Really?” He looked startled, then laughed.

She poked him in the chest. “I have patience when necessary.”

“So I've noticed.”

“What else have you noticed?” she asked.

“That you don't always see reason, which is why you need me.”

She sighed dramatically. “How have I ever managed without you?”

He rolled his eyes upward and shook his head. “Heaven only knows.” He kissed her quick. “But you needn't worry any longer. I will look after you.”