Under the Highlander's Spell (19 page)

Perhaps there was something she could learn from him? Or could Addie be right? Could she and Artair be more alike than she thought?

The possibility intrigued her but didn't have time to gain substance since she was soon busy tending a wounded warrior who had developed a fever. A mere glance at the man told her that her hoped-for time with Artair might not materialize.

She looked to Artair with disappointment.

He smiled softly and rolled up his sleeves. “Tell me what to do to help.”

A
rtair and Zia stumbled into the room together, exhausted but charged with passion. It had happened innocently enough, with a brief kiss on their walk to the keep. It sparked a passion that they could not ignore, nor did they want to. Soon their steps were hurried, their hands reached out to touch, and they were kissing, their lips simply not wishing to part.

Clothes were nearly ripped off as they tumbled on the bed. Their need was too great to linger in play. Their passion-charged bodies immediately joined in a frenzied union. It was as if he couldn't drive deep enough inside her, or that she couldn't have him deep enough inside her. It was almost as if they wished to blend as one losing themselves in each other until there was no difference between them.

Their naked bodies were soon drenched with sweat, their breathing more labored than ever before and still they would not relinquish the connection between them that spiraled on forever.

They were one. With each forceful climax Zia grew closer and more deeply in love with Artair and though he never voiced the same, she felt it, for certainly love could be the only driving force that could bring them to the brink of insanity and make it feel so right.

They lay side by side in the aftermath of their lovemaking, their bodies drenched in sweat and their breathing barely controllable. Their fingertips touched as if they refused to relinquish the connection that had made them feel so utterly whole, so beautifully complete.

Zia wished to express how she felt but could not find the strength or breath to do so, and while she sensed he felt the same, he also remained silent.

She suddenly felt like crying. How could this matter ever be settled between them when she would cry out her love for him in front of the whole village, and he would wait for a reasonable time to admit his own feelings?

Her disturbing thought did not distance her from him, far be it. It made her grasp hold of his hand locking her fingers with his as if letting him know she had no intentions of ever letting him go.

His grasp was just as tight, letting her know the same.

The problem was where did they go from here?

 

Zia sat at the table before the burning hearth in the great hall alone. She had woken before dawn, her thoughts much too chaotic to return to sleep. She had slipped quietly out of bed, dressed and made her way to
the hall, though stopped in the kitchen first. The cook was surprised to see her and only too glad to prepare whatever she wanted.

Zia only wanted to fix herself a soothing brew, but surrendered to the cook's insistence that she needed hardy fare to help her face the day. Though the food was excellent, she had little taste for it.

“Troubled thoughts?”

Zia jumped, startled, so lost in her thoughts that she hadn't heard anyone approach. She smiled, seeing it was Addie, and was glad for her company.

“Confused thoughts,” Zia admitted.

Addie sat, Champion taking up his usual stance beside her, patiently waiting for any food either woman would give him.

“Tell me,” Addie offered, pouring herself a hot brew and refreshing Zia's.

“I love your son,” she said without hesitation or doubt and so relieved to have admitted it to someone.

“I had no doubt of that, but you had?”

She had to be careful with what she said, though she preferred otherwise. “We are different, and I thought those differences would create a problem.”

“Only if you let it, and besides—” Addie laughed. “As I expressed to you once before, you and Artair are not all that different.”

“But he is so practical.”

“So are you.”

“I am not,” Zia said.

“You tend the ill with an unwavering responsibility.”

“Responsibility is far different from practicality.”

“Is it?” Addie asked, though didn't allow her to answer. “Artair places his family and responsibility before all else. You place your healing before all else. What difference is there? You both are being practical in your approach and intentions. The two of you are more alike than you know.”

Zia let her words soak in.

“And while Artair may be more reasonable than most; he is also more passionate than most, for it is his passion that drives him to place others before himself. The story of how you met proves this—he rode into the middle of a village crazed with burning a witch and rescued you. That takes a passion of courage not many possess.”

Zia remained silent, soaking in every word.

“Passion, courage, sensibility come in all different guises, and those with clear vision can see each for its own truthful worth and judge wisely.”

Zia smiled. “You sound like my grandmother; she's a wise woman.”

“Age usually brings wisdom, though it is often learned through difficulties,” Addie said sadly.

“You miss your husband.”

Tears trickled down Addie's flushed cheeks. “I miss him terribly. There isn't an hour that goes by that he isn't in my thoughts. But the worst part is my empty bed.”

Champion woofed as if to let her know she had him, and she gave his neck a rub. “I hate going to bed alone
and I hate waking up alone. My heart aches every day, and while many tell me it will get better, it hasn't. I miss my husband.”

Words failed Zia. She could only reach out and take hold of Addie's hand and offer what little comfort she could. She couldn't imagine nor did she want to imagine her bed without Artair in it. His loving arms sheltered her, protected her, loved her, and she would not want to live without him.

“I am so sorry,” Zia whispered, needing to say something.

“So am I,” Addie said, her tears continuing to trickle, though she took a steadying breath. “That's why you must wrap my son in your zest for life every day and share it with him as he does with you. Don't question it, just do it and love will be forever yours.”

“Shall I leave you to your women talk?” Artair asked as he approached.

Zia jumped up, startling Champion to bark, and rushed to fling herself into Artair's arms.

“I love you,” she said, and kissed him soundly.

He looked at her, startled, and she looked at him the same way. Had she really just shouted her love aloud for him?

But what did it matter? It was the truth.

“Like none of us knew that?” Lachlan asked teasingly as he passed the embracing couple to join his mother at the table.

Zia could see a flood of emotions wash across Artair's face, but he remained stoic, and she wished—
oh how she wished—that just for a moment he would shout out his love for her as she had for him. But that was not his way; only when it was right for him would he admit his love.

“Come,” she said, tugging his arm. “There's honey bread with extra honey. Cook made it special for me and I shall share it with you.”

He smiled and caught hold of her hand. “How lucky am I.”

“I'd say luckier than you know,” Lachlan called out.

“I agree,” Artair said, smiling at Zia.

They joined Addie and Lachlan at the table, and soon Cavan and Honora joined them, everyone pleased that Honora was feeling better.

“I'm going to spend the morning stitching. I have several garments I wish to have ready for the babe,” Honora said with a gentle smile at Zia.

Cavan kissed his wife's cheek. “I will keep you company if you like.”

Honora laughed. “Don't be silly. You have work to do.”

“I will look after her,” Addie assured.

“And I would love to see the garments you stitch for the babe,” Zia said, letting her know she would check on her.

“Could it be that you're ready to start stitching your own baby's garments?” Lachlan asked with a laugh.

“Could it be that you're jealous?” Zia asked. “Wanting a wife, but having none?”

Everyone laughed and joined in teasing Lachlan.

“Enough,” he finally said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I will find a wife when I'm ready for one.”

“You'll never be ready,” Artair teased. “Cavan should find one for you.”

“Do not even suggest that,” Lachlan said.

“I have had inquiries,” Cavan said.

“Not ready,” Lachlan said, shaking his head.

Cavan grinned. “A couple look promising.”

Lachlan kept shaking his head. “Don't tempt me.”

“I think I should have a look at them,” Honora said in a serious tone.

“No!” Lachlan yelled. “She'll have me wed before I have a chance to protest.”

Honora laughed. “Perhaps, but I would find you a wife who would suit you.”

Lachlan sighed with relief. “Then when the time comes, I will seek your help.”

Zia wanted to linger and enjoy this time with her newfound family, but she had much to do.

She stood. “I must go. I wish to see James before I start the day.”

“I'll go with you. I'd like to visit with him,” Artair said.

“Later,” Cavan said. “I need to talk with you.”

Zia planted a gentle kiss on Artair's cheek. She knew a command from a laird when she heard one, and she wondered over it as she took her leave.

 

Cavan, Artair, and Lachlan retreated to the solar.

“Is something wrong?” Artair asked as soon as the door was closed.

“Lachlan has heard news about the village Black,” Cavan said, and nodded to Lachlan.

“It seems that the village Black harbors barbarians,” Lachlan said.

Artair nodded. “I know. I watched as Zia and her grandmother worked to help heal one while I was there.”

“And you didn't protest?” Lachlan accused.

“I made my objection known, but it's their village, their rules. I was a guest, and one who sought answers about his brother. If I made demands, where would it have gotten me?”

“Artair is right,” Cavan said. “We cannot stop them from sheltering or healing barbarians, but it does raise a question that has yet to be answered.”

Artair nodded. “Who brought Ronan to the village Black.”

“You never found the answer?” Lachlan asked anxiously.

“A friend, was all that I was told, though I got the impression that they knew the person well.”

“I think it's time to speak with Zia about the barbarians in her village, and about Ronan,” Cavan said. “You agree?” he asked Artair.

“I find Zia to be an honest woman, and anything she knows, I am certain she will share with us.”

“Then see when your wife has free time today to talk with us,” Cavan said, though it was more an order.

Artair nodded and left the solar in search of Zia. He had planned to discuss Ronan with her, but at the moment was more interested in her unexpected and outspoken declaration of love that morning. It shocked him, and while he certainly felt the same, he felt unsure about what to do.

He wanted nothing more than to steal her away in order to discuss her outburst with her, to see if it had been real or if she simply wanted to add credence to their ruse of being married.

Now, however, he had this added problem his brother wanted addressed immediately, and he couldn't blame Cavan. He had never truly known how Ronan managed to get to the village Black, and it seemed odd that he should just disappear. The healers there—especially Bethane—knew what was going on at all times. He had a feeling there was more to his brother's arrival and departure than he'd been told.

Artair walked without focus, his mind much too jumbled to pay attention.

“What's wrong?”

Artair jumped at the sudden forceful query and was relieved to see Zia a few feet in front of him, hands on her hips, hair falling in sparse curls around her face.

Damn, but she was beautiful.

“Answer me,” she said, having walked up to him to poke him in the chest.

“Is that the way you greet your husband?”

“When he looks upset it is. Now what's wrong?”

“When you have time, Cavan wishes to speak with you.”

“About?” she asked.

“Ronan and barbarians at the village Black.”

“Ronan, I will discuss with him. Who I heal at my village is none of his business. He is not my laird.”

Artair nodded. “Actually, you being my wife makes him your laird.”

Zia spoke low so no one would hear. “I'm not your wife and even if I was, the village Black is none of his concern.”

Artair could see that this wasn't going to be easy, yet the matter had to be addressed. He had let it go far too long without forcing a discussion. Not that he believed she was hiding any great revelations from him; he didn't. In time he would get his answers, and in the meantime he changed the subject.

“Do you really love me?”

Her eyes rounded in shock.

“You claimed to love me this morning. Did you speak the truth?” he asked and felt his breath catch while he waited for her to answer.

She began to walk toward her cottage, toying with the shawl's knot as she did.

He kept pace beside her, then followed her inside, closing the door behind him and waited as she added another log to the fire and lit several candles around the room. He had hoped for an immediate answer but could understand her reluctance, for he felt it himself.

She turned suddenly to face him. “I will tell you the truth, but I do not want you to feel obligated to reciprocate. I know you think differently than I do and—”

“Tell me,” he demanded, more sharply than he'd intended.

“Yes, I love you,” she snapped, “though I would have much preferred to admit it with a less biting tongue.”

He smiled and went to approach her, but she raised her hand.

“Don't,” she warned softly. “Let me say what I must.”

He nodded and remained where he was, though he wanted to scoop her up in his arms and shout out his love for her.

“Strangely enough, it was your mother who made me realize your true nature, and I admit you have more passion than I'd thought.”