Under the Highlander's Spell (4 page)

“W
hat was that you said?” Artair asked. He stood beside his horse at the mouth of two mountains that looked almost as if they touched, though on closer inspection a trail that separated the two could be spied past the dense foliage.

“Your men will have to wait here,” Zia repeated.

“Why?”

“They have no business in our village. Only those who have a reason for being there are allowed entrance.”

Artair offered a sensible reason. “They are with me.”

“But
only you
have business there.”

He knew it wouldn't sit well with his men for him to continue on without them, and he felt the same. They watched each others' backs; in a sense, they were one.

“We are family, of the same clan. It is all our business,” Artair said, confident he had settled the dilemma. His men nodded and smiled, showing the same confidence.

Zia smiled graciously and shook her head. “Your men stay here and you go on with me, or I go on alone and you all take your leave.”

“Who's going to stop us from following?” James asked boldly.

“The sentinels that surround you,” Zia answered calmly, and began walking toward the mouth of the two mountains.

Artair remained as he was, but his men placed heavy hands on the hilts of their swords and their eyes went immediately to the trees. Zia didn't break her stride, and Artair realized the choice was no longer his. He had to follow her and his traitorous dog.

“Make camp here—”

“You can't mean—”

Artair cut off James's protest. “If this is the only way to see if my brother is in the village, then so be it. Make camp and remain alert. I will remain in touch. If you do not hear from me each day then know that something is amiss. John, you return to Caithness and advise Cavan of our whereabouts and circumstances, tell him to take no action until he hears from me.”

John scratched his head. “I'm not sure if I can find my way back.”

Zia, though a good distance away, stopped and turned. “I will have one of our men take you.”

“You have exceptional hearing,” Artair said.

Her lovely face brightened and soft laughter spilled from her rosy lips. “Most people hear only what they
want to hear, while I want to hear everything. Do you wish John to leave now?”

“I want him set to leave as soon as I have news of Ronan,” Artair said.

She nodded, searched the treetops and gave a wave. Suddenly, a young lanky man with bow and arrow dropped to the ground. “Terrance, please wait here with these men and as soon as word is received, escort John to the main road.”

“How will I find my way back?” John asked.

“Someone will see you when you return along the main road and direct you here,” Zia said.

Artair admired the way she seemed to have a solution to most situations. He prided himself on having the same ability and thought that perhaps she was more practical than she appeared.

With everything settled, he followed Zia through the pass, his horse following behind him. It was a narrow passage, the entrance easily missed by the visible eye. A few feet ahead the mountain pass ended and they were greeted by a dense forest of trees, or at least he thought it was.

A short distance into the forest a path led them directly to the village. He spied it just up ahead and he felt a sense of exhilaration mixed with fear. Shortly, the long, exhausting search for his brother could be over. He didn't want to count on it, though. Too many times he had been disappointed following leads and information that proved false.

He knew he had taken a chance freeing Zia, for she
could have lied to gain her freedom, but it was a chance he was willing to take, had to take. Even if it proved false, he needed to know if his brother was there or had ever been there.

The village Black welcomed them with open arms. Smiles shined on everyone's faces, fields and gardens bloomed abundantly and everyone seemed generous with health.

There was no keep; rather, cottages dotted the landscape, though there looked to be a large communal lodge at the far end of the village. He followed Zia to a good-sized cottage that appeared partially tucked in the edge of the woods.

“Is this where my brother is?” he asked.

“This is where I left him,” Zia said, and smiled. “It's my grandmother's home.”

Her smile offered encouragement. Here, he knew, his brother would have found solace. It was a place of peace and healing. He could feel it, strange as it seemed, knew it deep inside.

The door swung open and a tall, slim woman with long, pure white hair that hung in a braid over her chest and fell to her waist greeted them with a huge smile and arms spread wide.

Zia rushed into them. “Grandmother,” she cried, hugging the woman tightly.

Artair observed them. Zia's grandmother appeared ageless. Few lines and wrinkles graced her lovely face, but not enough to determine age. It was as if each glance offered a different observation and by the time
glances were done one could only assume the woman defied aging.

“Welcome to village Black, Artair,” she said with an offered hand.

Had Zia informed her of his name? He didn't recall hearing her say it, but then, enthralled with the woman's presence, perhaps he hadn't heard.

He reached out and accepted her welcome. “Thank you for having me to your village.”

“Bethane,” she said, her smile growing. “My name is Bethane, and you are most welcome here. Come. You most be parched and hungry from your travels.”

“Stay, Nessie,” Artair ordered, but the dog ignored him and followed Bethane into the cottage. “Nessie!”

Bethane turned. “She's welcome in my home.”

Artair entered the cottage behind his dog and Zia, thinking Nessie definitely needed a firmer hand. He was amazed at the size, the room being large with beautifully crafted furnishings and pottery that were certainly crafted with a skilled hand.

He gave Nessie a reproachful glare, but the dog just parked herself beside Bethane and ignored him.

“Please sit,” Bethane said, extending her hand to a chair at the table in front of the hearth.

Artair remained standing, wanting to see his brother. “Zia says my brother Ronan is here?”

“He has left the village,” Bethane answered gently, and once again offered him a seat. This time he did.

Zia was busy filling a pitcher with a brew from the
caldron that hung over the flames when her grandmother said, with concern, “He was too ill to travel.”

Artair looked to Bethane along with Zia. “Why did he leave?'

“I do not know. He was gone when I woke one morning.”

Artair felt the familiar punch of disappointment to his gut. He had hoped beyond reason that this time would be different, but in truth he wasn't surprised that it hadn't. It seemed too easy that he should enter a village and simply find his brother there.

“I am sorry,” Zia said.

Her apology was sincere. It was obvious she had expected to find Ronan there, which brought him some relief. She hadn't lied to him.

“When I left, he needed more time to recover,” Zia added.

Artair could see worry written on her face as she occasionally gnawed at her plump lower lip. She obviously had reservations over Ronan's departure.

“I agree, but something continued to trouble him. I can only assume that was the reason for his departure,” Bethane said with her eyes on Artair.

“He must have been well enough to leave, if he walked out on his own accord,” Artair said and knew his brother well enough to know it was the truth.

“He was healing nicely,” Bethane said. “He was eating well, resting and growing stronger each day. He had improved greatly from when he first arrived.”

Zia sighed. “I feel better knowing that.”

Bethane placed a comforting hand on Artair's arm. “I only wish I knew where he went. I can imagine how disappointing this is for you.”

“I had hoped,” Artair said, and was suddenly struck by the resemblance between Bethane and Zia, elegant lines and angles with softness in every tender curve of their faces. It was as if the same craftsman carved them from the same stone, and Artair realized he was seeing for himself how beautifully Zia would age.

Zia placed filled mugs and sweet bread with bramble jelly on the table. “I would have made him stay here until he was well enough to leave.”

Bethane chuckled. “And for you, he probably would have stayed.”

Artair bristled. “He found you appealing?”

Zia looked affronted. “I was his healer.”

Bethane smiled. “Most men find my granddaughter appealing. I believe it's her passion for life that attracts them, though her exuberance could eventually wear a man down. It will take a special man to love her.”

“It is who I am,” Zia said without apology, and plopped in a chair opposite her grandmother, leaving Artair at the head of the table.

Who was she? Artair could not say he truly knew her, though one day had given him a good indication of her nature, and left him wishing to learn more about her. How, though? How did he learn more? His brother wasn't here. He had no reason to stay, yet didn't want
to leave. Besides, there could possibly be others in the village who might have seen something that would help him track Ronan.

“Would you mind if I remained here for a few days and talked to the villagers? You never know what they may have seen or heard.”

Bethane placed a slice of bread on his plate and a heaping of bramble jelly. “We would be honored to have your company, Artair. Remain as long as you like.”

He caught the way Zia scrunched her brow. She obviously wondered over her grandmother's invitation. Was there more to it? The only way he could find out was if he remained and snooped around.

“Zia, you have an extra room in your cottage. Artair could stay with you,” Bethane suggested.

Artair raised a brow. “Would that be proper?”

“Do you intend any improprieties with my granddaughter?”

“Absolutely not,” he said adamantly.

“Then what's the point of him staying with me?” Zia asked, disappointed.

Artair stared at her, confounded.

Zia burst out laughing, as did Bethane.

“Your word is good enough here,” Bethane said between laughter.

“You are welcome at my cottage,” Zia said, her face bright and her words honest.

“You trust me, a stranger?” he asked with a thump to his chest.

“I don't consider you a stranger,” Zia said.

He was surprised, and spoke his thoughts. “We've known each other barely a day, and how can I trust you when I rescued you from being burned at the stake for being a witch?”

Bethane gasped. “You were tied to a stake?”

“Only for a short time, Grandmother,” Zia said, and sent Artair a scalding look.

Artair felt a stab of guilt. He hadn't meant to upset or worry Bethane, but he intended to view the situation reasonably and sensibility would show that he had taken a huge risk in taking a chance with her.

“With your intentions to remain for a while, we should be able to get to know each other better,” Zia challenged. “Then you can determine for yourself if I am a witch.”

“A reasonable offer,” Bethane declared. “Now with that settled let me tell you about your brother.”

Artair gave her his immediate attention wanting to hear all she had to say, but his mind lingered on Zia, the way she quirked the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes danced with joy, the soothing tinkle of her laughter and her generous smile when she found something amusing or pleasing, which was often.

“He fought against his pain, all his pain,” Bethane said. “I would hear him whispering to himself to stay strong, fight, not give up. And he would laugh when he spoke of his brothers, telling me stories of when he was young and how Cavan—I believe he told me that Cavan was his oldest brother?”

Artair nodded, the knot in his throat preventing him from responding.

Bethane continued. “He claimed Cavan always protected him from his other brothers or his own stupidity, or as I advised his youthful innocence.”

“Cavan did that,” Artair said with fond memory. “He always protected Ronan, always kept him safe from harm.”

“I believe Ronan felt obliged to return the favor,” Zia added. “He wanted so badly to heal. He was determined to regain his strength and…”

When she didn't finish, Artair asked, “And?”

Zia's smile faded and she seemed reluctant to continue, but she did. “He wanted to rescue Cavan and seek revenge against those who had caused him and his brother such pain, such grief. He was as determined to seek revenge as he was determined to heal.”

Bethane nodded. “That surely was the way of it.”

Artair raised a proud chin. “Then he truly is a Sinclare.”

“Revenge serves no purpose,” Bethane warned.

“I beg to differ,” Artair said strongly.

“As a warrior, I would expect no different,” Bethane said.

Artair didn't care for the way she spoke to him as if he were a child needing guidance. “Warriors are necessary.”

“I won't argue that,” Bethane said. “I respect warriors and the need for them, but revenge?” She shook her head. “That can only bring more sorrow and regret
than is necessary.” She stood, tall and regal, like a queen who had finished speaking to her subjects. “Zia, show Artair to your cottage, and Artair, feel free to speak to anyone in the village. We will all help you as much as possible. I must take my leave now. Bless you, my son.”

Artair stood as she walked out of the cottage with poise and dignity. She was a gracious woman, and Artair believed an intelligent one. He looked forward to future discussions. It took him a moment to realize that Nessie had followed her, and he called out for the dog.

“My grandmother is wise. You should listen to her,” Zia said, then grinned. “You've lost Nessie to her.”