Under the Highlander's Spell (5 page)

“We'll see about the dog, the advice I might take.”

As they walked out of the cottage his eyes settled over Zia and the seductive sway of her hips. He realized as he watched her that it wasn't intentional or meant to entice. She simply possessed a unique rhythm, one that fit her body comfortably, the provocative sway as catchy as a repetitive tune.

“K
eep your eyes on the path,” Zia warned, and heard Artair stumble behind her. She turned as he easily righted himself. “There are some twist and turns in our village. I don't want you getting lost.”

He nodded, and she heard him keep pace as they continued on.

She felt terrible about his brother having left before he arrived. She hadn't expected him to be gone, and she didn't believe he had been well enough to leave. What then had happened? She supposed revenge could fuel the body, but like her grandmother, she would not have advised it. Revenge never allowed for full healing.

She was glad Artair decided to remain for a while longer. She had hoped he would. It would not only do him good to be here, to cease his hunt for his brother, if only briefly, but give her time to get to know him better. She found him appealing in so many different ways, and she wanted to know why. He was handsome and intelligent, but that wasn't the whole of him and she wanted to know the whole of him.

Zia stopped before a quaint cottage, neither small nor large and with a front flower and herb garden that bloomed profusely. “My home,” she said proudly, stepping aside for him to precede her down a pebbled path to the weathered, arched front door.

He hesitated, and she was pleased to see him break into a broad smile after taking his time to view the place.

“It's lovely and it fits you perfectly.”

“Another compliment,” she sighed. “I will certainly miss them when you leave us.”

His smile faltered briefly though he reclaimed it as easily as he had his stumbled steps. She wondered over his strange reaction and her own sudden apprehension over his inevitable departure, for she didn't want to think of when he would leave. She enjoyed his company and certainly his compliments pleased her, but how odd? She knew him only a day, though it felt much longer.

Once inside, Zia showed him where he would stay. “It's a small room but adequate for your needs, a soft bed with fresh linens and a chest if you wish to store any of your things.”

Artair looked it over, his glance going from the small room to her bed and the slim curtain that separated the two rooms.

She smiled and settled his unspoken query. “The room is used for someone who needs constant care.”

“Will you care for me?”

His question didn't surprise her as much as the seri
ousness of his tone. He sounded as if he actually meant it rather than that he simply teased her.

She thought to tell him that if ever he needed caring, she would tend him, but instead she simply answered, “Yes.”

“I am pleased to know that,” he said.

His gentle smile sent quivers through her, while making him appear all the more handsome. It was hard not to stare at him, drink in his beauty and melt in his dark eyes. She wondered if Artair knew how he affected women. She had seen it for herself from when he first rode into the village and saved her.

Even amidst the chaos, there wasn't a woman who could keep her eyes off him. Even here in her own village she had seen the way the women's eyes followed him, though she knew the women here simply appreciated his handsome features, since most were in happy unions.

So far from what she knew of him he didn't seem enthralled with himself, but rather a warrior of fine standing and a man determined to find his brother.

“You will want to give John a message to take to your brother,” she said. “Then if you like, I will show you around the village.”

He nodded. “Thank you, but I am not keeping you from your duties, am I?”

“Not at the moment.”

“Then I would be pleased to have you show me around.”

Zia took a few moments for herself while Artair
went to deliver his message to John and see him safely on his way. She quickly freshened herself in the stream behind her cottage and slipped into clean clothes, a lovely buttery colored skirt and pale yellow blouse, sandals, the strips adorned with smooth pebbles, graced her feet. And she could do nothing with her short hair but run her fingers through it and let it have its way.

She finished with a quick dab of rose water around her neck, in the crevices of her arms and around her wrist. She sighed once done, feeling her old self.

A gentle knock had her swinging the door open and once again she found herself catching her breath at the sight of Artair. But she didn't admonish herself, she told herself to enjoy every palpitation and flutter. It was the way of things, the way of life, and she loved every minute of living it.

“You are beautiful,” he said.

His remark was said so simply and yet so profoundly, her joy soared. Stepping out of the cottage, she wrapped her arm around his, moved in close beside him and said, “I will never tire of your compliments.”

They walked off, Zia taking delight in showing him the village while inwardly more focused on the sensation of his muscled arm and the feel of his taut thigh when she accidentally brushed against him. He exuded strength, she could feel it, and it tingled her flesh.

They lingered by a weathered fence, beyond which grew an abundance of crops.

“Your village thrives considerably,” he said. “And in everything I have seen.”

“We all work together to see that it does.”

“Then you all work very hard, yet none of you seem to struggle. I am impressed,” he said. “It seems that you and your grandmother keep everyone and everything healthy.”

“We all do our share,” she insisted, not willing to take the credit when it belonged to all in the village.

A bell rang out.

“I am needed. Feel free to wander about,” she said, and with urgency took off.

Artair had seen enough to know the village Black possessed a powerful pride in their land and themselves. A common goal always united people, and these people obviously shared a common goal.

However, he was curious how the village Black came into existence. It wasn't a place you would stumble upon. Unless you knew precisely where it was, one would never find it, which could explain why the people lived in peace. No one knew it was there, and with sentinels posted and the undetectable entrance, discovery, much less attack, was unlikely.

He meandered through the village and was frequently offered a hot brew or something to eat or simply a moment of conversation. All knew who he was and all offered their hope that he would be reunited with his brother soon. And all spoke of Ronan as if they knew him personally.

“Fine lad.”

“A strong one.”

“Determined.”

“Good to talk with.”

“Brave.”

He stopped after a while and settled under a large tree, resting against its thick, aged trunk, to think about his brother. They spoke of Ronan far differently than he had expected. He didn't doubt his brother's strength, but Ronan was the youngest, the one he himself and his brothers always looked out for, the one who always listened to their every command. To the villagers, however, he was a strong, independent man, and one with whom it was easy to talk.

This was a new Ronan to him, or perhaps he had just never noticed those aspects of his brother.

His attention caught by a flurry of activity around Bethane's cottage, he decided to see what was going on and if he could be of assistance. After all, the villagers had been gracious to him right from the start, and it was only right that he return their kindness.

A young woman hurried past him, and he quickly asked, “What's wrong?”

“An injured warrior has been brought in,” she said, and hurried off.

Artair didn't think the village had warriors—sentinels, yes, but no full-fledged warriors. So where had this one come from? Curiosity and his warrior instincts had him headed straight for Bethane's place.

He noticed people coming and going from around the side of the cottage, so that's where he went. It ap
peared as if a small cottage had been attached to Bethane's, and he assumed it was for the purpose of tending the ill.

He entered and was startled by what he saw, though he didn't show it. On a long, narrow table, draped with a white linen sheet soaked with blood, lay a barely recognizable man.

Zia and Bethane worked frantically on him, their arms and the linen aprons they wore to protect their clothes covered in blood.

The man didn't move, didn't make a sound, and Artair knew it was better that way, for if he was conscious, he'd be screaming in pain. He turned around to leave the healers to their work when he caught sight of the man's garments heaped in a bundle on the floor. Common sense had him rushing to the table.

“This man is a barbarian.”

“This man is injured,” Zia said firmly.

“He's a
barbarian
,” Artair emphasized, thinking they hadn't heard him clearly.

“It matters not who he is,” Bethane said. “He is a man in need of healing, and we are healers.”

“His kind does not honor life; they take it without thought or caring.”

“Perhaps, but we are not barbarians and we do not live by their creed,” Bethane said calmly. “Now please, we need no more distraction. We can speak of this later if you wish.”

She was dismissing him, though not his protest, and
for a moment he simply stood there astounded, then he quickly turned and walked away.

Barbarians had been his enemy for as long as he could remember. They descended on villages like vultures, leaving nothing alive in their wake. The only way to combat them was to do away with them, and here he was waiting while Zia was trying to save a barbarian's life. How did he make sense of it? Could he? Did he want to? What choice did he have? He sat amidst a healing village. He had to try and understand.

He remained where he was, Nessie having joined him, until shadows slipped across him and he realized several hours had passed and it had grown quiet around Bethane's cottage. He was about to get up to see how the barbarian was doing when Zia walked out.

She was minus her apron and stood rolling her head and then squared her shoulders as if stretching out her aches. She spotted him, waved and walked to join him beneath the tree.

“How is he?” Artair asked, anxious to know.

“He's alive, but it's questionable that he will live through the night.”

He wanted to ask why she had even bothered to try and save the barbarian, but he knew she had fought a valiant fight, and thus he couldn't simply dismiss it as senseless. He had to respect her position as a healer, for she had fought as valiantly to save his brother. That was the realization his solitary time had brought him. Zia was a healer and would heal whoever needed it. It was her way.

He knew she was weary, but there were questions he needed to ask. Questions he had failed to ask at the start. “Precisely, how bad was my brother when he was brought here? And how did he find his way here?”

She surprised him when she asked, “Would you find me too bold if I rested my head on your shoulder? I am quite weary, and if you recall, I have already pillowed my head on your chest.”

He did recall how after he had rescued her, while on his horse, she had rested her head to his chest but he had thought nothing of it, merely her need to feel protected after a frightening ordeal.

This, however, was different, and he liked the thought that she would seek his shoulder to rest upon.

“It would be my pleasure,” he said.

She smiled, rested against his side and dropped her head to his shoulder with a sigh. “Your brother suffered a severe wound to his shoulder, his leg, and he had several damaged ribs. His face had been badly beaten. A friend of our village brought him here.”

“A friend?”

“A friend to us is anyone who knows and respects this as a place of healing.”

“How would one know that?” he asked.

“They are informed.”

“How so?”

She yawned and moved her head from his shoulder to his chest. “By people who trust.”

He slipped his arm around her, liking the feel of her body against his. “You avoid a direct answer.”

“Not true.”

“Don't trust me?” he asked, giving her arm a rub and catching the soft hint of roses drifting off her.

“Actually, I do. Though I don't know you long, you have demonstrated your trustworthiness. You didn't anger when you learned of the sentinels. You didn't fret when I wouldn't let your men into the village. And you left the cottage when my grandmother dismissed you, though you did not want to.”

“You realized that?”

She nodded. “I can understand why you feel the way you do about barbarians, and I can't say I blame you. I have tended many who suffered at their hands, but as a healer, I do not choose whom I heal; I only know I must heal those who need it.”

“I realized that myself after giving it thought.”

“A quality of yours I admire. You look and find reason in situations, instead of acting foolishly first and thinking it over later.”

“While you rush in,” he said, and gave her a playful poke in the arm.

“With reason,” she defended.

“Or is it foolishness?”

“Or life saving,” she argued.

“Or life threatening.” He didn't like that thought; the idea that her need to heal could continue to place her in danger. He could save her only so many times, and then, one time…

He could be too late.

The idea ate at his gut. After all, he was a warrior, and a warrior protected the weak.

He almost laughed. He could never envision Zia as weak. She was too full of life, too passionate about all she did.

She yawned again. “I can take care of myself.”

“Can you, now?”

Another yawn followed and she burrowed deeper against his chest. “I most certainly can.”

Artair didn't respond. He remained silent and waited, and sure enough, in a few minutes she was snoring lightly.

Bethane approached him and he cautioned silence with a finger to his lips then whispered, “She's exhausted.”