Under the Highlander's Spell

by Donna Fletcher

She saw reluctance in his eyes.

  “Do I ask too much?” she asked.

  He traced a finger around her lips. “To lie beside you and not touch you might prove difficult.”

  She retraced his path with the tip of her tongue, then said, “Am I that appealing?”

  He kissed her quick. “You are that wicked.”

  “I can be wicked,” she teased with a sigh, “but alas I’m too tired.”

  He coiled his fingers around the back of her neck and massaged the stiff area, and she all but melted in his arms.

  “Now you take advantage,” she said.

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  She smiled and saw desire rage in his eyes, but tenderness remained in his touch. “You are a good man.”

  “You truly tempt my honorable nature.”

  “Ah, but that is what I count on.” Her smile faded and she pressed closer, his hands falling away from her neck to slip around her, and as he embraced her, she leaned in and kissed him.

  It was a good thing he held her, for her legs grew weak as he took control of the kiss, and she eagerly surrendered. She didn’t realize that he had picked her up or that he walked with her in his arms to the bed. She knew nothing but the kiss. It overwhelmed her senses and befuddled her mind.

  She hadn’t realized she was lying on the bed until he gently pried her arms from around his neck and eased away from her.

  “You will not hold me?” she asked, her arms outstretched to him.

  He stared at her for a moment, his look stern and unpredictable, and she waited.

  He quickly unlaced his sandals and stepped out of them, but left his shirt and plaid on. Then he slipped over her outstretched body, giving her a quick kiss as he went, and settled alongside her. Before she could turn to face him, he tucked his arm around her and drew her back against his chest.

  “Sleep,” he whispered in her ear, “before I forget that I’m an honorable man.”

  She almost chuckled but instead yawned and settled comfortably against him. She remained still, not wishing to tempt him any further. At least not now. She was simply too exhausted.

  There would be another time; she would make certain of it.

  She drifted off to sleep with dreams of the future dancing in her head.

  Artair planned to leave as soon as she fell asleep. He didn’t think he could last the night without touching Zia. Her teasing alone fired his loins, not to mention her kisses.

  This feeling he had for her was strange. He had assumed that when he found a suitable bride, he would simply wed her. Passion would follow; he never expected it to precede it.

  And as for a bride? He never expected to find such a suitable one. He believed that he would have to make concessions, as he had done when a marriage had been arranged for him with Honora. She had been sweet and obedient, but not what he truly hoped for. She was, however, the perfect woman for Cavan.

  Zia might just prove to be the perfect wife for him, and with that thought in mind, he fell asleep, the future invading his dreams.

  Artair woke with a smile and a stretch, then suddenly recalled where he was and bolted up in bed. He was alone. No doubt as soon as Zia woke, she hurried to see how the new mother and babe were. And if all proved well, they could take their leave from the village of Holcote sometime today.

  He refreshed himself with a splash of warm water that most likely Zia had left in a bowl on the table for him. She hadn’t woken long before him, for if she had, the water would have cooled by now. That was good; at least she’d gotten a good night’s sleep.

  He’d be glad when he could get her home. With his family’s influence he might even be able to have the investigation dismissed before it started.

  Feeling confident, he left the cottage in search of Zia.

  The sun was bright and the villagers busy masking a storehouse that would hide the meat his men had hunted since before sunrise, and which was now being dried and salted. They would survive the coming winter, and with some suggestions from his men, learn how to hide a portion of their harvest so they would not starve.

  Artair took his time walking through the village relieved he would, in a small way, leave these people better off. He headed to Albert’s cottage and once near saw Zia standing outside staring in the distance, her hand at her chin. She didn’t even notice him approach and startled when he stopped beside her.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Tell me,” he said, standing beside her. Though he had known Zia only a brief time, he realized that it was more than likely he would hear the unexpected from her.

  “First,” she said with a smile, “mother and child are doing well.”

  “Good news,” he agreed. “Now the bad?”

  “Another village is in need of help.”

  “Have your grandmother send another healer,” he said, relieved that he could dispatch the problem so easily.

  “My grandmother wasn’t contacted—I was.”

  “How?”

  “The liege lord of this village requested assistance for his friend. He felt that since he extended his hospitality to you here, in Holcote, you certainly wouldn’t mind sharing your healer.”

  “How long do you think a healer will be needed?” he asked, her safety foremost in mind, though meanwhile he was annoyed at himself for having made mention of her to the liege lord.

  “I’m not sure. It depends on the severity of the illness.”

  “How far is the village?”

  “That isn’t the problem,” she said.

  A chill raced through him, and he knew he wasn’t going to like what she had to tell him.

  She continued. “The village Donnan where I am needed is a brief walk from Lorne.”

  He shook his head, and kept shaking it, unable to think of anything but Zia tied to the stake in Lorne. “You can’t go,” he finally said.

  “I don’t have a choice.” She held her hand up before he could interrupt. “From what I’m told, the illness is spreading and one person has died already. If I don’t get there as soon as possible, more deaths are likely.”

  “And what of you? You could possibly grow ill yourself and die, and if not that, the village of Lorne might discover your presence and attempt to burn you at the stake yet again.”

  “It’s a chance—”

  “I’m not willing to take,” he finished. “I’ll send word to Black and request that another healer be sent to Donnan.”

  “I can’t allow that.”

  “Allow?” he snapped, and realized he was close to losing his temper, which he rarely did. A clear and sensible mind was needed to handle this situation.

  Her hands went to rest firmly at her hips. “It’s my choice.”

  “You’re right,” he said calmly, and watched her eyes grow wide. “But it’s my responsibility to keep you safe.”

  “You are not responsible for me.”

  “I’m afraid I am. I and my family not only owe you for taking care of Ronan, but we would appreciate any help you can give Honora. Therefore, it is my responsibility to see to your safety.”

  “A reasonable explanation,” she said and he wondered why she sounded perturbed. “You can do only so much. After all you can’t guarantee my safety.”

  He stared at her, her words having set his thoughts churning. “Actually,” he said with a grin, “that might be possible.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, curious.

  “The Sinclare clan is well-respected and has many influential friends. If you were to wed a Sinclare, your security could be guaranteed.”

  She stood stock still. He wondered if he had shocked her silent, and intended to file that fact away for future reference. It just might come in handy.

  “You can’t be serious,” she finally said.

  “It’s a logical solution to a serious situation. If the village Lorne hears that you are at Donnan, there could be grave repercussions. But i
f it is learned that you are the wife of one of the Sinclare brothers, no one would dare threaten you.”

  “And this is a good reason to wed a stranger?”

  He took her hand and laced his fingers with hers. “You cannot claim us strangers. After all,” he grinned, “we slept together last night.”

  She tugged her hand loose. “We are presently friends.”

  “That’s even better. A friend would make a good wife.”

  She shook her head, and he persisted.

  “I admire your skills and your intellect, and I believe we are a good match. Given time, I am sure we will learn to love each other.”

  “Learn?”

  “People learn to love.”

  “Because they have no choice. I plan on having a choice,” she said.

  “If you had the luxury of choosing, that would be fine. But with the present situation?” He shook his head. “Consider your safety first.”

  “My healing comes first,” she said sharply.

  “That’s fine. Then let me protect you so that you can do your healing without worry.”

  “I don’t have time to debate this now.”

  “No, we don’t. Let’s be done with it. Marry me, and it will afford you the protection you need to continue your work,” he said, hoping she would finally see reason.

  She sighed, running her fingers through her cropped hair. He loved the way the short blond strands stood out afterward and how they glinted like fine gems in the bright sunlight.

  “I cannot marry you. I look for love and passion and will settle for nothing less.”

  He was prepared to argue but she quickly continued.

  “But I do see the wisdom in your suggestion. So I believe the best thing for us to do is pretend to be husband and wife while we are at the village of Donnan.”

  “That won’t do,” he insisted. “Someone will want proof of our union.”

  “I doubt anyone at the village will suspect. Their only concern will be for their well-being.”

  “But there is the village of Lorne nearby, as you said,” he pointed out, “and they will certainly suspect our vows. Someone there may demand proof.”

  “Lorne will claim that I bewitched you into marrying me. So proof won’t matter.”

  “You are being stubborn,” he said.

  “I am being true to myself. I wish to fall in love and wed, and I refuse to settle for anything less. It will be my way, Artair, or not at all.”

  He would have argued further with her but knew it would be senseless. She would not budge, and they would only waste time. Time better spent preparing a cohesive story that everyone would believe. He would need both James and Patrick’s support with this plan, and would have to send word to Bethane so she could verify the story if asked.

  He finally nodded, reluctantly accepting her suggestion.

  “We will need a consistent story about how, where, and when we were wed,” she said.

  “I thought the same myself. If I’m correct, it will take us at least a day to reach our destination. How long before we can leave here?”

  “It will take at most a day to reach Donnan, and with mother and child doing so well, I think we can leave by late afternoon.”

  “Good. We will discuss our wedding while traveling, and share the news with James and Patrick when we stop for the night.”

  Her face brightened with a smile. “I’m sure they’ll be overjoyed for us.”

  He leaned closer to her. “You got your way this time. Don’t be so sure about next time.”

  She laughed softly and slipped her hand inside his shirt, to tickle his chest. “Believe me, Artair, I will always have my way with you.”

  Chapter 12

  Zia 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.”