Under the Highlander's Spell

by Donna Fletcher

  How did she make sense of love? Now she was thinking more like Artair than herself.

  “Take me to the grove in the moor,” she said, dancing out in front of him while holding his hand.

  “Night will fall soon enough. I will take you tomorrow.”

  “But the fairies come out at night,” she teased.

  He yanked her to him and she stumbled into his arms. “Don’t speak such nonsense.”

  “I only repeat what others in your village have said,” she said defensively.

  “They are not accused of witchcraft.”

  She almost argued, but thought better of it when she saw the concern in his dark eyes and knew he was worried about her. She could not fault him for that. He was right, and it would be wise of her to listen.

  “I’m sorry. I should have known better.”

  He scooped her up in his arms and deposited a quick kiss to her lips. “I promise I will take you to the woods tomorrow.”

  She closed her arms around his neck. “I look forward to it.”

  “We’ll go early, before everyone in the village descends on your cottage.”

  “Is that jealousy I hear?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “I would spend more time with you if it was not for your work, but I know your healing is important to you, so I try to be patient.”

  “You are—” She stopped, realizing that she’d been about to tell him that he was more important to her than her work. The thought shocked her. Her work always came first, and that he understood as much made him all the more endearing to her. That she had been about to declare him more important, startled her and left her speechless.

  “Please finish,” he begged with a laugh. “You have me wondering.”

  She planted a kiss on his cheek; such a handsome cheek, smooth and chilled and all hers and hers alone. She almost sighed aloud. What was the matter with her? Had her realization that she loved him made her aware of things she’d simply taken for granted before?

  “Tell me,” he pleaded in a whisper.

  His warm breath tickled her ear and his anxiousness had her smiling. “You are—very important to me.”

  “Now, that is another very good reason for us to wed. Soon there will be so many you will have no other choice but to wed me.”

  That very thought had occurred to her, but it wasn’t the many reasons that would lead her to decide in favor of marriage—it would be love.

  Artair lowered Zia to her feet, and they entered the hall holding hands. Honora waved them over to the table the family occupied before the hearth. Cavan sat beside his wife, Addie beside her, and Lachlan left space on his side of the long bench for them to join everyone.

  “I’m feeling so much better,” Honora said, smiling. “And Mother’s hand has much improved. I am so happy Artair fell in love with you and that you are now part of our family.”

  “She worries over the lot of you,” Cavan said, glancing from brother to brother. “Though with you married, Artair, she now only needs to concern herself with Lachlan.”

  “Worry not, I do fine,” Lachlan said, raising his tankard of ale.

  Zia listened to the now familiar banter between brothers. Addie must have long ago grown accustomed to her sons’ teasing, for she paid more attention to feeding her dog Champion scraps than to her sons.

  They talked, teased, and laughed through the meal, Addie joining in now and again and getting the better of all of them. Zia enjoyed the family’s camaraderie, though it made her grow melancholy for her grandmother and the way they had shared their meals and talked. She wished Bethane had been there so she could talk with her. Her grandmother was a wise woman and had a way of saying just what she needed to hear.

  When the brothers’ talk turned to the workings of the keep, Honora and Addie spoke quietly with Zia.

  “Mother and I thought to plan a larger celebration in honor of your wedding, so your family can share in it,” Honora said.

  “While that is thoughtful and generous of you both, it’s not necessary. The feast you surprised us with upon our arrival was more than enough.”

  “But we never got to see you exchange your vows,” Addie protested. “And I’m sure your family must feel the same. Think how beautiful a winter celebration would be, with both of you once again exchanging your vows in front of family and friends.”

  Zia almost laughed, thinking that such a celebration would finally and properly unite them. “I have only my grandmother, and while I’m sure the village Black would love to join in such a celebration, many of the villagers could not make the trip.”

  “Then we should at least have your grandmother here for a visit so that she may get to know us and we may get to know her,” Addie insisted.

  Zia agreed that it was a good idea, but at the same time reflected to herself that she might not be in Caithness long enough for it to happen.

  Growing tired, she was looking forward to bed, and to being in Artair’s arms. Realizing that she didn’t want to go to bed without him, she wondered if that was not still another reason for them to wed. She almost laughed, but was saved by a wide yawn she covered with her hand.

  “Time for bed,” Artair announced, turning away from conversation with his brothers, reaching out and bringing Zia along with him as he stood.

  “I agree,” Honora said, looking to Cavan, who quickly assisted her to stand.

  Addie stretched herself up, Champion standing as well, at her side. “I’m ready to turn in myself.”

  Lachlan laughed. “My night is just starting.” He looked around the room, and finding a serving lass he liked, gave her a wink and held up his empty tankard.

  Zia’s legs protested every stair she climbed. By the time she reached their bedchamber, she flopped back onto the bed with a groan.

  “I’m so tired,” she said on a yawn.

  Artair stood over her. “I can undress you and tuck you in, if you’d like.”

  She fought the temptation to say yes. It would be so easy to do so, but she knew that once she surrendered, she would seal her fate. He would demand that they wed, and she wasn’t ready yet. Or was it he who wasn’t ready yet?

  Before she could answer him, a pounding rattled their closed door. Artair moved quickly and yanked it open.

  It was Lachlan. “There’s been an accident,” he said. “Zia is needed.”

  She was up and out of the room in a flash, Artair following her. The frightened wailing could be heard rising up the staircase, and it brought Cavan and Honora out of their room, and Addie a few steps behind.

  When they entered the hall, they could see that it wasn’t only a woman’s fretful cries, but that of a young lad no more then four or five. Seeing the blood pouring down the child’s face, Zia immediately took control.

  Her first order was to Cavan. “Take Honora out of here.”

  Cavan tried, but Honora wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m very good with stitches if you should need help,” she said defiantly to Zia.

  “Have it your way, and thanks for the offer,” Zia replied, then she turned to Artair. “I need my healing basket, the large one, and the sack of cloths.” She didn’t have to tell him where it was. He was familiar with the cottage and knew where she kept everything.

  To Addie, she said, “I need fresh water.”

  Addie took off.

  “And me?” Lachlan asked.

  “Help calm the lad while I calm the mother and find out what happened.”

  Lachlan went straight to the task. “What have we here, a mighty warrior who has been injured?” he boomed loudly, taking the lad’s hand.

  The child stared at Lachlan, who continued extolling his bravery as Zia took hold of the mother and walked her away from the boy so they could talk.

  Between sobs, the mother told her all she needed to know. Samuel and his brother, she said, were playing in bed, and Samuel bounced off, his head catching the corner of the chest that rested nearby.

  Zia knew that head wounds
could be a problem. It depended how deep the wound was and what had caused the abrasion. Any blow to the head could do damage, and the extent of it would determine whether she would have trouble healing the wound.

  Samuel sniffled between a few tears and looked ready to cry aloud when she approached.

  “May I look at your wound, brave warrior?” she asked with a soft smile.

  “Yes,” he said, though held firmly to Lachlan’s hand, which enveloped his much smaller hand. Only his thumb peeked out.

  Zia noticed that blood continued to drip along his forehead, that the wound had yet to stop bleeding. With a tender touch she probed the area and almost sighed with relief. It wasn’t bad, though it would require stitches. Without them, it would continue to bleed and would fill with poison. Three stitches would hold it good, and she would see that the bandage remained clean until it could be removed.

  She hadn’t realized that the hall had gone silent, and when she looked up, she saw everyone staring at her as if holding their breath. They were waiting for her to save this child, and it sent a shiver through her. She hated the thought of telling anyone there was nothing she could do, and at those times she worked harder, knowing the decision was in hands far more powerful than hers.

  But that wasn’t the case with Samuel, and she smiled. “A few stitches, no running around for a few days, and he should be fine.”

  The mother broke into another fit of crying, which sent the lad into tears as well.

  “Mothers cry, warriors don’t,” Lachlan whispered to Samuel, who then sniffled his tears away.

  Zia nodded to Addie, who had returned with a caldron of water. She instinctively understood, and after depositing the small caldron by the hearth, wrapped a consoling arm around the woman and led her to a table where she could comfort her and keep her from upsetting the lad.

  Honora joined her in consoling the woman, while Cavan stood by, watching Zia.

  Artair returned with everything she needed, and with Lachlan’s help—the lad refusing to let go of him—she got the blood cleaned off while brewing leaves in hot water. The drink would put Samuel to sleep, sparing him the pain while she stitched his head.

  She worked diligently, keeping in mind all that her grandmother had taught her and what she had learned herself through trial and error. She had to cut hair away from the wound so she could see it more clearly. Her grandmother had taught her that the wound was less likely to become poisonous that way.

  It took about an hour to finish, and that included washing the lad clean of all the blood and giving instructions to the mother, though Zia would see to the bandage herself, making sure it was kept clean.

  Lachlan carried the child back to the woman’s cottage. The father was out on sentinel duty and would not return until morning, when the next shift took over.

  Cavan approached Zia as she began to clean up. “You are no witch,” he said, his tone heartfelt. “You are a learned healer, and I am proud to have you as part of our clan.”

  “Thank you,” Zia acknowledged with a nod, and wished she could tell him she was also proud to be part of Clan Sinclare. Unfortunately, since her marriage to Artair was a fiction, she knew she wasn’t truly part of the clan, and felt it wouldn’t be right to say anything to imply otherwise.

  Cavan reached out for his wife’s hand when she approached and their fingers locked. Zia could see how much in love they were. There was no denying it—it sparkled in both their eyes—and she envied the loving couple. She wished it could be that easy for Artair and her.

  “You are far better with stitches than I,” Honora said. “You keep them so uniform. Your embroidery work must be beautiful.”

  Zia shook her head. “I don’t do embroidery. I haven’t the time.”

  “Then I will do a piece for you,” Honora said, and Zia smiled her appreciation.

  This was a wonderful and loving family, and she wouldn’t mind being part of it. She chased the thought. She was tired and didn’t need her mind forever churning with wishes and hopes and dreams that might never see fruition. And it bothered her that she had not shared all she knew about Ronan with Artair.

  She got busy cleaning, wanting to chase away her haunting thoughts, but Addie ordered her to stop.

  Zia attempted to protest, but Artair prevented it.

  “A servant will do that,” he said, “and I will have your healing basket returned to your cottage. You’ve done enough for tonight.”

  He slipped his arm around her waist and walked her to the staircase, and she went along willingly, bidding Addie a hasty good-night.

  Once in their bedchamber she fell on the bed, not even having the strength to undress. She wanted nothing more than to climb beneath the covers and sleep.

  Artair loomed over her. “This time I’m not asking. I intend to undress you and tuck you beneath the covers.”

  Chapter 21

  Artair expected Zia to protest—she disputed just about everything—but tonight he could see she was bone-tired and needed to sleep.

  She stretched a hand out to him from where she lay prone on the bed. “Hurry, or I will fall asleep while you undress me.”

  He reached for her hand and gently pulled her to sit up. “Sleep. I will see you tucked safely in bed.”

  “A husband I can count on,” she said, and yawned.

  “Another reason to marry me.” He untied her blouse and ordered, “Arms up.”

  She obeyed, though shivered when her breasts fell exposed.

  Artair quickly retrieved her nightdress from the chest. He not only wanted to keep her from further chill, but wanted her full breasts and hard nipples out of sight as fast as possible, and her nightdress in place. So that when he took off her skirt, the nightdress would discreetly follow, hiding her alluring body not only from his sight, but from his mind, which was already conjuring too many lascivious thoughts.

  What he didn’t count on was the softness of her skin and how once he touched her flesh he didn’t want to stop. She was soft, her skin smooth and creamy and feeling so very delicious to his touch.

  His fingers grazed her breasts and the tips of her stiff nipples, and he felt as if he were struck by lightning, a sizzle racing through him, steaming his blood and tightening his loins. With a silent reproach he warned himself to behave. She was tired. Now was not the time to make love to her.

  When then was it time?

  The thought struck him hard, and he fought the question that haunted him day in and day out. He wanted to make love to her, wanted to make her his, wanted her as his wife.

  He pulled the nightdress down to her waist, his hand catching the slim curve, and ever so grateful that her skirt remained in place or his hand would not have stopped.

  She sighed softly. Or was it a passionate moan? Did his hand stir her desires as her naked flesh did his? Or was he merely wishing?

  “I’ll have you done in a minute,” he said, letting her know he intended nothing more than to do as he had stated. Tuck her in bed.

  “Take your time,” she whispered.

  He stilled his hand at her waist. She had told him to hurry, and now told him to take his time. What did she truly want from him?

  He pressed his cheek to hers. “I love touching you.”

  He waited, leaving the decision to her. He would finish dressing her and put her to bed or he would make love to her.

  She turned, her lips caressing his with the faintest of kisses. “Then touch me.”

  He grew so hard so fast that it sent an ache through his loins, but he intended to make sure that she was not dazed with sleep, that she was fully aware of what she wanted.

  He took hold of her chin and looked directly in her eyes. “Once I touch you, I won’t stop.”

  She tugged her chin free of his grip and teased his lips with hers while she said, “I don’t want you to stop. I want to taste your passion. You do have passion, Artair, don’t you?”

  He could see that her exhaustion had vanished, replaced by a lustful glow, and t
hat was all he needed to know.

  “I’ll let you see that for yourself,” he said, and whipped her nightdress off her head, her skirt following.

  She stretched back on the bed like a lazy cat preparing its limbs before sprinting, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her languid movements as he slowly disrobed, preparing as she did—to sprint.

  He fell over her naked; his hands splayed on either side of her head, his taut body a breath away from hers, beneath him. He heard anticipation in her gasp when he came to rest so close yet not touching her.

  She pushed his long hair behind his shoulders and ran her fingers down along his arms and up again, then over his chest and down to his waist just above his shaft. She played his flesh like a fine instrument until his senses heated beyond reason and he bent his head back and groaned with desire.

  He dropped his head back down until his mouth nearly touched hers. “My turn.”

  His lips took charge, dancing over every inch of her creamy flesh, kissing curves, nibbling mounds, tickling nipples mercilessly with his tongue, and when she groaned and grabbed the blanket tight in her outstretched hands, he laughed wickedly. “I’ve only begun.”

  If he thought he’d be the only one tormenting, he was wrong. Her hands quickly learned every sensitive spot on his body, and they were soon locked in a battle of sensual wills, each driving the other wild with touches, kisses, nibbles, licks that drove the passion beyond bearable to the edge of erotic insanity.

  When she grabbed hold of his neck and with a heavy breath begged, “Please,” he wrapped his arm around her sweat-dampened waist and swung her around until she lay beneath him. Holding back, controlling himself despite his excitement, he entered her gently.

  Zia smiled and took hold of his shoulders. “Do not keep me waiting.”

  He laughed low and hardy, and with a grin of pure pleasure drove into her, and she called out in equal pleasure. They rode hard and steady, each holding on tightly to the other, their moans matching, soaring until she cried out in pleasure but warned him not to hurry—she was not done yet.

  It wasn’t until her third cry that he released himself, and with a force greater than ever before. It was like riding a never-ending wave of pleasure until finally he was deposited on shore.