Under the Highlander's Spell (16 page)

“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 in
structions 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.”

A
rtair 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 that 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.

Together they lay still, wrapped around each other, waiting for their breathing to ease, until Artair finally rolled off, taking Zia with him to rest against his side.

She rested her hand on his chest and he placed his over hers.

“You do have passion,” she said.

“Another good reason to wed me,” he teased.

“You should show your passion more often.”

He laughed. “That would get us in a lot of trouble. We'd forever be making love.”

She tried to poke him, but he kept hold of her hand. “That's not what I meant.”

“My passion rears its head when necessary,” he teased, giving her a poke of his own.

“And it's a large head at that,” she retaliated.

He laughed heartily. “You are not the woman I expected—”

He stopped, about to say,
You are not the woman I expected to fall in love with,
catching himself just in time. He didn't think she would appreciate a declaration
of love at that moment. She would think that he said it only to please her, which would not be the truth.

She poked him again, bringing him out of his musing. “Finish what you intended to say.”

He took hold of her hand. “You are not the woman I expected in bed.”

“Why is that?”

“Making love seems to come natural to you. You are comfortable with it and enjoy it, yet you have never been with another man.”

“Being a healer teaches you much, and having a grandmother who will discuss anything with you is a great benefit. I've learned that most women feel that bedding their husband is a duty, and they are the ones with the most complaints, whereas the women who enjoy coupling have far fewer complaints.” She chuckled. “But far more children.”

“So you decided to enjoy?”

“I did, though my grandmother warned me that the right man was necessary for me to get any enjoyment out of it.”

Artair thumped his chest. “I'm the right man.”

“Then I must be the right woman.”

“No, you are the perfect woman, absolutely perfect in every way,” he said, turning and raining kisses over her face. “I love every inch of you.”

She stiffened, and he could have kicked himself. Why did he have to mention love at this moment?

“You love the act of making love, not me.”

He wasn't sure if she was asking or telling him, and he didn't want to get caught in a trap that would only make the situation worse. But he also couldn't agree with her, since it was far from the truth.

“Let's leave that discussion for another day,” he said. She looked ready to argue, and he pressed his finger to her lips. “Please, this one time just agree with me.”

To his relief, she grinned. “Just this one time.”

“I never get another reprieve, ever?” he asked, feigning shock.

“Only time will tell,” she teased, and yawned wide and long.

“You need sleep,” he said, and kissed the tip of her nose. “And you can encroach on my side of the bed all you want.”

“I just might take up all of it if you're not careful.”

“Then I won't be careful, for I want you in my arms, on my side of the bed, snuggled tight against me every night.”

“Just remember you asked for it,” she said with a laugh.

He cuddled her in his arms, and her eyes closed and her light snore followed. He smiled, content, for there was no way he would let this woman get away from him.

It seemed he'd hardly closed his eyes when he heard a pounding at the door. Within five minutes, Zia was up and out of bed, on her way to deliver a babe. He insisted on going with her, but she advised him against it. He could do nothing to help her. He would just wait around while he could be sleeping.

She kissed him before he could get out of bed, told him to keep it warm for her, and then was gone.

He intended to get up and follow her, despite what she'd told him, but continued to lay there, the scent of their lovemaking ripe on the bedding. The fresh memories had him smiling. Content and satisfied, he fell fast asleep.

 

The babe arrived with the first light of dawn, wailing his face red, the startling color matching the thatch of bright red hair on the top of his head. It hadn't been a difficult birth, which Zia always gave thanks for, and since it was Teresa's second child, labor was shorter, though not less painful.

Zia had mother and child cleaned up in no time, and while the babe slept quietly in his mother's arms, she prepared a brew and some food for Teresa. The brew would help soothe her, and the food help strengthen her.

“I wondered after the birth of my first son why I would ever put myself through the pain of another,” Teresa said, her full cheeks red from exertion and her brown eyes sparkling with joy. “But when I hold my babe in my arms, I have the answer. You'll know the feeling soon enough, having that strong, handsome husband of yours.”

Zia's eyes rounded like full moons and she dropped the spoon she held, startled. There was a chance now that she could be with child, and while it shocked her, it also warmed her.

“I'm sorry,” Teresa said. “I should not have been so bold—”

“Nonsense,” Zia said, and hurried to put the woman at ease. “You just startled me, making me realize that after delivering so many babes, I could very well be having one of my own.” She winked. “And my husband is handsome.”

Her own admission startled her, for she had always been careful never to refer to Artair as her husband, but it seemed to spill from her lips so naturally.

Teresa giggled. “All the women think Artair handsome. Lachlan thinks he's the handsomest brother, but the women all know it is Artair. And you're the lucky woman who won his heart.”

Zia nodded, and was relieved that Teresa asked to see her husband, in order to show him that she had delivered him another fine, strapping son. She didn't wish to discuss Artair any further; she had enough on her mind already. So she was only too happy to oblige, and after making certain mother, father, and babe were settled, she gathered her things and left.

“You must be exhausted.”

She jumped, not expecting Artair to be outside waiting for her. “You haven't been here all night have you?”

“You worry about me when you look ready to drop?” he asked, walking over and taking her basket. “And no, I've only arrived. I slept the night through.”

“Wore you out, did I?”

He laughed. “Proud of yourself?”

“Very,” she said cheerfully. And she was; she was happy they had made love, and though it complicated the situation, it was worth it.

He leaned down and pecked her cheek. “I'm proud of you too.”

She kissed him back, though she planted it on his lips. “I'm starving.”

“Here I thought you were about to tell me how proud you are of me, and instead you tell me you're hungry.”

“You didn't bother to ask what my hunger was for.”

He shook his head and laughed. “Lord, am I glad I found you.”

“Then you don't mind if it's food I want first?”

“Food first and then sleep,” he said with concern. “You must be exhausted, and I'd prefer you full of vigor when you come to bed tonight.”

“We have to wait until tonight to couple again?” she asked, disappointed, for her body was already tingling for him.

“After you rest—”

“Before I rest,” she argued.

“You're too tired,” he insisted.

“That's for me to decide.”

They squabbled back and forth all the way to the keep, and just as they reached the steps, Zia said, “I should have known your passion was confined to the bedchamber.”

He shook his head, scooped her up, and flinging her over his shoulder, swatted her backside. “And your passion knows no boundaries.”