Under the Highlander's Spell (20 page)

He grinned. “You must known that by now.”

She laughed softly as he took quick steps over to her and wrapped her in his arms.

She pressed her finger to his lips. “Don't say a word, not now. Just show me.”

A
few hours later, alone in her cottage, she still continued to recall their fast though passionate joining. Artair had scooped her up into his arms and braced her against the closed door, insisting he would not see them disturbed, and she had agreed. All could wait for at that moment she had wanted nothing more than to feel the strength of her husband inside her.

She had to shake her head to remind her that Artair wasn't her husband, but it felt so right to think of him as such and it felt so right when they made love. He had hoisted up her skirt and drove into her with a gentle force she welcomed. She had been ready for him and he had slipped into her…

Zia shivered with the memory of their joining.

“Are you all right?” Neddie asked, entering the cottage.

Zia cleared her head with another shake and returned to the matters at hand. Neddie had been spending time with her, wishing to learn the art of healing. She had always been interested in it, and after the battle
realized that such knowledge could greatly benefit her own village.

“You work too hard,” Neddie insisted.

“A healer always does,” Zia chuckled. “But it's my husband who occupies my mind.”

Neddie smiled. “He's a handsome one; I don't blame you.”

“He's a good husband and a great lover,” Zia admitted with pride.

“Then you are a lucky woman,” Neddie said. “I was blessed with a plain husband and a passionate lover, even after all these years of marriage.”

The two women continued to chat as Zia taught Neddie how to prepare healing potions for various ailments. It was well past the noon meal when Zia wandered into the keep, her stomach growling and she eager to appease it.

As soon as she spied Cavan standing by the table, she knew he was waiting for her. Artair stood as she approached, held his hand out to her and assisted her in sitting beside him. She was relieved that she would at least have time to eat before the inquisition.

“Do you both wait for me?” she asked, taking bread and meat from the platter in the center of the table.

“Yes, we do,” Cavan said directly.

“Can we talk while I eat?” she asked, looking around the empty hall. “No one is about to hear our conversation.”

Cavan nodded and sat opposite from them at the table.

“First,” Zia said, before Cavan could say anything. “The village Black is a healing village, which means we heal the ill, the injured, the suffering. We do not care whether friend or foe, a person in need of healing receives it at our village, just as your brother did.”

Cavan nodded. “Fair enough, though I believe you should be more conscious of who you choose to heal.”

“If that were the case, we might not have chosen to heal your brother.”

“Why not? Ronan is a good, loyal Scotsman.”

“Brought to our doorstep by a barbarian,” Zia said, knowing the news would shock them both, but realizing it was time for them to know what she could safely divulge without causing problems for others. They needed to understand that not all those they believed to be their enemies were their enemy.

“What do you mean?” Cavan demanded.

“Just what I said,” she confirmed. “A barbarian brought your brother to the village.”

“Are you familiar with this barbarian?” Artair asked.

Zia nodded, finishing the bread she'd been chewing, then reaching for the tankard of mulled cider.

“He's been to your village before?” Cavan asked.

She nodded again, knowing she could divulge only so much about the person; after all, she had given her word.

“Why has this barbarian been to your village before?” Cavan asked.

“That's obvious,” Zia said. “We are a healing village. He brings to us those in need of healing.”

“Barbarians kill without regard to anyone not even their own kind. They do not concern themselves with healing,” Cavan said. “Are you sure he is a barbarian?”

“I asked the same myself,” Zia admitted.

“And did you get an answer?” Artair asked.

“No, I never did.”

“Perhaps he wasn't a barbarian at all but someone who had once been captured by the barbarians,” Cavan said, as if trying to make sense of it.

“No, he was born a barbarian, of that there is no doubt,” she assured him.

“How would you know?” Artair asked.

Zia recalled first meeting the barbarian. “There was no mistaking it. The strength, the courage, but most of all the fearlessness in the eyes; this person would let nothing stand in his way.”

“What did he say when he brought Ronan to you?” Cavan asked.

Zia looked from one brother to the other. “Heal him; he is a great warrior.”

The two brothers grew silent, and Zia could see that they fought to contain their emotions. She wished she could ease their pain, for she felt it herself.

“I need to go now,” she said, and stood.

“One more question,” Cavan said.

She waited.

“Did this barbarian have something to do with my brother's sudden departure?”

Her response was simple and yet so much more complicated. “No.”

“You are sure?” Cavan demanded.

“I am sure,” Zia said firmly. “Now may I go?”

Cavan stared at her. “There is something you do not tell me.”

“Have you ever given your word to someone?” she asked.

Cavan nodded. “Many times.”

“And you have kept your word,” she said, not for a minute doubting he had.

“Of course. A man's word is his honor.”

“Though I am a woman, I feel the same. When I give my word, I keep it,” she said, standing tall, her chin high.

“You gave your word to a barbarian and you wish me to honor it?” Cavan asked incredulously.

“It is my
honor
I wish you to respect.”

Cavan looked from Zia to Artair, then stood.

“Talk to your wife,” Cavan ordered and walked away.

“I have work to see to,” Zia said, and turned to leave.

Artair stopped her, taking hold of her arm. “We need to discuss this. While I will always defend you, I cannot defend your keeping information from us about Ronan.”

“I keep none that is of consequence.”

“That is for us to judge.”

Zia slipped her arm from his grasp, his warm imprint still tingling her flesh. “I would do nothing to jeopardize your brother's safety or delay you from finding him. I have confided everything I know that would help you in your search.”

“But one thing—the barbarian's identity,” Artair said.

She didn't like hearing the disappointment in his voice. She liked even less that he challenged her on it. “You don't trust that what I tell you is true?”

He looked startled. “It is you who does not trust me. Cavan tells me to speak with you for he believes that a good wife would keep nothing from her husband. He has given you a chance to confide in me, and if I deem the information useful, I can share it with him. If not, he knows that it is not significant, and the news remains between you and me.”

“I am not your wife,” she said sadly, not wishing to hurt him.

“You are in all ways but one,” he said. “Exchange vows with me and be done with it.”

“I will not wed a man whose proposal holds no passion.” She turned and hurried from the keep, not stopping until she was past the village, at the moor. She stopped to look out over the expanse of empty land, and realized that was how she felt at this moment—empty.

If he had uttered one word of love to her, she might
have considered his proposal. After all, she did love the sensible fool. But he'd made no mention of it, and that hurt her heart. She had blurted out her love for him, and in front of his mother. It needed saying or she would have exploded with the joy of it. She needed to say it, hear it spill from her lips.

Of course, she could have waited until they were alone. But no! She wasn't afraid of someone hearing her declare her love for Artair. Why should she? Love should be shouted from the highest hill and echoed through the valleys and over the dales. Love should not be confined or tucked away to bring out at the appropriate time.

“Love is magical,” she chuckled. She probably would be accused of casting love spells if anyone heard her. But wasn't it she under Artair's spell, and hadn't that been true from the start?

She had felt the magic between them from the very first moment their eyes met. They couldn't have fought it if they had tried, and she hadn't wanted to. She had wanted to see where it would take her.

She had fallen so easily under the Highlander's spell and she didn't care, because she knew she wove her own spell, like so many women before her. This rift between them could not be allowed to grow. They would have to discuss it, but not now, perhaps later, when they both had time to think and reason. She laughed. Artair reasoned all the time, perhaps she should learn something from him and apply reason to this matter and see what happened.

She would have loved to walk the moor, but had work to do and had to be sensible. She laughed again as she turned and walked to her cottage shaking her head.

 

Artair's naked chest glistened with sweat, his hands ached, and still he swung his sword, taking down his third opponent.

“Who's next?” he asked, challenging the warriors who stood in a circle around him.

“None are foolish enough to practice with a crazed man,” Lachlan called out, and entered the circle to throw him his shirt.

Artair flung the shirt over his shoulder and watched the warriors disperse. “You chase them away.”

Lachlan laughed. “It is you who frighten them off. You're like a madman with your sword today, which can only mean that you fought with your wife, and why only the single warriors were fool enough not to recognize the signs and agreed to practice with you.”

“Shut up,” Artair said and walked over to the water bucket and drank from the dipper.

“I knew I was right,” Lachlan said with glee.

Artair dumped a full ladle over his head, feeling a sense of relief as the cool water trickled down his face and onto his chest.

“Good idea. Cool your anger,” Lachlan said, braced against a thick tree trunk with his arms crossed. “So what did you do to incur your wife's wrath?”

“You're asking for it, Lachlan,” Artair warned, brandishing the ladle like a weapon.

His brother held up his hands. “Don't take it out on me. I'm only trying to help.”

“How? By aggravating me even more?”

“No, by pointing out that you're allowing your anger to get the better of you, when you usually handle problems with calm sensibility.”

“How can you be sensible with a woman who refuses to listen to reason?” Artair asked, running his fingers through his wet hair.

Lachlan looked ready to laugh.

“Don't dare!” Artair warned, swinging the ladle at him.

Lachlan wisely hid his chuckle.

Artair dropped the dipper in the bucket and shook his head. “I don't know how to make her see reason.”

“Zia doesn't strike me as a reasonable woman.”

“No kidding,” Artair said.

“But you sure can see the passion in her.”

Artair shot daggers at him with his eyes.

Lachlan grabbed his chest. “Damn, but if you could kill with looks, would I be dead.”

“Watch it,” Artair cautioned.

“I'm trying to help, if you'd just hear me out.”

“By telling me my wife is passionate?”

“Yes! Zia is passionate about life. You can see it in everything she does. In her work, when she talks, when she laughs—”

Artair grinned though barely. “Her laughter is unbelievably sensual.”

“Damn right.”

Artair shot him another murderous look.

Lachlan threw his hands up. “Sorry, but you need to really know Zia to deal with her.”

“I do know her. She's obstinate, insistent, inflexible—”

Lachlan interrupted. “You're repeating your—”

Artair's icy glare shut him up. “How? How do you deal with a pigheaded woman?”

“You're asking the wrong question.”

“Really, almighty know-it-all of women?”

Lachlan bowed. “At your service.”

“Tell me what question I should be asking?”

Lachlan obliged. “How do you deal with a passionate woman?”

“And pray tell, how do
you
deal with a passionate woman?”

“Brother, brother, brother,” Lachlan said shaking his head and slapping Artair on the back. “Need I detail it?”

Artair curled his hand into a tight fist. “So help me, Lachlan…”

Lachlan leaned in close and whispered as if the answer was a secret. “You deal with her passionately.”

Z
ia thought over the situation and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't find anyway to be practical. It just wasn't in her to do it. She was who she was and Artair had to accept her that way or a marriage could never work between them. She loved who she was and she had worked hard to be who she was in spite of obstacles along the way.

Besides, she couldn't live without the zest that claimed her every day. Sunrise always brought with it a joy, a thrill that she embraced and gave thanks for. Her grandmother had taught her that each new morn was a gift to be unwrapped and cherished. She had never forgotten that, and each day she unwrapped her gift, she appreciated it more and more.

Her grandmother would also tell her that she was being stubborn, that if she wished Artair to accept her for who she was, then why not accept him for who he was? But in a way, wasn't she? After all, she loved him and did not plan to simply walk away because at times he could be a practical fool. She knew that about him and loved him
anyway. Just as she knew he loved her, but could he truly accept who she was? She had easily voiced her love for him, and he had yet to voice his. She wondered how he would choose to do so. Or did she doubt that he would?

She chuckled at the question. He loved her—of that she had no doubt—and when the time was right for him, he would seize the moment and claim his love.

Would it be enough?

Her own query startled her.

Why wouldn't it be enough? Was it because he would see the rational side of their union, while she was looking for him to see…what? The miracle of it all? He had rescued her from a burning stake, and though he had done it for his own reasons, he had never stopped protecting her from the moment he freed her. He took hold of her and never let go.

To her, he had proven a hero beyond measure and a man she could easily love.

Night was falling and the air grew cold. A storm was brewing off the coast, the waves more vicious than usual, and a constant mist blew in off the sea. She was glad for the warmth of her wool cloak on her walk to the keep. She wasn't looking forward to the evening meal, would much prefer to isolate herself this evening, to tuck herself away from questions and demands and worries of her own. Or better still a birth that would occupy her mind leaving no time to think.

She stopped and stared up at the sky, which had darkened, the mist kissing her face. “Send me a joyful birth so I may have peace this night.”

Her wish was granted as she reached the keep stairs, an urgent plea from a young lad to help his mother, who was writhing in pain.

She was familiar with Jonas, barely six, and his mother Dora, who was expecting her fourth child. No amount of reassurance helped the worried lad, and after stopping at her cottage for her healing basket, Zia hurried with the lad to his home.

Dora was doing fine, each of her babes having been delivered without a problem. Zia was more concerned for her young son, who felt sure his mother was dying.

“Your mum is doing fine, Jonas. There is nothing to worry about. But I need a favor from you now that I am here to take care of her.”

His little body relaxed in a sigh at Zia's firm reassurance.

“Will you please go find Artair and tell him that I am tending your mother and will not be home until the babe is delivered?”

Jonas nodded and took off.

Zia rolled her sleeves up and prepared for the birth, thanking the heavens for their intervention.

 

Artair had been lost in his thoughts ever since talking with Lachlan. He should have realized himself that the only way to deal with Zia was through her passionate nature. She would not see reason the way he did, though that did not mean she didn't see it.

He'd never known Zia not to be truthful with him, and the way she had blurted out her love for him should have
made him realize that if there was anything she needed to share, she would have never been able to keep it to herself. She would have spilled it out in a zestful flurry.

She was an honorable woman, and he very much admired her for that and felt pride that she would be his wife. How to get her to agree was another matter. He hadn't even told her he loved her yet, and he was certain she would never agree to wed him until he declared his love.

He planned on talking with her tonight, in their bedchamber. He intended to have their meal sent there so they could be alone and somehow work out the problems that plagued them.

“You have a good plan?” Lachlan asked, joining him at the table before the hearth in the great hall.

“I'm going to talk with her alone in our bedchamber.”

“You call that a plan?” Lachlan shook his head. “Beg her forgiveness, you fool. Better yet, tell her that you love her so much that love has made a complete fool of you.”

“It certainly has,” Artair admitted. “I've never felt like such an idiot.”

Lachlan grinned and was about to comment when Artair shoved a finger in his face. “I warn you, not a word.”

Lachlan's chuckle rumbled in his chest.

Artair shook his head. “I will settle this tonight.”

“There's a good start,” Lachlan said. “You're finally being unreasonable.”

Before Artair could argue, the young lad Jonas raced into the hall and straight to their table addressing Artair.

“Sir, the healer says she will not return until the new babe is delivered.”

“Jonas, you look out of breath and chilled,” Lachlan said. “Sit and have hot cider and a sweet cake.”

The lad's eyes brightened and he climbed over the bench beside Lachlan.

Artair stood. “I'm going to see if Zia needs anything.”

“She only needs one thing,” Lachlan said softly, placing another sweet cake in front of the lad.

“What's that?” Artair asked.

“You!”

 

The birth took longer than Zia had expected, but the delivery went smoothly, without any problem, and mother and daughter were doing fine.

She settled them both, Jonas having fallen asleep hours ago, though he'd tried to remain awake. She promised to look in on them tomorrow. It was well after midnight, the village silent as she left the cottage. The mist had grown heavier, the wind more biting, and she wrapped her cloak more closely around her.

“You need this.”

Zia jumped and swung around. “You near scared me to death.”

Artair swung a fur-lined cloak around her. “You should have expected me.”

“Why?” she asked, hugging the cloak closed, grateful for its warmth.

Artair curled his arm around her shoulder and started them walking toward the keep. “Because I've always been there for you when you've finished late and are alone.”

Zia thought about it. “You're right.” She rested her head to his shoulder snuggling her face past the cloak he wore to rest her cheek to his shirt and take in the familiar scent of him; fresh pine, burning hearth logs and pure male. It made her feel safe, secure and loved.

She tilted her head up and smiled. “I love you.” She didn't know what made her say it at that very moment; she only knew she wanted to. It felt right and good.

He hugged her tighter, and when they reached the keep, swung her up in his arms and carried her to their bedchamber. Not a soul was about, not a sound stirred. It was just the two of them and when he shut the door she felt complete solitude surround them.

She sighed when she saw that a bath waited for her, steam rising from the water, and quickly shed her clothes, as did he. He stepped into the tub first and held a hand out to her. Zia waited a moment, for she wanted to drink in the sight of him, his body so strong and fine, and all hers.

He settled them down together; she resting on top of him, her head nestled on his shoulder and tucked in the crook of his neck, their legs entwined and their arms around each other. She was more comfortable than she had been in a long time.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Whatever for? This is pure pleasure for me. I should be thanking you.”

She wondered if he knew that his words hinted at his love for her and paved the pathway to her heart.

“Zia—”

“Please, no discussions, no questions. I just want to enjoy this quiet time with you, just you and me, nothing else.”

She was grateful he obliged. But why stop him? Did she fear hearing him admit his love? For when he did, decisions would need to be made. Was she ready for them?

All troubled thoughts quickly vanished when he took the soap and ran it over her body, slipping and sliding over every curve, valley, mound, and down the length of her. His strokes were lazy soft caresses that covered every inch of her.

She sighed, though it sounded more like a moan, and when his touch turned intimate—firing her body, her very soul—she reciprocated until they came together, she sitting on top of him, her legs around his waist as he glided into her.

The cramped space left little room for movement, but his firm hands grasped her waist and set them in motion. It didn't take long, though they were far from done, for he dried them both with hurried hands and had them on the bed in no time, where he proceeded to kiss her entire body.

They were tender kisses that drove her wild and soon had her begging for much more, and he obliged
time and time again until they both could stand it no more and he took her in his arms and entered her for one last ride that left them both utterly breathless.

Sleep claimed Artair fast enough, and she was glad, for the night had been perfect and she didn't want it spoiled by talk that would irritate either of them. Her eyes fluttered closed and she smiled. It had been a good night—no, a magical night—and tomorrow was a new day, a new beginning, and she would greet it with joy and deal with whatever it brought her.

 

Zia dressed, not surprised that she was alone. She hadn't felt Artair stir beside her and he probably chose not to disturb her feeling she needed sleep. He was considerate that way, but then, Artair was always thoughtful when it came to her. He put her feelings and needs before his.

Her grandmother was right. He was a good man. So how did she keep her word to someone and not hurt her husband in the process?

Husband?

She kept making that mistake, thinking of him as her husband. But wasn't she feeling that way? More and more she thought of Artair as her husband. More and more she referred to him as so.

She smiled. “This all will be settled soon enough. I'm sure of it.”

And she was. She knew that she and Artair would settle it agreeably, and it would be done. After all, he was reasonable and she was trying to be.

She was smiling broadly when she hurried down the stairs into the great hall. All the Sinclares were at the table before the large hearth, where they usually sat, and a few tables were occupied by warriors deep in conversation and the morning meal.

She weaved her way around the tables greeting the warriors, having gotten to know most of them when suddenly she heard her name shouted and she stopped dead when she saw that it was Artair.

Her mouth dropped open and her eyes rounded wide when she saw him standing in the middle, on top of the table where his family sat.

“I love you, Zia!”

She was too shocked to respond but everyone in the hall did with claps and cheerful shouts, a few stamping their feet.

“I love you with all my heart!” Artair shouted, grinning, and placed his hands over his heart.

She continued to stare, dumbfounded, and when it quieted and everyone stared at her, waiting, including Artair, who remained standing on the table like a centerpiece—she did the only thing she could.

She ran as quick as could be out of the hall.