He broke the contact, glancing over the crowd, and announced in a clear, confident voice, “I am Artair Sinclare of Caithness, and I have come to speak with Zia the healer.”
Gasps and murmuring circled the crowd before the village leader, Harold, stepped forward. “Zia the healer is a witch and has been sentenced to burn at the stake.”
“Then I have come in due time. I will speak to her first,” Artair commanded.
Zia wasn’t surprised by his authoritative nature. One would have to be blind not to see that he was a great warrior. Not only did he sit astride his horse with pride, but he held himself in the same manner, his broad shoulders drawn back, his firm chest expanded, his long lean fingers heavy on the hilt of his sword.
“I can’t permit it,” Harold insisted, shaking his head.
“Can’t or won’t?” Artair asked bluntly.
Harold began to tremble. “I must think of our safety.”
“Your safety rests on me speaking to the healer,” Artair warned.
Zia felt hopeful since he hadn’t referred to her as a witch, but rather, acknowledged her as a healer. Could this man really be her savior?
“Have done with it then,” Harold begrudgingly said. “But keep your distance, she will entrap you.”
The caution didn’t dissuade the warrior. He moved his stallion nearer to her funeral pyre, and she got a closer look at his staggering good looks. His features were a work of pure talented artistry; the heavens couldn’t have made him any more stunning. He stared directly at her, his dark eyes once more locking with hers and sending her senses soaring. You would think that the kindling had been set aflame, her body heated so rapidly.
“I search for my brother Ronan Sinclare. It has been said that you have tended him?”
“I have,” she admitted, recalling the man and facial similarities between the two.
“How is he?”
“I left him healing nicely from serious injuries when word was received that the village Lorne was in desperate need of a healer.”
“Where is Ronan?” Artair asked, his horsing growing impatient while he looked to remain calm and confident.
“Where he is has no name and no direction.”
“You speak in riddles,” Artair accused.
“She is a witch. She tries to trick you,” Harold warned, jabbing his finger in her direction.
“I can take you there,” she said.
“You will burn, witch,” Harold proclaimed, his finger trembling in anger.
The crowd agreed and chanted for her demise.
Artair rose suddenly in his saddle and turned to glare at the people. His voice rose over theirs. “I will speak with this woman.”
Voices quieted, though whispers rushed around the crowd.
Artair turned back around to face her, ignoring the quiet protest. “Tell me how to find my brother.”
“I cannot. I can only show you the way.”
“She enchants you and makes you do her bidding,” Harold disputed adamantly.
Artair shot him a scalding glare, and the man retreated, bowing his head and taking several steps back.
“Tell me where my brother is,” he demanded, turning to Zia.
“I cannot. I can only take you to him,” she said and couldn’t help but admire the way he remained calm and in control as if her words did not disturb him, but rather made him consider his options.
“Further discussion will not change your mind, will it?” he asked.
“It cannot, for I speak the truth.”
He appeared to accept her words as fact, for he turned to Harold. “Release her to me.”
“I will not,” he said indignantly. “She is a witch and she shall burn for her sins.”
“I require her assistance,” Artair said firmly.
“This village requires that she pay for her evil ways.”
“What is it that she has done to this village?” Artair asked.
“She has worked her evil magic on us.”
“Your people suffer?”
Harold shook his head. “We continue to heal.”
“Then what are her sins?”
Harold shoved his finger at her face. “She has used her evil ways to cure us. What now will happen to us?”
“Is that not up to you?” Artair asked.
Harold sputtered and shook his head. “She will burn, I tell you. She will burn.”
Zia watched as Artair studied the man and once again she thought that he reasonably weighed alternatives. He was not at all ruffled by the exchange with the agitated man, rather he seemed in control and sure of having his way, which certainly would benefit her.
He summoned the man to him with a brisk snap of his hand and Harold did not deny the warrior, he scurried over to him. Zia was close enough to hear their exchange.