Under the Highlander's Spell(33)
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.”