Under the Highlander's Spell(34)

Zia was glad that the arrival of Clare, the lad’s mother, interrupted any further discussion. Artair’s compliment had overwhelmed her, and she wasn’t certain how or if she should respond.

“Is my Andrew all right?” the young mother asked anxiously.

“He’s fine,” Zia said, and motioned her over. “Why don’t you put him in bed; he needs his rest.”

Clare nodded as Zia placed the sleeping lad in her arms. She hugged him close and kissed the top of his head.

“He’s such a good son.” She looked to Zia with tears in her eyes. “He’ll be all right, won’t he?”

“I believe so, though he needs to rest and drink the broth.”

Clare nodded. “He hadn’t wanted to eat, and barely drank anything until you gave him that broth.”

“It helps heal,” Zia assured the worried mother.

Clare rested an anxious hand to her cheek after placing Andrew in bed. “Good Lord, I almost forgot. You’re needed at old Mary’s. She isn’t doing well.”

“You know what to do,” Zia confirmed with Clare, and as soon as the woman nodded, Zia hurried out the door.

Artair followed her.

“Please put my journal in my garment sack.”

“Then?” he asked, keeping pace with her.

“Then you’re on your own,” Zia said, and sped off.



Artair roamed the village after doing as Zia asked. He had instructed his men to become familiar with the layout of Donnan and with its people and to report any change in talk or behavior to him immediately. And to be wary of any strangers who arrived, especially with word spreading that a sickness had hit the village. No one would dare come there unless…

Someone was interested in the healer.

He kept close watch over Zia, following her from cottage to cottage, and after a few hours wondered how she kept up her frantic pace. She no sooner got finished with one ailing person than another summoned her, and then there were those whom she revisited more often—whose fevers had spiked and who appeared to be losing the battle. But like any courageous warrior, she refused to give up. She fought on.

While he admired her tenacity, it also worried him. Zia constantly put the well-being of others before herself. No matter how tired she was, she kept going and didn’t complain. She seemed to thrive on it.

Passion.

He had known passion with more than one woman, and on more than one occasion. But that was different. Or was it that Zia was different? She seemed to embody passion in everything she did. It was a significant part of who she was, and he doubted she could ever do without it, though he did wonder if in time it might dim or burn out completely. After all, it wasn’t reasonable to think that her extraordinary passion could last forever.

By late afternoon he realized that Zia had eaten nothing all day. Between tending people, she’d been busy crushing leaves and brewing broth, and was now baking bread to distribute among the ill. And it was only their first day in Donnan.

He caught up with her in old Mary’s cottage—Mary being the oldest and weakest of those ill.

He stood in the open doorway, his hands braced overhead on the wooden frame. “You bake bread but have eaten nothing.”

Zia looked up from her task, smiled, and dusted her hands on the faded and stained white apron that hugged her waist and protected her dark blue skirt. She walked over to him and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

“I’ll have a rest right here,” she said with a sigh.

His arms coiled with a gentle strength around her. “Rest as long as you like.”

“I wish it could be for…”

A heavy sigh followed, and he wondered if she wished as he did, that they could remain this close forever.

“You need rest and food,” he said, caressing her back.

“There’s no time.”

“We’ll make time,” he insisted, her welfare his only concern.

“There are many who need me.”

“If you are too tired or take ill, you will do them little good,” he said.

She rubbed her face in his shirt and took a deep breath. “I love the scent of you. It reminds me of woods and earth and fire.” She sighed again. “And you are right. I should eat.”

His only thought for a moment was that she liked the scent of him and he liked the way she snuggled her face into his chest. He almost had to shake his head to clear it and he had to tame his stirring passion. This was about her, not him. “You also need help. There are too many ailing villagers for you to look after.”

“Once I have enough broth and bread made, I can distribute it to the families who have ailing relatives and they can help see to their care.”