“Illness never arrives at an opportune time,” she remarked.
“Proof. Proof. Ask her for proof,” the messenger demanded irritably and with his glance cast to the ground.
Zia slipped her arm around Artair’s. “Our marriage papers are with my belongings that were sent on to Artair’s home. We saw no reason to carry proof with us.” She cast a blissful glance at Artair. “Anyone who sees us knows we are madly in love and newly wed.” She chuckled. “Did no one see us sneak out of our cottage for a swim last night?”
Odran smiled sheepishly. “Someone mentioned your husband chasing after you.”
Artair joined in her game. “I bet that I’d beat her to the river.”
Zia grinned. “He lost.”
The elders laughed and nodded, recalling youthful follies of their own.
“She lies!” the messenger screamed.
“Enough!” Artair declared with strength that near shook the walls. “Did my wife heal your people?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did anyone die?” Artair asked curtly.
“No, but—”
“Does your village suffer?”
The messenger hesitated, then shook his head. “You don’t understand. You are bewitched.”
“I do understand,” Artair confirmed. “You are ungrateful. Leave now. You are not welcome here with your lies.”
The elders agreed with repeated nods.
“You’ll be sorry,” the man vowed with a raised fist. “My village has contacted the church council and they will decide her fate.” He hurried to the door, stopped but didn’t turn around. “I will make certain a messenger is sent to Caithness to verify your wedding papers.”
He left without looking back.
“We are grateful for your help, Zia,” Odran said, and the others agreed. “We thought for sure that many would die, but your remarkable skills have saved us.”
Was that a flash of skepticism he caught in the elder’s eyes? Artair wondered. It worried him. All that was needed was a drop of doubt for problems to start, and the messenger had planted more than a drop. They had to leave the village, and soon.
After exchanging niceties with the elders, he and Zia left the common shelter and walked arm in arm to their cottage, their smiles bright while they spoke softly to each other.
“We can’t stay here,” Artair said. “Please tell me the child is well enough for you to leave.”
“Her fever broke and no doubt will not return. The worst of this is over.” She kept her grin steady, aware that they were being observed. “Do you think the messenger will return with others for me?”
“I doubt he’s given up. I wouldn’t be surprised if he lurks in the woods waiting to talk to each of the elders alone and convince them of your magical powers.”
He laughed joyously as if they had just shared a funny tale, slipped his hands around her waist to swing her up in the air and bring her back down for a kiss.
“We need to wed before we reach my home,” he murmured as he set her feet back on the ground.
Zia said nothing until the cottage door closed behind them. “You can’t mean to wed a witch.”
He cringed. “Be careful what you claim.”
“There are those who will believe I am, and once the church sends someone to investigate—” She shivered and dropped the bouquet on the table. “I could understand being accused of witchcraft if I made people suffer, but they accuse me because I make people well.” She shook her head. “It makes no sense. A true healer would never intentionally hurt anyone.”
She pushed past Artair when he tried to embrace her, angry that she needed to defend her skills. “There’s no magic to my potions.”
“To the less knowledgeable, it appears magic,” he said, and reached out to tug her into his arms. “But they have not seen what I have.”
“And what is that?” she asked, her anger melting away as his powerful hands kneaded her arms.
“All the hard work you do in preparation of tending the ill. Your healing basket doesn’t miraculously fill itself. Your potions don’t magically mix. Your healing plants don’t grow without care. Your knowledge doesn’t expand without study. You don’t make a remarkable healer by casting a spell. You work for it.”
Zia was stunned by his words. He had noticed how much work it took to be a good healer, and he praised rather than criticized.
“I like watching you work,” he said. “You have a caring touch and soothing words to offer the ill, and you do it with patience.”
She melted into his embrace. “You do know I don’t always have patience.”