“Finally you realize that,” he replied teasingly, and slipped his arms around her.
“I realize more than you know. It is you who does not know what you commit to.”
She settled herself in the crook of his arm, and he coiled it around her and rested his cheek on her head. Her hair was soft, the scent fresh, and he wished only to linger in the moment.
A rapid knock at the door had them separating quickly, and Artair prayed that no one else had taken ill.
Clare, Andrew’s mother, was there with a couple of other women who were concerned by the news they had heard. They wanted Zia to know that they did not believe her a witch and how grateful they were for her help.
Artair retreated from the cottage, leaving the women to talk. He would speak to James and Patrick about departing tomorrow at first light and making it home to Caithness as soon as possible. The sooner he had Zia in the confines of his family’s land, the safer she would be.
He didn’t want to think about what would happen if the church council decided against Zia and proclaimed her a witch. His family had power and influence, but no amount of influence could combat a judgment of witchcraft. He only hoped that her alignment with his clan could give her at least a degree of protection.
Somehow, he would find a way to circumvent the situation. But that would take time, and making her his legal wife would go a long way toward securing her safety. He would see it all done; he merely had to remain patient.
After firming plans for the next day’s departure with his men, he headed back to the cottage, hoping the women had left and Zia would be alone. He wanted her packed and ready to leave as soon as the sun peeked on the horizon.
It annoyed him to find the cottage empty. He assumed she had gone to check one last time on those still ailing. He wished that she’d stayed put, but knew she would work until the very last moment, and then only reluctantly mount her horse, still feeling she hadn’t done enough.
He browsed through the village, looking for Zia, and not finding her, began to worry.
Then he spotted her in the open doorway of a cottage, her cheeks tinged pink and her smile bright. Seeing him as well, she waved and with a light step headed his way.
He caught a swift movement out of the corner of his eye and yelled a warning, “Zia, watch out!”
“Burn, witch, burn,” the messenger screamed, and flung the lighted torch he carried at her. Not waiting to see if he hit his target, he kept running until he vanished into the woods.
Zia was holding her arm, her face twisted in pain when Artair reached her. She had deflected the torch with her hand, the brief contact scorching her flesh. He grabbed hold of her and winced when he saw her palm, which appeared charred.
“Tell me what to do?” he asked, swinging her up into his arms.
“You can put me down. It’s my hand that has been burned, not my feet.”
He smiled at her humorous retort. “I’m sweeping you off your feet.”
“Ahh, another romantic moment.”
“Tell me how to take care of you,” he ordered, though with a smile.
She acquiesced with a nod. “Take me to the cottage and I will see to my hand.”
He started walking. “No, I will see to your hand.”
They laughed while debating who would be the healer, though when they reached the cottage and Zia winced, Artair would hear no more of her protests. He intended to see to her care, and that was that.
After placing her on a chair, he looked at her hand and flinched.
“It looks worse than it is,” she said, reassuring him, and stretched for her healing basket on the table.
“Stay put,” he said, and brought the basket to her.
“It’s just a minor burn. Once I clean it, you’ll see for yourself.”
She wiped the flesh with a damp clean cloth, and Artair was surprised when the blackened area turned pink. Her skin hadn’t been charred; she was right, it didn’t look as bad as he had first thought.
“Let me do that,” Artair said, and took the cloth from her. He didn’t want to imagine what could have happened if the flame had caught her garments.
She touched him lightly in the spot between his eyes. “Frown lines. Something troubles you.”
“You could have gone up in flames, and if the village Lorne has anything to say about it, you will.” He threw the cloth aside, the pad of her palm a shiny pink.
He was ready to order their immediate departure when she smiled softly and handed him a small crock of salve. He didn’t know if it was her tender smile that said “I trust you” or the fact that she gave him the salve to put on her injury that attested to her trust. Perhaps it was a combination of both.
“Thinking on it, I agree with you.”