Under the Highlander's Spell(55)
“That’s why I will wait until she calms down.”
Lachlan chuckled. “You can’t be practical when it comes to women, Artair, because women aren’t practical. Zia wants you to follow her. That would show her that you care.”
“She’d continue to fight with me if I went after her.”
“Of course she would—that’s what she wants.”
“To fight?” Artair asked, and shook his head. “That makes no sense.”
Lachlan placed a firm hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Back to lesson one—women aren’t sensible.”
“Then how can anything ever be settled?”
Lachlan chuckled again. “It can’t, because women never forget. They’ll remind you of something you did years after you long forgot it.”
“And you know this how?”
“I learned it firsthand from every woman I’ve gotten to know.”
“You mean every woman you’ve bedded,” Artair said.
“Women love to talk, especially after sex. That’s when I find out a lot about them.” He grinned. “And oh how I look forward to every lesson.”
Artair shook his head. “I prefer my own approach. It’s more sensible.”
Lachlan chuckled some more. “You better keep lesson one in mind or you’re going to find yourself in deep trouble, especially with a woman as passionate as Zia.”
Artair smiled broadly. “I admire her passion.”
“That’s because you have none of your own.”
“I do so,” he said, insulted.
“No offense, brother, but passion isn’t your strong suit—reason and dependability are, which is great because you can always be counted on to do the right thing. And nothing stops you from doing it. Look how it helped you rescue Zia before she was burnt at the stake. When you told us the story, I thought how I might have considered that she was a witch and let her burn.”
“Even when you knew she had information about Ronan?”
Lachlan shrugged. “I’m not taking chances with a witch.”
“But Zia is no witch.”
“I know that now, but I would have had doubts once I heard that the whole village condemned her.”
His brother’s words angered him and he was about to argue when he realized what Lachlan was saying. “You warn me that most think like you and trouble still brews for Zia.”
“True enough, the clan will need to look out for her, but I was more concerned with your response to my even suggesting that your wife could be a witch. Your response was sensible.”
“You would have preferred for me to knock you on your ass?”
Lachlan grinned. “That would have been passion.”
Chapter 20
Two days had gone by since Zia made use of Biddie’s cottage. No sooner had she gotten the cottage cleaned and ready than people started arriving, most of them with minor ailments that could be taken care of easily enough. When word spread about how much better Honora was feeling, the pregnant women in the village descended on Zia’s doorstep.
She focused on her work while immersed in it, but otherwise couldn’t help but think about Artair. It was an effort then to push such thoughts away so he wouldn’t plague her every moment of the day and night.
She had been disappointed when he didn’t follow her to the cottage the day they’d argued. She had hoped he would, even if it meant continuing to argue, but he hadn’t. And that night, again to her disappointment, they had no time to discuss love or passion, because she was summoned to deliver a babe that in the end decided it wasn’t time to be born after all.
Artair’s approach to their situation remained sensible. He kept to his side of the bed, while she didn’t. He acted like a dutiful and attentive husband, while she did as she pleased. It was not an intolerable situation. On the contrary, it was fast becoming comfortable, safe, and loving, as if the two of them had been together for years rather then months.
“I’ve come to walk you home,” Artair said, ducking as he entered the short, open doorway and easing around the table. “Are you certain this space is not too small for you?”
“It will do. I won’t be here that long.” She was glad to see him, but then, she was always glad to see him.
“Still, I would prefer that you were comfortable and had sufficient room,” he said, and moving behind her, inched his arms slowly around her waist until they hooked in front of her, then he settled her close against him.
He was forever affectionate, his arms always going around her, his lips pecking her cheek, her neck, or stealing a kiss. The other night, when she was kept late at the cottage of a young lad with an ailing stomach, he had waited outside for her, and afterward they walked to the keep hand in hand. He had stopped, and under the brilliant moonlight kissed her, and she’d welcomed it. She had actually ached for it.