Under the Highlander's Spell(65)

As she worked on James, she was aware that Artair came and went from the cottage. He was not the only one. There were also women who came to ask advice about injuries they weren’t sure how to handle.

Meanwhile, a fresh group of warriors arrived from the keep, while those warriors who could, returned home. Another group was sent out after the remaining marauders, to make certain they didn’t terrorize other villages.

Addie arrived when Zia was nearly finished.

“When the news arrived at the keep, I thought you could use some help and more healing supplies and a change of clothes,” she said, holding up two baskets.

“You’re an angel,” Zia said with relief.

“No, m’lady, you are,” Neddie said with a tear in her eye.

“I’m a healer,” Zia said, as if it explained everything, then returned to stitching James’s arm.

It wasn’t until hours later, well past nightfall, with James safely tucked in bed and Addie arguing with Zia that she must sleep, that Artair entered the cottage.

Zia was prepared to argue her point that James needed her nearby if there was a problem with the wound.

“Your wife is not reasonable,” Addie said to her son.

“That she isn’t, Mother,” Artair said.

“James may need me,” Zia insisted.

“There is no more you can do for him except get some rest and be refreshed when he does need you,” Artair said, walking over to where she stood by the table.

“But—”

“You can do no more, Zia,” he reiterated.

“There’s always more—”

“Not this time,” Artair said. “You have spent hours on him. What will be will be.”

Zia felt tears threaten her eyes, felt her limbs go numb, felt her overworked body giving out, and when he opened his arms, she gratefully fell into them.

He scooped her up, and she dropped her head to his shoulder. “I don’t want him to die.”

“That isn’t up to you. You must think of yourself and the others who need you. Mother will look after James and fetch you if needed. All warriors rest after battle, and you have battled bravely today.”

Her eyes began to close. “I am no warrior. I am a healer.”

“That you are, dear wife. That you are.”





Chapter 23




A week after the battle, Artair and a group of men saw to bringing the last of the wounded men home. Zia hadn’t allowed the seriously injured to be moved until she felt they were able to make the brief journey.

He had not only worked beside her that week, but watched her work, and as usual was amazed with the way she gave the injured hope and how her generous smile made even the most downtrodden break into a grin. It wasn’t only her healing skills that helped; her enthusiasm for life lifted the spirit and lightened the heart. He could easily understand why so many would deem her a witch. The envious and ignorant would claim she used magic, spells or potions, and that worried him.

He didn’t believe that Zia was now safe, and he intended to remain vigilant. Sooner or later news would arrive from the church council. It was inevitable, and he’d be prepared to do whatever was necessary to save her. He would not see her denounced as a witch or burned at the stake, and with an eye toward protecting her, was determined to make her his wife, and sooner rather than later.

But how?

That was the question.

He barely had time to talk to her, and when they fell into bed together, they were so exhausted that sleep claimed them immediately. However, now that they were home with more helping hands, Artair planned on having Zia to himself for a while.

“Don’t count on it.”

Artair turned with a befuddled look from where he stood on the steps of the keep, a strong autumn wind blowing, to see his brother Cavan cracking a smile as he approached.

Cavan laughed. “It takes a married man and one in love with his wife to know what you’re thinking even without seeing your expression, though once you turned around I knew I was right. You haven’t had your wife to yourself lately.”

“Neither have you,” Artair challenged.

Cavan continued laughing. “Yes, but I’m laird so I can command.”

It was Artair’s turn to laugh. “You never have nor will you ever command Honora.”

“Damn, you can’t even let your brother keep his fantasy.”

Talk suddenly turned serious as Cavan placed a firm hand on Artair’s shoulder and spoke low so no one else could hear. “Your wife works miracles.”

“Which could prove fatal for her,” Artair replied, voicing what Cavan would not.

“No one in the village speaks poorly of her,” Cavan assured. “All are grateful for her healing skills, especially James.”