Donna Fletcher.

Under the Highlanders Spell.

Chapter 1.

Burn, witch, burn!

The crazed chant rang throughout the village while Zia watched two men continue to pile kindling around her feet. Struggling was senseless. The coa.r.s.e rope sc.r.a.ped her bare arms and dug into her stomach.

She had done nothing to deserve such unfair judgment. She had simply responded to the village of Lornes need for a healer. Instead of being grateful for her help, the villagers had begun to gossip about her extraordinary powers, especially after she brought a babe back from the brink of death. Wagging tongues immediately claimed her"a witch.

Zia had tried to reason with the people, but it seemed to make it worse. They did not understand her explanations of how specific mixtures of herbs and poultices could aid in helping the ill heal. They argued her concoctions were works of the devil, and her beauty was even called to task. Why else would every man in the village be unable to keep their eyes off her? And he mark of the devil was on her for sure in the unnatural color of her long, dark red hair sparked with fiery blond streaks.

She had realized that her only choice was to run and leave the ignorant to their fate. Unfortunately, she had reached that decision too late and several men had burst into the small cottage, the village had first so eagerly provided for her. Two men grabbed hold of her and while another man burned her few possessions and healing items in the hearth, the others shoved her face down on the worn wooden table and a woman took a knife to her hair, chopping it short.

She had then been dragged, by no means pa.s.sively, and tied to a stake in the middle of the village for the jeering crowd to torment. And in mere moments the torch a stout man with a grim expression gripped tightly in his beefy hand, would set the pile of kindling aflame and the villagers would cheer as they watched her burn.

Her fate appeared sealed. She could think of nothing to save her. Words were useless; they would fall on deaf ears and frightened minds. The only thing left to her was prayer, but before she could recite the familiar and hopeful words, her grandmothers ageless face popped into her head.

Zia couldnt help but smile. She loved her grandmother dearly. It was she who had taught Zia all about healing. Her grandmother had even chosen her name. Zia meant staff of life and her grandmother claimed she had been born to preserve life. Zia had worked diligently at learning all about the healing arts and had been willing to travel to wherever her skills had been needed. She also learned that not all people thought highly of healers.

Zia understood the risks, especially being an exceptional healer, though she believed her skills natural. As her grandmother had predicted, she had been born to preserve life like so many in the long line of healers before her.

Unfortunately, her life would be a short one and she so wished for more time to help people and to gain more healing knowledge.

Zia.

She glanced around, certain she had heard a familiar voice call her name. She recognized no friendly face in the grumbling crowd.

He comes to save you. He is good for you.

Zia smiled hearing in her head her grandmothers voice. Her grandmother had always been there for her even when they werent together. It was a strange connection they shared but one she never questioned or doubted. Her grandmother subscribed to the Old Ways, the old beliefs and she had pa.s.sed them on to Zia, and she was grateful she had.

Zia searched anxiously past the jeering faces in the distance for her rescuer, but disappointingly saw no one. She would wait. Even as the man holding the torch walked toward her ready to light the kindling, she kept faith in her grandmothers words.

Suddenly, thunder erupted and she glanced overhead at the canopy of dark clouds that had moved in ever so swiftly, and her smile grew as fat raindrops a.s.saulted her face.

Accusatory shouts sparked the air as many cried out that she commanded the weather to do her bidding.

Was there no end to their ignorance?

Just as she prepared to whisper a prayer of grat.i.tude for her abrupt reprieve, she spied riders on the outskirts of the village.

Four men approached, the leader easily distinguishable. He sat his stallion tall and proud, a good-sized dog following at the horses heels. A few in the crowd followed her stare and hurriedly alerted all to the arrival of strangers. A rash of mumbling gave way to hushed silence as the riders entered the village, and the crowd parted slowly, clearing a significant path for the imposing leader and his cohorts.

Apprehension crackled in the air along with the thunder as Zia met the leaders dark brown eyes and felt a jolt to her senses. Surely, the deep color was born from the depths of the earth where the soil was the most fertile, where roots dug deep to reach and from which all life sprung.

He broke the contact, glancing over the crowd, and announced in a clear, confident voice, I am Artair Sinclare of Caithness, and I have come to speak with Zia the healer.

Gasps and murmuring circled the crowd before the village leader, Harold, stepped forward. Zia the healer is a witch and has been sentenced to burn at the stake.

Then I have come in due time. I will speak to her first, Artair commanded.

Zia wasnt surprised by his authoritative nature. One would have to be blind not to see that he was a great warrior. Not only did he sit astride his horse with pride, but he held himself in the same manner, his broad shoulders drawn back, his firm chest expanded, his long lean fingers heavy on the hilt of his sword.

I cant permit it, Harold insisted, shaking his head.

Cant or wont? Artair asked bluntly.

Harold began to tremble. I must think of our safety.

Your safety rests on me speaking to the healer, Artair warned.

Zia felt hopeful since he hadnt referred to her as a witch, but rather, acknowledged her as a healer. Could this man really be her savior?

Have done with it then, Harold begrudgingly said. But keep your distance, she will entrap you.

The caution didnt dissuade the warrior. He moved his stallion nearer to her funeral pyre, and she got a closer look at his staggering good looks. His features were a work of pure talented artistry; the heavens couldnt have made him any more stunning. He stared directly at her, his dark eyes once more locking with hers and sending her senses soaring. You would think that the kindling had been set aflame, her body heated so rapidly.

I search for my brother Ronan Sinclare. It has been said that you have tended him?

I have, she admitted, recalling the man and facial similarities between the two.

How is he?

I left him healing nicely from serious injuries when word was received that the village Lorne was in desperate need of a healer.

Where is Ronan? Artair asked, his horsing growing impatient while he looked to remain calm and confident.

Where he is has no name and no direction.

You speak in riddles, Artair accused.

She is a witch. She tries to trick you, Harold warned, jabbing his finger in her direction.

I can take you there, she said.

You will burn, witch, Harold proclaimed, his finger trembling in anger.

The crowd agreed and chanted for her demise.

Artair rose suddenly in his saddle and turned to glare at the people. His voice rose over theirs. I will speak with this woman.

Voices quieted, though whispers rushed around the crowd.

Artair turned back around to face her, ignoring the quiet protest. Tell me how to find my brother.

I cannot. I can only show you the way.

She enchants you and makes you do her bidding, Harold disputed adamantly.

Artair shot him a scalding glare, and the man retreated, bowing his head and taking several steps back.

Tell me where my brother is, he demanded, turning to Zia.

I cannot. I can only take you to him, she said and couldnt help but admire the way he remained calm and in control as if her words did not disturb him, but rather made him consider his options.

Further discussion will not change your mind, will it? he asked.

It cannot, for I speak the truth.

He appeared to accept her words as fact, for he turned to Harold. Release her to me.

I will not, he said indignantly. She is a witch and she shall burn for her sins.

I require her a.s.sistance, Artair said firmly.

This village requires that she pay for her evil ways.

What is it that she has done to this village? Artair asked.

She has worked her evil magic on us.

Your people suffer?

Harold shook his head. We continue to heal.

Then what are her sins?

Harold shoved his finger at her face. She has used her evil ways to cure us. What now will happen to us?

Is that not up to you? Artair asked.

Harold sputtered and shook his head. She will burn, I tell you. She will burn.

Zia watched as Artair studied the man and once again she thought that he reasonably weighed alternatives. He was not at all ruffled by the exchange with the agitated man, rather he seemed in control and sure of having his way, which certainly would benefit her.

He summoned the man to him with a brisk snap of his hand and Harold did not deny the warrior, he scurried over to him. Zia was close enough to hear their exchange.

How much? Artair asked.

Harold appeared confused.

How much for her release?

Harold shook his head and his voice turned bold. She will harm us if released.

I will make certain that she doesnt, Artair a.s.sured him. And I will pay you handsomely to take her off your hands.

The man seemed to consider his offer, and Zia understood why. Artair Sinclare made it sound as if he had the power to do as he claimed, though she had no doubt the promise of generous coins made Harold think twice.

Burn the witch! Someone yelled, and others joined in.

Harold, hearing his people call for the witchs life and probably fearing disappointing them, continued to argue with Artair. The debate seemed to go nowhere, though Artair seemed determined and that led Zia to believe that the handsome warrior would have his way"and she would be freed.

She just wished that the rain had continued. It would have prevented the torch bearer from preparing another torch and creeping closer to her, ready and willing to please the crowd. But the rain had ceased when the four men entered the village.

Artair seemed to tire of the useless exchange and reached into the fold where his plaid crossed his chest and met his waist and extracted a small pouch. He dropped it to the man.

Harold greedily seized it, tugged it open and dug inside. He stepped closer to Artair. Youll take her far and make sure she doesnt return here and about?

Ill see that she has no more dealings with your village.

Take her, then, and be done with it, Harold said with a dismissive wave.

Artair didnt waste a moment. He gave a nod to his men and they in turn drew their swords. The crowd instantly halted their shouts and fear held them silent.

Artair drew his own sword and with accurate aim he sliced the ropes that held Zia without marring her flesh. He then replaced his sword at his side and reached out his hand to her.

Zia seized hold, and when he clamped his hand around her arm, she watched the muscles grow taut along his bare forearm and bulge with strength as he easily swung her up to sit in front of him in the saddle. His arm went around her waist and he yanked her close, adjusting her against him, while her legs rested over one side and came in contact with his bare one. Her skirt had ridden up just enough for her flesh to feel his, and he was warm and muscled, and once again she was made aware of his strength.

She met his dark eyes as he guided his horse away from the funeral pyre, and they were even more enticing up close.

Keep away from her eyes, sh.e.l.l bewitch you, Harold warned as they pa.s.sed him.

Zia wasnt surprised when Artair paid the man no heed. He obviously was making it clear to all, and to Zia, that he didnt fear her. Could he also be letting her know that he didnt believe in witches or magic?

At the moment, it didnt matter to her. Her only concern was that she was free.

Zia smiled at her rescuer. Thank you, she said, and rested her head on his shoulder. After all, it had been a very difficult morning.

Chapter 2.

Artair stared at the supposed witch wrapped in his arms. He was a practical man and didnt believe in witches, though he believed in the ability of a beautiful woman to bewitch. And Zia was undoubtedly a beautiful woman.

Her dark red hair had obviously suffered a shearing, and blond spikes vied with dark curls for attention around her slim face, enlarging her beguiling green eyes. He recalled how she had held his gaze after he planted her in front of him on his horse, and how her eyes not only radiated a fierce intelligence but sparked with an undeniable pa.s.sion.