Page 101 of Enchantment of a Highlander

His will fought the same battle that’d raged through the night. And yet now it wavered with exhaustion.

He closed his eyes and imagined Celia as she had looked in the moonlight, her face stricken from a childhood of terror. She had lived through too much for one innocent life.

A rough growl vibrated in his throat and he set the cup to the table with a hard smack, the liquor within still untouched.

Even now, even after these two weeks, Celia burned deeper than his darkness.

• • •

Celia passed through the shadows between cottages in the hopes of remaining unseen. Sunlight flickered overhead, flashing bright before being blocked once more.

Her lungs swelled in her chest in an effort to keep up with her hurried pace. For all the loneliness within her earthen hut, she longed for its oppressive safety.

A splash sounded behind her.

Then another.

Her pulse leapt.

Someone followed her.

She dug out her dagger and slipped around a corner blocked from sunlight, where her shadow wouldn’t show. Her back pressed flush to the rough wall. She forced her ragged breath in and out in slow, trembling beats.

Waiting.

The footsteps slapped closer through the puddles. She leapt from the corner, her dagger lifted for attack.

An aging woman with watery blue eyes and frazzled gray hair screeched in alarm and cowered back, her arm thrown over her face.

“Dinna hurt me.” The woman’s voice quaked. “My husband is sick. I saw ye and knew ye could help him.”

Celia lowered her blade, but her muscles burned with tension and her hands shook with the rush of unused energy.

The woman slowly relaxed her arm and regarded Celia, eyes wide with desperation. “Please. He’s all I have.” Her puckered chin quivered. She rounded her frail shoulders against the wind.

The woman’s shawl was tattered and the rest of her clothes appeared to be in as poor repair.

Celia knew she should leave. Those few extra moments spent to aid another could easily be her demise. While her mind screamed at her to run, she ignored the warning and nodded at the old woman. “Please, show me where he is. I’ll do what I can.”

The woman did not wait to be told again. She spun around and navigated the narrow alleyways with expertise until they arrived inside a small, tidy cottage.

An aged man lay in a bed at the far corner, his white hair thin and patchy. His breath faintly whispered from his weakened chest and a heartbeat was almost imperceptible. Within minutes, he would be dead.

The weight of that knowledge sat heavy in Celia’s chest. She rested a hand to the man’s shoulder and his breath scratched a final, struggled exhale. And ceased.

“I’m afraid I’m too late,” Celia said slowly. Death was always difficult to acknowledge.

No words of comfort could ever be enough to assuage the force of grief.

“Did ye just…” The woman shook her head vigorously. “I saw ye touch him and he stopped breathing. Fix it. Undo what ye did. Do what ye did to the pregnant lass.”

Celia held a hand out to the woman in an attempt to offer comfort. “The child was still alive, just sleeping in the womb. I only—”

“Lies,” the woman cried. The desperation in her eyes flickered to wild grief. “Ye lie. Ye dinna want him to live. Ye knew he told the outlaws he’d seen ye and ye’ll see him dead for it. I should have known better than to trust ye.” Her bony finger curled out toward Celia, stabbing the air with accusation. “Witch!”

“No,” Celia said sharply. Her stomach filled with ice despite her strong voice.

This was how Fiona had been accused.