Page 13 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Wynda’s round cheeks flushed with obvious pleasure at his gratitude. “Now that I see ye standing here before me, I’m happy to have done it. Besides…” She shrugged and looked around the room. “I’ve been here my whole life. Where else would I go?”

Alec patted her shoulder. “I’m home now and I’ll set things to rights. If ye know some able-bodied men who might be willing to help, we’ll have the castle restored in no time.”

Wynda folded her arms over her wide chest in the take-charge way she had when he was a lad. “Aye, I think I know a few.”

For the first time since entering the castle, Alec had hope. Duart Castle would be restored to its former glory.

• • •

Golden streams of sunlight lit the floors of Celia’s home and filled the small cottage with cozy warmth. The sweet stalk of agrimony she’d been grinding lay half churned in the mortar.

Her mind was on the dream. The same one she’d had every night for the last fortnight.

Ever since she met the new laird.

Each morning she awoke tangled in the sheets, her heart racing, her body on fire for something she’d never before craved. The dream played out in her mind. Alec MacLean standing before her, bare-chested and powerful, bidding her to sate her curiosity and taste the very mouth she’d watched so carefully.

In her dreams, she was bold, leaning into him and sucking his lower lip into her mouth. He’d tasted the way he smelled—clean and fresh and wholly wonderful.

The rest happened in a heady rush. Clothes were stripped off with trembling hands and fingers raked across naked, glistening flesh. His lips sampled as much as hers did, his tongue teasing each moan, each sigh…

Celia rubbed her thighs together. She was slick and swollen, feverish with a lust that hadn’t waned even hours after waking.

A knock at the cottage door pulled her from wanton thoughts in a dizzying mix of relief and irritation. She patted the dagger at her waist to ensure herself of its presence before opening the door.

A woman in a brilliant red silk gown pushed her way into the cottage, a feat not easily done for one with so many skirts. Celia moved aside to let the woman flounce in. It was never in one’s best interest to offend nobility.

The woman looked side to side at the room, setting her black curls bobbing around her face. Her nose peeled up with disdain before she faced Celia. Her smile did not touch her eyes. “Ye’re the witch, correct?”

Nobility typically meant a fair amount of coin, but Celia suddenly found herself wishing for a randy drunk to contend with over this woman. At least those she knew how to handle.

“I’m a healer,” she specified. “Not a witch.”

The woman peered into a jar containing bits of betony and jerked her head back. She placed a gloved hand under her nose. “I need a love potion, so see it mixed for me.” Her chin jutted upward so high Celia could see into her pointed nostrils. “I’ll wait, but ye best no make me wait too long.”

Celia did not move from the door. “I’m sorry, my lady, but I do not make potions.”

The woman’s black eyebrow rose and she took a menacing step toward Celia. “Of course ye make potions. Stop wasting my time and give me the exorbitant price. I’ll see it paid.” She lifted a heavy purse at her side where the bulging leather was suspended from a silk cord. There was probably more money in there than Celia had made in her entire life.

She turned away from the woman and the pouch. “Forgive me, my lady, but for all the coin in the land, I cannot make you a potion.”

Hard footsteps stomped across the floor and Celia spun around as the woman came face-to-face with her. “Do ye know who my father is?”

Celia clenched her teeth to keep from backing away. Of course she didn’t know who the chit’s father was.

“Laird MacDougall of Aros Castle.” She spoke the name like a threat.

Ice prickled through Celia’s veins. She wanted no part of MacDougall’s witch trials and now this unwanted visitor brought the threat right to her home.

“I still cannot help you. I do not do potions or spells as I am not a witch. I only offer healing with herbs I grow.” Celia hoped her voice sounded strong. It certainly did not feel such.

The woman gave an over-wide smile, displaying a mouthful of crammed teeth. “I willna forget this slight.”

She shoved past Celia in a bustle of her massive skirts and stalked across the small front yard, a grown woman in full tantrum.

No escort waited beside her horse, but then one was most likely unnecessary. Obviously the woman would be able to handle herself against the most unruly of outlaws.

Ruadh slinked in through the doorway and nudged Celia’s hand with his moist black nose. She managed to scratch behind his ear once before he scampered to the pile of old cloth she’d laid down for his bed.