Page 35 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Her cheeks flared with horrified heat. She hadn’t meant to question his honor. But what had she meant to do?

Convince him she wouldn’t be his mistress?

Maybe convince herself?

Her mind swirled.

“No, I didn’t mean—that is…” The muscles along the back of her neck drew tight. Who was this stammering idiot in her place?

She was not this woman.

“You did far more for me than you’ve done for other villagers,” she said finally, focusing on each word. “Unless you put feather beds in every home.”

He didn’t stop her, but nor did the rigidity of his shoulders seem to relax.

“I’m fine coming to see Duncan. I want to heal him as much as you want to see him well. But I don’t want special treatment, because others will see what you do for me and assume I’m your mistress. And I don’t…” The last few words stuck in her throat. “I don’t want to feel like I owe you anything outside of my rents and my daily visits with Duncan.”

There. She’d said it and it was done. She stared up at him, hoping for…hoping for what exactly?

“Ye dinna owe me anything outside coming to see Duncan.” His voice was unreadable.

Somehow the conversation didn’t hold the completion of a conclusion. “Right,” she said. “Which I should probably be doing now. Good day to you, laird.”

She spun away then and made her way down the shadowed hallway to Duncan’s room.

Wynda stood inside, stoking the fire beneath a small cauldron. “Ach, dinna ye look a sight?”

She got to her feet with a whuff and tugged Celia’s apron from a peg on the wall.

Celia accepted it and gazed over at the slender form on the bed. “How is he?”

Wynda smiled and all the creases on her weathered face deepened. “He’s still no waking, but he’s better ’n I’ve seen him. He’s no as hot as he was.”

Celia tied her apron on and approached the bed. Duncan’s cheeks were not as flushed as they’d been. She pressed her hand to the boy’s brow and felt it warm.

Warm, but not hot.

She pulled in a relieved breath. Now they had to stay ahead of the illness lest he slide backward in his recovery.

“I thought ye’d be here sooner, lass,” Wynda said beside her. “The guard told me ye’d arrived a while back.”

“I had to speak with the laird.”

“He’s no in the mood today, lass. I coulda told ye as much.” Wynda pushed her hands into her hips so her plump elbows jutted out. “He’s on his way to see about an alliance with a neighboring laird.”

A chill jagged down Celia’s back. “Which laird?”

Unruffled, Wynda grabbed up a stack of linens and made her way to the door. “Laird MacDougall.”

Chapter Eleven

Aros Castle was more fortress than anything else. The cold stone had gone dark with age and left an ominous shadow streaking the long stretch of lawn before it.

If Alec had not believed the rumors of witch burning, he did now. Wide expanses of blackened earth scarred the ground in six perfectly spaced patches.

He did not turn his head to examine them more closely as he passed. Instead, he kept his face, and his focus, forward.

He was not at Aros to discuss witches—he was at Aros to seek aid for his people. One issue at a time, and he was barely in a position to ask for what his people needed.