Page 59 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Her chest flushed bright red and bled up to her cheeks. “Grant was not—”

He lifted a hand to stop her. “I know why he saw ye.”

She tilted her head. “He told you why?”

“He needed a little persuasion,” Alec confessed.

Celia arched a brow at him and guilt pricked his conscience.

“I apologized,” he added defensively.

A ghost of a smile whispered across her lips.

He stared at her for a moment, committing her face to his memory, for soon she would be exactly that—a memory.

“Leave the herbs we need,” Alec said with as much courage as he could muster. “Wynda can administer them. I canna make ye stay when ye’re no wanting to be here.”

Her eyes lowered and she nodded. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Without looking up at him again, she slung her bag over her back and swept past him. The scent of rosemary hung in the air, leaving him with the memories of what once was and what could never be.

But she’d been right. He had to make his decisions for his people, not himself.

The following morning he would see MacDougall again, this time to agree to the arranged marriage.

Chapter Eighteen

Alec found himself once more standing in the great hall of Aros Castle. Only this time it was not his pride he would sacrifice, but his freedom.

His mouth was as dry as the rushes crunching beneath his feet. From what he remembered of the laird’s daughter, she was a comely lass.

Comely and spoiled.

He should be grateful for the opportunity. A wife would provide him with heirs and assume management of the castle keep. Yet every time he tried to imagine MacDougall’s black-haired daughter holding a child, all he could see was Celia in her place.

He shoved the thought away. He would not accept marriage to one woman with thoughts of another in his head.

Laird MacDougall strode into the room and nodded at Alec. “Ye’ve come.” They locked forearms and embraced before releasing.

There were lines around the older laird’s eyes Alec hadn’t noticed before. The guard had said MacDougall appeared upset when he was at Duart.

“Ye spoke to my guard and said ye needed to see me,” Alec said.

MacDougall nodded slowly. “Aye, there’s something important we must discuss, lad.” His expression drew grim. “There is a witch on yer land.” His upper lip pulled back in revulsion and he spat a thick glob of spit into the rushes.

Alec raised his eyebrows, unwilling to commit to a response. Whereas MacDougall had possessed composure and power the previous visit, he now appeared disconcerted and anxious.

“A witch,” MacDougall muttered, and shot a cursory glance around the empty room before leaning closer. “I saw her myself and chased her until she turned into a bird before my verra eyes and flew away.”

Alec stared at the other man’s expression, searching for a spark of humor. There was none.

MacDougall’s face was serious.

He was serious.

“She turned into a bird and flew away,” Alec repeated.

MacDougall’s eyes narrowed. “Dinna mock me, lad. Ye dinna understand these whores of Satan.” His hand curled into a gnarled fist. “They are vile creatures. Vile.” His eyes bulged. “Ye needed to know about the witch so ye could cleanse yer land of them the way I have.”