Page 77 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Her body tensed.

“Just until the attacks cease,” he said.

Just until he was strong enough to stop MacDougall’s witch trials. The outlaw’s final confession echoed in his ears.

A bag of gold to the man who caught a witch.

“And Duncan is fully healed,” he added in an attempt to appeal to her healer tendencies. “If something were to delay ye, I wouldna want him to look for ye again. No with all the attacks, aye?”

She pulled in a deep breath and stayed silent before opening her eyes. “You don’t know what you ask of me.”

“Tell me.” He breathed the reply, as if speaking too loudly might frighten her away.

She turned away and he sensed her slipping from him. “If ye willna tell me, then at least come to the castle, aye?”

He cupped his hand over her slender shoulder and rubbed a particularly tight area there. She pursed her lips.

“Please.” He was begging.

He, Alec MacLean, was begging.

And he’d continue to do so if it made her agree.

“Yes,” she said finally. “I’ll come.”

It was a bittersweet victory. She’d agreed to come, but all the trust in her gaze had fled and was replaced with unmistakable wariness.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Celia’s feet were silent on the cobblestones of Duart Castle’s courtyard, her peasant shoes hidden beneath the silk dress Alec had talked her into wearing.

She regretted having made the stupid thing at all, she regretted how it let all the cold flap around her, and she regretted how the fine fabric was so unyielding.

Yes, she already hated the silk dress.

Her palms were slick, but she couldn’t wipe them on the fabric and leave sweaty marks. Instead, she balled her hands into wet fists that chilled in the icy air and burned molten hot and moist within.

The entrance to the keep came into view, exquisite stonework scrolling over the open door.

Her feet went heavy and refused to allow her to enter.

Alec stopped beside her. “Are ye well, Celia?”

She lowered her head and cast a discreet glance around them through the curtain of her hair. The guards stared at her from their posts, doubtless wondering why the peasant healer was dressed in the clothes of a lady.

No, they didn’t wonder. They knew. Same as any servants who would see her. They would all assume.

And were they wrong?

Shame burned inside her.

“Celia?” Alec took her hand, but she pulled her arm closer toward herself and slid from his grasp.

Did he not realize what this looked like?

Did he not realize they would all think she was his mistress?

“May I address the lady?” a man said on the other side of Alec. Celia looked up to find a bulky man with graying black hair in front of her.