Page 19 of Leila’s Legacy

A witch. He repeated it to himself again and balled his hands into fists.

A witch. A witch. A witch.

It was so difficult to separate Lady Leila, daughter to an English earl—a lady, despite what she wore—from a creature he knew he must hate. It was all the more difficult when she was so petite, so slender…

“You may turn now.” Her voice interrupted his thoughts.

He spun around with rage and loathing coursing through his veins, fully prepared to detest this woman.

She held a hand to her chest and cast a modest glance up at him. “Do you truly mean to act as my lady’s maid?”

He hesitated, ready to demand what she meant when she put her back to him and lifted her glossy dark hair off her neck.

Niall’s mouth went dry.

Merciful Heaven.

The fabric gaped open on either side, revealing the smooth, delicate skin of her back. Her shoulder blades were fragile lines against her skin, framing the dip of her spine that led to the sensual curve of her lower back. Except the kirtle was secured further still. There, amid a crisscross of lacings partially done, was the swell of her finely formed arse. Dear God, help him.

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “’Tis rather cold.”

True to her word, small bumps, like those of a plucked goose, rose over her fair skin.

Niall shook himself from his stupor and took the thin lacings in his hand. They were dainty things in his large clumsy hands. He managed to thread them through the first three loops. In his haste to dress her, to seal away the vision of her partially undressed form before him, his hand brushed her back.

She jerked from his touch. Her shoulders snapped back and evidence of her strength showed in the flex of her lean muscle. Her body was slender, mayhap too much so. Most likely from her bout with the great illness. But her skin had been warm to the touch; warm and soft.

He wanted to take the pad of his middle finger and slide it down that sweet center of her back, to unravel the silky lacings as he went, to part the fabric. Would she shiver for him as she’d done with the cold?

She glanced at him over her shoulder once more but said nothing. She didn’t need to. He was taking too long; he already knew as much.

His gaze fixed on the loops set within the blue wool garment and concentrated on the lacing sliding through. He couldn’t keep staring at the loveliness of her naked back or he might end up taking the kirtle off. When finally he was done, he secured the gown with a knot.

“Done,” he said gruffly and backed away.

“Will you do my hair for me as well?” Leila turned around as she released her hold on her hair. The glossy dark tresses slid down like silk over her shoulders.

Her breasts had been bound. The swell of her bosom was unmistakable against the fitted kirtle and generous enough to have shown in the simple leine she’d worn.

She glanced down at herself and he realized he’d been staring for too long.

“I like yer hair how it is.” He didn’t know why he said such a foolish thing. Mayhap because she was a lady, used to flattery. Mayhap to set her at ease. Mayhap because he couldn’t get the image of her naked with that beautiful hair spilling down her fair shoulders from his mind.

She was disconcerting, this woman of noble birth who was rumored to be a witch. Everything in Niall told him to respect her for the lady she was, even as everything told him to hate her for the witch she was. Or rather, the witch she was accused of being. The Father Gerard from Edinburgh had already been sent for and her trial would occur upon his arrival, most likely in the next sennight.

But the feelings she produced within Niall—the need to protect, mingled with his disgust of her accused crime and the blood-searing desire—left him addled in a way he did not enjoy.

He shifted her neatly folded clothing on the bench to get her cloak for her. The warmth of her body lingered on the leather trews and heated his palm. A sweet scent of herbs rose from the garments. He grasped the cloak in his free hand and passed it to her.

She did not accept the cloak from him. “I will wait until I arrive at the prison, if I may.”

He set her clothing aside. “I need yer hands.”

She set her jaw and slowly lifted her wrists to him. The ointment he’d applied glistened against her skin over the chaffing caused by her prior binding. He was careful as he wrapped the rope around once more and secured it. With that, he led her from the cell with specific instructions for one of his men to bring her clothing to the prison later.

Four guards followed Niall and Lady Leila from the dungeon, up through the castle and into the courtyard. People had already gathered in great numbers, or as great of numbers as one could expect in such times. Many had left their sick and risked their own good health to come see the witch who had cast such a curse upon them.

Their faces were settled in scowls and their eyes glittered with hatred. A crowd of such rage was capable of many things. Including murder.

“Good people of Liddesdale,” Lord Armstrong announced. “I give ye the witch of Werrick Castle.”

Insults hissed from the crowd to where Leila stood behind Lord Armstrong and the clansmen surrounding her. They would not be near her soon and she would be at the mercy of the mob.

Niall left Leila’s side to approach Lord Armstrong. “I ask that ye reconsider making her walk to the prison this way,” Niall said.

The Keeper of Liddesdale smirked. “Need I remind ye how yer own da perished at the hands of a witch?” His gaze was cold. “She walks on her own. And mind ye dinna get the same soft-heartedness yer da did, aye? I need soldiers, no’ mums.”

Niall gritted his teeth but said nothing. What could he say when faced with a mass of angry people and a leader who called his logic soft-hearted? It was the first mention of his father being as much, however. It made him want to question Lord Armstrong further. But now was not the time.

One of the castle’s minstrels thumped a drum, the rhythm that of a wildly beating heart. What was Lady Leila’s heart beating like now? Niall glanced at her and found her face calm, her expression serene.

This was wrong. No matter how much Niall detested witches, no matter the wrong done to the people of Liddesdale, this woman had not been yet judged by Father Gerard and still Armstrong would see her punished regardless. It went against everything in him to allow this treatment of a woman. Especially one of noble birth. Especially one that looked so delicate.

Damn it. This was wrong.

And he was powerless to stop it.