Page 3 of Enchantment of a Highlander

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Celia closed the door of her cottage against the push of wind. A stark quiet filled the room.

Gray light filtered in from the open shutters and highlighted the warrior’s massive form. She studied him now in the privacy of her own home. His hair was black as peat and pulled into a braid long enough to graze the sheath he wore between his shoulder blades. Blood stained his shirt, a violent splash of color against otherwise muted tones.

Even with the wound, the man stood upright, his broad shoulders pulled back with the pride of someone who never bowed.

His eyes were pale blue, the color of a cloudless sky on a cold winter day, and his unwavering stare left her skin tight with awareness.

She pointed to a chair by the hearth. “Go sit by the fire.”

His pack fell to the floor with a thunk that rattled the shutters.

She pulled open the plain wooden box of thread. Her back faced him, but she kept her ears strained for any sounds of his approach.

Bringing the injured man to her home by invitation was imprudent. She knew nothing of the stranger aside from the assistance he had offered Bessie when the woman was attacked.

He’d angled himself between the outlaws and Bessie so the young woman could escape. Only then had he backed against the rock wall to keep from being surrounded. Surely his valor spoke something of his morals.

The chair by the fire gave an aged groan. She dug a needle from another box and glanced over her shoulder. He watched her still with those cool blue eyes.

Rescuer of women he might be, but she would be keeping her dagger at her waist.

“Where was the woman’s husband?” His voice was strong, commanding. The kind men obeyed without question.

But Celia wasn’t a man.

She took her time pulling a bundle of thyme from the rafters. His gaze drifted to her naked ankles.

“Dead.” She readjusted the hem of her dress with a snap.

She didn’t typically know much about the people who sought her aid, and preferred to keep it that way. But Bessie had always taken Celia’s silence as an invitation to chatter nonstop.

It had been impossible not to listen.

The stranger’s gaze slid up to her face. “Where’s yer husband?”

His inquiry was more than most men asked.

Fortunately, the rumor of her being a witch kept the men fearfully at bay. Ironic that the dangerous slur shrouding her life was the very thing protecting her.

Such had not always been the case.

“You should take off your leine so I can see your wound,” she said. She shifted her gaze to the dried thyme in her hand to keep from watching him undress.

The dusky green leaves crackled against her palm and released a smooth, clean scent.

“Do ye always ignore questions or is it just me?” His sheath clattered to the ground followed by the slick peel of wet fabric sliding off skin.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” She dragged the extra chair toward the fire and sat upon its hard surface. “Or is it just me?”

The water had begun to boil, bubbling low in the pot, yet she did not pull it from the flames.

Her gaze fell on his bare torso and any comment she might have made died in her throat. She’d seen men without their shirts before—in fact, she’d seen men naked. Some were fleshy with inactivity or age and some were hard and sculpted like the one in front of her.

But never had she seen one with so many signs of past hurt.

“It’s just ye.”