Page 60 of Enchantment of a Highlander

Alec knew all too well of the witch trials MacDougall held, where the jury comprised malicious nobles armed with retractable blades to “prove” the witches did not bleed when stabbed.

Women were dragged from their homes in the dead of night, their children torn from their arms, before they were strangled and burned.

They were horrible deeds, full of hatred and heartlessness. The stories left Alec’s stomach roiling with disgust. He hadn’t wanted to believe them, but the feat was impossible with those scars of scorched earth.

In his youth, he would have charged against MacDougall, gone head to head in a battle to save the innocent.

Age had sharpened his prudence. Alec knew better. MacDougall’s forces were too great to take on and if he tried to kill the laird in his own castle, Alec would forfeit his life.

While patience in light of such ugliness was difficult, he knew he had almost no ground to stand on. His best option was to wait and grow stronger.

Once he was restored to the full potency of his power, he would have the authority to provide the necessary aid. Until then, he was almost as helpless as those women.

“I dinna come to talk about witches,” Alec said.

He would not discuss them now, but he would offer to spare a couple of men to assist on MacDougall land, men who could secretly spy and help protect the accused witches.

MacDougall’s fingers danced against his palms with agitated madness, his gaze distant. “Ye need my help still or ye wouldna be here.” His attention refocused on Alec. “And ye have a witch on yer land. Bring her to me and we will discuss marriage and the aid ye so desperately need.”

Alec didn’t answer for a moment. He couldn’t. Not when all the words on his tongue were naught but sharp and scornful. He balled his hand into a fist and squeezed until the heat of his darkness, his rage, ebbed.

“Who is the witch?” he asked with a calm he did not feel.

MacDougall’s lips curled back from his teeth. “Ye’d know her if ye saw her. She’s got the devil’s own glint in her eyes and a body with enough curves to bring a man to his knees. Aye, she’s grown into the perfect catalyst for Satan to bewitch the souls from men. Ye need to punish the whore and send her to the fires of hell.”

His hands twisted against one another and the lower lids of his eyes tensed. “They come in many forms—beggars and prostitutes and healers. All. Must. Die.”

Alec’s blood chilled with the man’s vehemence. He knew too well who among his people would be subjected to MacDougall’s wrath.

Of Celia, his beautiful Celia who practiced healing with such skill, many whispered of witchcraft.

She had been right.

She was not safe.

• • •

There was a specific method to slipping cloth up a broken nose to ease the flow of blood and not cause further harm. Celia held her breath to steady her hand and delicately slid the wad of linen into the villager’s nostrils.

The large, red-haired man watched her with crossed, bloodshot eyes. His mouth hung open while she worked, bathing her in hot, alcohol-sour breath.

His wife stood beside Celia, ready to offer assistance. Their home was warm from the smoldering peat fire glowing against the hearth. Celia ordinarily did not venture to the village to heal, but the woman had been insistent, her glassy eyes so fearful she could not be refused.

“Have the drops begun to take effect?” Celia asked the man.

His eyes were starting to droop, but she wanted to make certain the valerian root affected him before she began. His nose had been knocked so hard it smeared across the left side of his face.

Resetting it would be extraordinarily painful.

“I dinna think it has,” he slurred. “I’ll be needing another round.”

Celia repressed her sharp comment. The man would get no more lest he poison himself. She positioned her fingers against the top of his nose. He did not jerk back from her touch, evidence the valerian worked despite his claim. She pressed her palms against his face to ensure she remained steady. The man’s body tightened.

She didn’t ask if he was ready, she didn’t prepare him. Men like him didn’t do well with forewarning. Instead, she jerked her hands downward and the telltale crackling beneath her fingertips shot chills across her skin.

The man roared like a trapped beast. His fist swung out at her, but she leapt back. The wind of its path skimmed her already bruised cheek.

“Damn that fecking laird to hell, the meddling bastard of a whoreson. I’m going to fecking kill that shite the next time I see him.” Blood soaked through the linen and dribbled against his lips.