Page 62 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Together, they mounted and began the ride back to the castle. Alistair let Ewan take the lead. His thoughts were too full for him to pay proper attention to the path they needed to follow.

Fergus MacTavish was clearly planning something. But what were his intentions, and what did he hope to gain by his actions? Was he planning to try and drive Alistair mad with grief, or simply make him look incompetent and steal his clan’s confidence in him as a laird?

Whatever his goals, Alistair needed to unravel his plans, and soon. Otherwise, there was an uncomfortably good chance that his rival might succeed.

The knowledge sat uncomfortably in his gut, but so did the thought that circled his mind, unrelenting no matter how he tried to push it aside.

I’ll have tae tell Niamh. I dinnae wish tae, but telling her the truth and making sure she kens tae be on her guard is the only way tae keep her safe. She needs tae ken what Fergus MacTavish has done, and what he’s capable o’ beyond petty actions tae harm the clan.

‘Tis the only way, if I wish tae keep her from leavin’ me, or from bein’ too lost tae MacTavish’s machinations as Constance was.

Niamh woke to the maids setting up the morning meal, and no sign of her husband. She frowned. “Where is Laird MacDuff?”

“Beggin yer pardon, me lady, but the laird left early with his brother, master Ewan. They took a meal in the kitchen, then rode out, candle-marks ago.”

Niamh swallowed her disappointment. She’d come to look forward to their meals alone together. However, if Alistair was out with Ewan, it meant she didn’t need to come up with an excuse for her absence. She could simply leave, and no one would be the wiser, save the guards at the western gate.

She ate her meal and dressed warmly. After a moment’s thought, she went to the kitchen and requested a selection of sweet treats to bring as a gift. She might have included a flagon of mead or a bottle of wine, but she had no idea what the witch’s preferences were. Besides, she didn’t want to arouse too many suspicions.

Once she was ready, she made her way to the gate, armed with a basket in her arms, a set of shears and a story about wanting to clip some fresh herbs for a new sachet for her pillow. Outside the gate, she made a show of looking for herbs as she made her way west. Only when she was sure the guards were no longer paying attention did she lift her head and increase her pace, her steps purposeful as she made her way down the path.

It was a candle-mark or so before she reached the place where the path began to climb upward. Upon seeing it, Niamh understood why Catriona had said a horse would never be able to traverse the path. It was littered with stones of varying sizes, and narrow and twisting. It would be far too easy for a horse to pick up a stone or stumble.

After a moment to catch her breath, Niamh gathered herself and began the upward trek.

She hadn’t gotten far when she reached the trees, the shadows of their branches adding to the difficulty of the trail. By the time she was perhaps a quarter of the way up, Niamh’s shoulders were tight with the effort of keeping her footing, and her lower legs were feeling somewhat strained.

By the time she reached the place where the path finally turned level again, her brow was coated with sweat, despite the coolness of the day, it took a moment for her to catch her breath. Once she’d rested, she continued on.

She was beginning to fear she’d gone astray somehow when the trees opened to reveal a large clearing. In the middle was a good-sized cottage, well-maintained. At the door to the cottage was a woman, and she smiled as Niamh came into view. “Welcome, Niamh Cameron MacDuff.”

Niamh stopped, startled by the greeting as much as she was by the woman herself. It was clear by her words that this must be the witch, Sorcha, but she was nothing like Niamh had expected.

She had expected an elderly crone dressed in worn, homespun clothing, with gray hair, gnarled hands, and perhaps a hooked nose and warts.

In reality, Sorcha was a woman somewhere between her age and Alistair’s, with midnight black hair that gleamed almost blue in the sunlight. Her skin was pale and unblemished, almost luminous, as if one could see the magic glowing within her. Her frame was as slim and supple as a willow branch, clothed in simple dark robes ornamented with embroidered flowers, and a simple woven leather belt, from which hung talismans of bird feathers and other items.

Her eyes were a deep, gleaming blue, like a loch under starlight, shimmering with a power and a passion unlike any Niamh had ever seen. The touch of Sorcha’s eyes made Niamh feel as if she was being seen and known more completely than anyone had ever seen or known her before. It was mesmerizing, terrifying, and comforting all at the same time.

She swallowed hard. “Ye… ye are the Lady Sorcha?”

“Just Sorcha, lass. I am Sorcha MacBeth. And ye should come inside. ‘Tis nae so cold as winter will be, but ‘tis chilled enough fer a Lowland flower like ye tae catch a cold, and ye dinnae wish fer that.” Sorcha turned and disappeared into the cottage, leaving Niamh no choice but to follow, unless she wished to give up her quest for answers.

Hesitantly, she stepped inside the cottage. Inside, the rafters were festooned with herbs, which filled the air with a number of heady scents. To one side, shelves were heavy under the weight of bottles and jars, some of which contained herbs, others recognizable medicines, and still others with mixtures that Niamh had no desire to inquire too closely about.

Niamh caught Sorcha watching her and flushed. “I… me apologies. I… I brought ye some sweet biscuits and scones…”

“They’ll go well with the tea then.” Sorcha nodded to a sturdy wooden table near the fire, then turned to a pot in the ashes. She opened it, sniffed, then smiled and poured out two cups of the dark, steaming brew. “Here. Drink this.”

Niamh stared at the mug Sorcha handed her, wondering if it was some sort of potion, and what it would do. Sorcha sat down across from her, a knowing smile on her face. After a moment, she laughed, the sound like chiming bells. “Och, lass, ‘tis just tea. Nay reason fer ye tae stare at it as if I’ve served ye viper’s venom.”

Niamh watched as the witch - or was she perhaps a sorceress? - sipped from her own cup. They’d been poured from the same pot, so it should have been safe enough. She sipped.

The tea was delicious, herbal and fragrant, and it warmed her and soothed her aching muscles all at once. With a second sip, she found she could identify most of the herbs Sorcha had used, and the knowledge relaxed her still further. “Thank ye.”

“And thank ye for the biscuits.” Sorcha took one and bit gracefully into it. “’Tis been a long time since I have had such a treat.”

They sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the tea, before Sorcha set down her mug and gave Niamh a long, searching stare. “Ye have questions. Ye may ask them, and I’ll answer them as willingly and fully as I might.”