Page 3 of To Wed a Witch
"Well, if ye remember, he has been trying to contact ye directly, but ye have not read any of his missives."Dugald gestured toward the pile of unopened letters gathering dust on a side table.
Bhaltair followed his gaze and winced.He realized Dugald was right.It most likely got lost in the paperwork of accrued debts and bills piling up.He had gotten into the habit of ignoring most of them.
He stared down at the letter in his hands, weighing his options.Perhaps he should look into this one.After all, how much trouble could one wee witch of a lass be?
***
SÌNE MACKAY WONDERED, not for the first time, how the hell she had ended up in this predicament—sprinting through the forest, her hands bound at the wrists behind her back whilst being chased by an angry mob.She was bruised, scratches appeared across her face from cuts sustained whilst on the run, trying to maintain her balance and not fall face first into the mud.When would these villagers stop with their harassment?Especially seeing as she was neither mad nor a witch.Well, perhaps she did have some strange ways that left her open to speculation, like living alone at the edge of a haunted forest the villagers said was cursed...and perhaps it didn't help that she could also hear voices in the strange mist that descended over the forest from time to time...voices she talked to who strangely replied.But really, "Is it a mortal sin to hear voices?"she muttered to herself before she ran straight into a tree.
The jarring effect brought her back to her dire circumstances as she struggled to right herself and took off running again.Her best dress she'd worn to the festival was now torn and ruined, but she did not care as adrenalin and sheer panic drove her on.She heard the gruff utterances and words."Witch!"They'd repeated, and it irked her.All she had done was see to the welfare of a young child, but in hindsight, perhaps she should have minded her own matters and not intervened.
Sìne shook her head from her distracting thoughts and focused on reaching the safety of the Keep.Sprinting through the forest with one's hands tied behind one's back was not an easy feat, especially when the only thing to prevent her running into trees and dirt was her face.She needed to focus and keep going."Run, Sìne, run!"she mentally chanted as the brambles tore at her hem and her lungs burned with each ragged breath.Sìne thought of her beloved Aidyn and her maid Paisley, and that made her run even faster.Behind her, the shouts grew closer."There!I saw her!"and "Dinnae let the witch escape!"The rope binding her wrists had rubbed them raw, and blood trickled down her fingers.How had saving a child's life marked her as a servant of the devil?
A root caught her ankle, and she pitched forward, rolling down a steep embankment.Leaves and debris clung to her hair as she struggled to her feet, spitting dirt from her mouth.The sound of pursuit echoed through the trees.Heavy boots crashed through bracken, men calling to one another.
"She went this way!"
"Aye, toward MacKay Keep!"
"We'll see what Laird MacKay has to say about harboring a witch!"
Father.The thought of him gave Sìne strength to push through the burning in her chest.Just a little further to the Keep's walls.She could see them now through the trees.Blessed grey stone rising against the darkening sky.
But her legs were failing her.The stitch in her side had become a knife-twist of pain, and her vision blurred with exhaustion.She stumbled again, this time staying down longer, gasping like a landed fish.The voices were so close now she could hear individual words clearly.
"Track her to the gates if ye must!"
"MacKay will hand her over once he kens that she is the devil's own!"
With a surge of panic, Sìne forced herself forward.The Keep's gates loomed before her.She could see torchlight flickering in the Great Hall's windows.
Safety.Sanctuary.
She half-ran, half-fell across the courtyard, her remaining strength focused on reaching those massive oak doors.
***
BHALTAIR SAT ON THEdais of MacKay Keep with a mixture of resignation and curiosity.The three-day journey had given him time to consider his options, and each mile had only confirmed what Dugald had said.This was his only chance to save his clan.Still, the thought of wedding a witch was one he could barely stomach.But there was nothing for it.What surprised him more was the genuine welcome he received from Laird MacKay.The man appeared to be relieved, yet there was something in the air, a subtle nuance that Bhaltair could pick up.It seemed too joyous.His daughter was most likely a very unpleasant sort if it had men balking at the mere thought of her and her father so overjoyed he'd sell her to the nearest beggar.
It was true Bhaltair was known as a man of few words, but that did not mean he was not observant.He just never felt the need to over explain things.Inside the Great Hall, Laird MacKay was doing his utmost to present his household in the best possible light.The rushes had been changed, the best ale brought up from the cellars, and every piece of decent silver polished to gleaming.
"I'll not lie to ye, Ferguson," MacKay said, gesturing with his cup."There have been...stories about my Sìne.But I assure ye, they're naught but superstitious nonsense spread by those who fear what they dinnae understand."
Bhaltair's expression remained carefully neutral."And what exactly is it they dinnae understand?"
"She has a gift for healing, nothing more.The lass has a gentle touch with the sick and wounded.But ye ken how villagers talk.They see someone ease suffering and cry 'witchcraft' rather than admit to ignorance."
"A healer," Bhaltair mused, though his tone suggested skepticism."And this gift of hers...it's brought her no suitors?"
MacKay shifted uncomfortably."Well, ye see—"
They were interrupted when the Great Hall's doors exploded inward with a tremendous crash.
A wild creature burst through the entrance—or at least, that's what it appeared to be at first glance.Hair the color of dark autumn leaves hung in tangled snarls around a face streaked with mud and blood.A torn gown of once-fine wool hung in tatters, and the woman's eyes held the wild look of a hunted animal.Her hands were bound behind her back with rough rope, and she was muttering under her breath in rapid, breathless rantings.
"Saints preserve us," one of Bhaltair's men muttered, crossing himself.
The apparition stumbled into the hall like a banshee, her voice rising to a half-shriek as she spotted the assembled men."They're coming!They followed me.The whole bloody village with their torches and their—" Her wild gaze fell upon the strangers, and for a moment she stood frozen, chest heaving.
