Page 6 of The Unencumbered Warrior
“You’ll join me?” he asked, hoping she’d agree, being reminded of the camaraderie of a shared meal last night and realizing how much he missed it.
Her smile grew. “I brought enough for two.”
He wondered again how she continued to acknowledge him, not treat him as though he was invisible. But he had helped her, saved her from those men. Had that made a difference?
They walked over to a large oak to sit beneath it, its branches dropping their leaves like a sprinkle of rain. She set the basket between them and pulled out bread and cheese, handing him a portion without a word.
He couldn’t help but notice her fused fingers and stared at them for a moment too long.
“They have been like that since birth. Some pay them no mind but there are always those who believe it could be the mark of the devil and avoid me.” She shrugged. “How do I explain what I don’t understand myself?”
“You don’t need to explain yourself,” he said, quick to defend her.
“If only it was that easy. People think what they will think, and you can’t change that. But it is wagging tongues who don’tmind their words that can do the most damage. Here,” she said glancing around, “people accept me, and I am content.”
Her situation had him thinking of the supposed witch. “What is this I hear about a witch in the village?”
Ingrid’s movements stilled as she reached for the cheese. “So, Latham’s tongue is busy wagging again.”
He saw the way her brow furrowed slightly. “Do you believe that a witch lives amongst the villagers?”
“What I believe,” she said, leveling him with a steady look, “is that spreading such talk can do more harm than good. A word whispered in fear can turn the eyes of a mob onto an innocent.”
Raff frowned. He had considered that. “It was Latham who mentioned it to me. I have not spoken of it to anyone but you, just now. But if there is a witch?—”
“If there is,” she interrupted, “then she has lived among us without trouble. And if she is not, then some poor soul will pay a dear price for being falsely accused.”
Her words settled over him like a heavy cloak. He had seen it before—fear twisting into accusation, good folk turned cruel by the scent of danger. If Laird Chafton sought a witch, the village was at risk whether there was one here or not. And with Ingrid’s infused fingers, she could easily be accused of being a witch.
She’ll burn.
He would not let that happen to Ingrid. He’d keep her safe, and not wanting to hear any more about witches, he shifted the conversation.
He snatched up a piece of cheese. “Have you always lived here?”
Ingrid shook her head. “Nay. I came here three years ago. The village needed a good weaver, and I needed to get away.”
“Get away?” he echoed, curious.
She sighed, brushing her fingers over the edge of the basket. “My mum… she’s a bit much. Loving, but overbearing. Far toodemanding.” A wry smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “She had plans for me, plans I had no say in. I wanted to forge my own life, make my own way.”
Raff found himself admiring her even more. It took courage to leave behind the known for the uncertain, to stand on one’s own feet without the safety of family. He could relate to that more than he cared to admit. But it was even more difficult for a woman to do such a thing and yet Ingrid had bravely forged her own way.
She met his gaze then, something unreadable in her eyes. “Be careful where you step, Raff. And more careful still who you name a witch.”
“I have no wont to accuse anyone of anything. I am but curious,” he said, not wanting anyone to know he needed the witch’s help. But the question remained… at what cost?
CHAPTER 4
The sky burned in hues of amber and crimson, the last light of day casting long shadows over the village. A crispness lingered in the air, the scent of earth ripe for the last harvest of the season and a touch of woodsmoke marking autumn’s steady advance. Ingrid stood near the weaver’s hut, her hands idly twisting a length of spun wool as she chatted with Edith and Agnes, two women she had come to know well since settling in the village. Their laughter was easy, the conversation light, but Ingrid’s attention drifted.
Her gaze snagged on movement near the stream’s path, and her fingers stilled. Raff was returning, his pace unhurried, the last golden rays glinting off the damp strands of his dark hair as he pulled a shirt over his head.
She had grown used to the rough look he had carried when he first arrived—the unkempt hair, the thick beard that had made his expressions nearly unreadable. Now, trimmed and tamed, he looked… different. His features were finer than she had realized, sharp angles softened by the autumn light. The strength in his broad shoulders was undeniable, his every movement fluid and sure. A warrior’s grace.
Edith followed her gaze and let out a low hum. “Mmm, now there’s a pleasant sight,” she murmured, tilting her head as she studied Raff. “He’s one fine looking man. If I didn’t have my Ralph, he’d be at the top of my husband list.” She poked Ingrid with her elbow. “It’s time for you to find a husband and I daresay you could do worse than him.”
Ingrid blinked, tearing her eyes away from him. “Don’t let Ralph catch you talking that way,” she said, arching a brow, though smiled. “I thought Ralph was the love of your life.”
