Page 10 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

R aff hadn’t expected conversation to flow so easily between them along the road to market, but they had barely left their village when Ingrid asked him if he enjoyed market days.

“Aye, they were favorite times of mine. Meeting friends, sharing food and drink,” he said recalling those days fondly.

“Meeting a lass or two?” she asked teasingly.

“There was some who fancied me,” he said with a playful wink and a smile that faded. “But the last market day wasn’t a good time to look and get myself a wife.”

“Why not?”

“Battle loomed and I didn’t think it was fair to wed when she could be made a widow so soon.”

She tilted her head, and a soft smile touched her lips. “You mean you didn’t find love.”

Curiosity furrowed his brow. “What do you mean?”

“If you loved a woman and she loved you, nothing would have stopped you from marrying her, not battle, nor the possibility of death. It would be the opposite. You both would want to share every moment you could with each other. Make what memories you could and possibly conceive a child, so she would be left with part of you.”

He never thought of it that way and he was quick to ask, “You would do that?”

“Aye,” she said with a nod. “I would not want to send the man I love off to battle without being his wife, without making those memories to cherish, or having his child to love. Wouldn’t you want that?”

Aye, with you.

His thought almost slipped past his lips, and he was quick to say, “Aye, if it was with the right woman.”

“Who would be the right woman?”

You .

He was falling in love with her and falling hard, and it frightened the bloody hell out of him. He shot the question back at her. “Do you have the right man in mind… to love?”

Her eyes got dreamy. “I think about it sometimes.” She chuckled. “Then I realize that maybe I’m expecting too much of a husband.”

“What do you expect?”

She shared her thoughts easily. “Naturally, he would have to love me with his whole heart and maybe his soul too.” She chuckled again.

“He would treat me well, never raise his voice to me in anger or his hand, and he would love me for who I am and not someone he tried to make me into. And he would not expect me to wait on him hand and foot, though I would see to his care out of love, not demand. And we would have many children born of our love and there would be laughter and smiles, some tears and sorrow because you cannot avoid them completely, but we would all share them together.”

“I think many men and women would cherish such a union.”

“Aye, but unfortunately, husbands and wives don’t work together to make sure they have it. They let petty, minor things interfere or they make outlandish demands on each other and the love they once shared so strongly slowly begins to die.”

“You have done a lot of thinking about love or is it what you’ve observed?” he asked, having learned for himself that she listened with the same ease as she spoke.

“A bit of both. Watching and listening are excellent scholars.”

“I will keep that in mind.”

“So, who would be the right woman for you?” she asked once more.

His answer came easily. “One who loves me despite all my faults.”

She laughed softly. “And what are your faults?”

He laughed with her. “The list is too long and the day too pleasant to discuss them.”

The conversation remained easy but not personal and only grew quiet when Raff guided the cart into the bustling village square, the wooden wheels bumping over uneven stones.

Vendors were already shouting prices and boasting the quality of their wares—fresh eels, polished trinkets, oatcakes still steaming in cloth-covered baskets.

The air smelled of a mixture of delicious scents and woodsmoke, and somewhere nearby a child shrieked with laughter while chasing a dog with a bit of string.

Raff glanced at Ingrid, seated beside him, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She had turned silent upon entering the village.

“Are you all right?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow. “You have gone quiet.”

“I’m watching how the other sellers display their goods,” she murmured. “I want our plaids to draw attention.”

“They will,” Raff assured her. “You weave the softest and warmest wool cloth I have ever touched. People will not be able to resist the items.”

She smiled, pleased by his compliment.

They found an open spot at the edge of the square near a potter with a chipped tooth and a goat that looked better fed than its master.

Raff hopped down and hurried to help Ingrid off the cart so she could grab a table that had yet to be scooped up by another merchant.

Then he got busy unfastening the bundles.

She began to neatly arrange the folded woolen blankets and the finely woven plaids, her hands smoothing each one with care. The colors—deep crimsons, smoky grays, forest greens—stood out against the rough-planked table, she paid a coin to the village elder to use.

As she worked, Raff watched her with a thoughtful frown. It wasn’t just the goods she was trying to present—it was herself, her village, her resilience, her pride in her craft. And he was there to protect her.

His eyes scanned the crowd. “Do you think Laird Chafton’s men might show?”

“Not today. Word reached the village that there was a festive night of drinking for Laird Chafton’s men,” Ingrid replied, not looking up from her task. “Which means the warriors are recovering from a night of heavy drinking. They won’t be going anywhere today.”

“That’s good to know,” Raff said but intended to keep a keen eye anyway.

Raff watched Ingrid finish arranging the wool blankets and plaids. She rolled a plaid just so, then adjusted a fold of a cream-colored blanket until it draped in what Raff could only assume was a perfect fall.

Villagers strolled by casting admiring glances at the stall. Several called out greetings.

“Ingrid! That red plaid’s finer than anything my wife ever wove but don’t tell her I said that.” The voice came from an elderly, gray-bearded man with a cane and a pleasant smile.

Ingrid returned his smile. “I’ll say nothing if you buy it, Henry.”

“I just might,” he nodded.

A group of younger men lingered just a bit longer than necessary, two of them nudging each other. One, broad in the shoulders and bold in his grin, stepped closer to Ingrid.

“Tell me, lass, are these plaids as soft as your voice? Might I test one against my skin?”

Raff walked around the table slowly and deliberately and produced a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Only if you fancy your skin bruised.”

The lad blinked. “No offense meant—just having a jest.”

“Then take your jest elsewhere. I’ve a sharp tongue and a sharper dagger, and both are quicker than your wit.”

The young men laughed—nervous ones this time—and drifted off.

Ingrid kept her eyes on her work, but her lips twitched. “You do enjoy scaring folk.”

“I enjoy watching you not have to,” Raff said, an overwhelming need to protect her, keep her safe, rising in him.

A woman with a basket of eggs paused beside them. “Good day, Ingrid. I’m glad to see you here again. Your blankets not only keep my bairns warm, but they comfort them as well. Not a cry do I hear once they are wrapped in them. Will you be weaving more before the frost returns?”

“One more batch and that’s it,” Ingrid said.

The woman beamed. “Then I’ll have coins in hand next time. And you,” —she turned to Raff— “should mind your glare. You’ll frighten off all her buyers.”

Raff smiled. “Only the ones with sticky fingers or wandering eyes.”

Again, he thought how he was noticed when he was with Ingrid, and he continued to ponder on it.

The morning passed with a steady trickle of customers, familiar faces mingling with strangers. Raff didn’t wander far from Ingrid’s side. He watched her light up with every warm exchange, saw the village through her eyes, each face part of a larger, woven whole.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt like he might just belong to something again.

The market was in full rhythm, voices rising, coin clinking, children darting through legs with sticky hands and smeared faces. The scent of honey cakes and roasted chestnuts drifted through the square. Ingrid had nearly sold through their blankets and plaids, and her spirits were high.

Raff stepped away briefly to fetch them something to drink, returning with two wooden cups of cider. He handed her one with a look that said, Don’t argue, you’ve earned it.

She barely had time to thank him when a familiar voice drawled behind her.

“Well now, if it isn’t Ingrid, bonnie as a summer’s day,” said a man with a thick, dark beard and a self-satisfied grin.

She recognized him. Sweeny, a tanner’s son who always made a point of stopping at her table and making rude remarks.

“Sweeny,” she said politely, though she stepped slightly back away from the table.

He reached out and lifted a fold of one plaid. “Nice work. But I’ll wager your hands are better suited to?—”

Raff’s hand clamped down on his wrist before the man could finish.

“Put it down,” Raff said, having noticed the way Ingrid had distanced herself from him. “And mind your tongue.”

Sweeny scoffed. “I was only complimenting her.”

“And the rude remark that was about to follow?”

Sweeny pulled his hand back, but not before trying to shove Raff’s shoulder as he turned. That was his mistake.

In a blink, Raff grabbed him by the front of his shirt and shoved him back a step. “Apologize,” he said in a tone that clearly threatened an or else.

The square quieted just enough to draw attention.

Sweeny muttered something that might have been an apology, but Raff wasn’t satisfied. “Louder.”

“Forgive my rudeness,” Sweeny snapped, flushed and flustered, before stalking off, muttering curses under his breath.

Raff turned a smile on Ingrid. “He won’t bother you again.”

Two older women approached, one holding a basket of cabbages and turnips, the other with a baby slung across her chest.