Page 12 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

T he scent of woodsmoke mingling with the cool night air greeted Raff as he stepped from his cottage.

The chatter of voices drew his attention, and he made his way through the village to the fire pit where news was often shared.

Several villagers stood, their faces lit by flickering flames and furrowed with concern.

He spotted Ingrid at once—her braid a dark sweep over her shoulder, her stance quiet but firm among them.

He didn’t need to hear the talk to know what it was about.

Ingrid had shared the rumor they had heard at market about the witch.

They had agreed on the journey home that the villagers should be made aware of it, especially with gossip about a witch in the village.

He walked toward the gathering, boots crunching softly on the fallen leaves that blanketed the path. The conversation quieted some at his approach, and Ingrid offered a faint smile and shifted to give him room beside her.

“We were speaking of what we heard at the market,” Ingrid said, her tone calm but edged with something tighter. “About the witch said to be roaming these woods.”

An older woman crossed herself. “Add to that the careless talk that one roams among us. It’s always women who pay for such stories. Always.”

“There’s no proof,” said another, a younger man with wary eyes. “No name. No deed spoken aloud. Only whispers, and we know what whispers can do.”

“They can burn a good, innocent woman,” Agnes said, fright obvious by the tremor in her voice.

A ripple of agreement moved through the small group. Raff remained quiet, listening. The warmth of the fire did nothing to settle the chill inching down his spine. He looked to Ingrid and slipped his hand around hers and she took firm hold of it.

“But where did it begin? And why now? We’ve kept peace here,” Tolan, the smithy, said, worry heavy in the deep lines of his furrowed brow.

“That may be the very reason,” Raff said, his voice strong, feeling the warrior in him rising and ready to defend his new home. “Peace unsettles those who profit by unrest.”

His words were met with thoughtful and uneasy silence.

A log popped in the fire, sending sparks spiraling upward. Above them, the sky seemed to darken even more, and a wind stirred through the trees enough to raise gooseflesh and suspicion alike.

A sharp voice cut through it. “There must be something we can do,” Edith said, her arms folded tightly over her chest, determined. “If there is a witch among us, do we let her curse us without a word? And if there isn’t—if it’s all just a tale—who starts such poison, and why?”

“To keep us looking over our shoulders,” Latham said grimly. “Frighten us. Divide us.”

“Or draw Laird Chafton’s gaze here,” Ingrid added, her voice quiet but firm. “We all know what happens when he sets his mind on an issue.”

“Aye,” Agnes said. “That man bleeds a village dry. He’ll come demanding something—anything—and if folk are frightened enough, they’ll surrender one of their own.”

“But who’s the greater threat, then?” Edith asked. “A witch no one’s seen… or a laird with too many warriors and too few scruples?”

Raff’s jaw tensed as he studied the faces around the fire. Fear had already taken hold, not with screams or shouts, but with the kind of silence that whispered behind closed doors. That sort of fear could do just as Agnes said, surrender one of their own.

“How do we protect ourselves?” Tolan asked, his eyes darting nervously. “What can we do?”

“Watch each other’s backs,” Raff said. “Keep the gossip from spreading. And if Chafton’s men come, don’t give them reason to suspect anyone.”

“But what if the witch is real?” Agnes pressed.

“If that is so, she’s been quiet all this time,” Ingrid said, casting a glance to the woods. “Why stir now? What brings her here?”

Raff didn’t speak, but a thought brushed his mind like a wind through leaves. Magic didn’t move without reason. Nor did trouble. And more than once, they arrived together.

The fire popped again, louder this time, startling a few. Shadows danced over the villagers’ faces, and for a moment it felt as though the trees themselves were listening.

One by one, the villagers drifted away, drawn home by cooling embers and thoughts, left unspoken in the dark. Goodnights were murmured, none too loudly, and glances were cast over shoulders as if the night itself might be watching.

Raff remained where he was holding Ingrid’s hand and adjusted her shawl that had slipped off one of her shoulders. Her eyes were on the dying embers.

“Best I walk you back,” he said, his voice firm. “No need to tempt the shadows.”

She gave him a look, half smile, half something else. “You think I’m afraid of what might be out there?”

“Nay,” he said, and chuckled as he bumped his shoulder with hers. “But I am.”

She laughed softly. “Then it is I who should be escorting you to your cottage.”

Only if you plan on staying the night . The words would have slipped from his lips if he hadn’t caught them.

The old Raff would have said that to a woman without thinking, cock-sure of himself that no woman would turn him down.

But he wasn’t looking for a one-night poke with Ingrid.

He wanted something more substantial, more permanent, more committed.

The thought frightened him as much as it pleased him.

They said little else as they walked the worn path toward her cottage, the hush of evening wrapping around them. An owl hooted and the wind rustled the nearly bare branches. When they reached her door, she turned to face him, her expression unreadable in the moonlight.

“Whatever comes of this,” he said, “whatever truth lies behind these whispers… I’ll keep you safe, Ingrid.”

Her breath caught, just enough for him to hear it.

“I know you will.”

He stepped closer and kissed her, slow and sure, like it had been lingering between them since their arrival home and needed to be satisfied. She leaned into him, her hand tightening around his as he deepened the kiss and pressing just enough against him to feel his strength.

She thought to ask him to stay, but that wouldn’t be right. She needed to know he would make this place his home permanently and not find him gone one morning when she woke.

She ended the kiss reluctantly, though when his lips begged for more, she returned his kisses until she finally stepped away from him, fearing she would submit to her own desires.

“Goodnight, Raff.”

She didn’t want him to leave. He had felt it in the way she returned his kisses and how she pressed against him, but not too close or else she would have felt the strength of his desire for her.

And he didn’t want to leave. He felt as she did and soon, very soon, more would need to be said and decided.

He waited until she slipped inside, and the latch fell into place, then he turned to go. But as he walked down the path alone, a weight settled in his chest. He’d heard the rumors. He’d seen the fear. And deep down, where even the fire hadn’t reached, a thought stirred with quiet dread.

What if the witch hadn’t come for the village?

What if she’d come for him?

The night pressed in around him, like a heavy fog.

His boots found the familiar path back to his cottage, but his mind wandered far from the ground beneath him.

Ingrid’s kiss still lingered on his lips, warm and grounding, as did her obvious desire for him.

But it did little to silence the quiet storm building in his chest.

Why now?

The question circled him like the wind whispering through the trees, persistent and full of warning.

He had started to believe, just a little, that maybe things could be different here.

That with Ingrid—clever, kind, fierce when she needed to be—he might have a chance at something he hadn’t dared want in a long time.

A life. A quiet one, perhaps. One built with her.

He imagined what it might look like, kissing her whenever he wanted to, which would be often, protecting her, sleeping cuddled together while snow fell outside, waking beside her each morning.

It was a life he hadn’t given much thought to but now it was the only life that mattered to him.

He’d felt something touch him deep inside every time she reached for his hand, as if her touch held a promise he didn’t deserve but longed for all the same.

And now… this.

The rumors. The fear. The talk of a witch.

What if it had followed him? Not just the tale, but the truth behind it, the shadow tied to the wish he made long ago, when he was too foolish to know what he was truly asking for.

He paused at the bend on the path where the trees grew thicker, old oaks hunched like watching beasts. The wind stirred through their branches, brushing his cheek like a whisper.

What if the witch hadn’t come for the village? What if she’d come for him?

His chest tightened. If the magic had returned, if it had found him again—he’d face it. He had no choice. But the thought of Ingrid caught in it, suffering for a past she had no part in, that he could not bear.

He wouldn’t lose her. Not to this. Not to anything.

He stepped around the bend in the path, his cottage coming into view through the trees, a slant of moonlight silvering its thatched roof and casting long shadows across the area. The firewood was still stacked neatly by the door. All seemed still, untouched.

Then he stopped.

Someone stood near the edge of the clearing, half-shrouded in darkness where the trees thickened. Tall. Cloaked. Unmoving. No torch, no lantern. Just the glint of moonlight on what might have been a braid of white hair, or the curve of a hood.

His breath caught.

He knew that silhouette.

A year might have passed, but the image was burned into him like an old scar—the figure who had stepped from the forest that night, when he and the others had laughed and made their foolish wishes around the fire.

The one who had granted their wishes and disappeared as fast as she had arrived, leaving damage in her wake.

Now, here she was again. Or was she? Was it his guilt or misgivings for what he had done that made him think it was her?

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, eyes locked on the figure.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice low but firm.

He was met with silence.

He took another step, firm but unsure.

The figure tilted its head, just slightly, as though studying him.

And then—it was gone.

Not like someone running. Not like someone slipping behind a tree.

Gone.

Nowhere to be seen.

Raff’s pulse pounded in his ears. He stood there a long moment, unmoving, waiting. Listening.

Nothing.

Only the creak of a distant branch. The kind of silence that felt too still to be natural.

He made his way to the cottage door, every step slow, his hand brushing the hilt of his blade though some part of him knew a weapon would do little good against what might be out there.

Before he stepped inside, he looked once more toward the edge of the trees.

Empty.

But the memory, fresh and sharp, clung to him like smoke.

She’s come back, he thought. But why?