Page 20 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

T he cart creaked into the village, its wheels dragging through the mud, the mare weary and spattered with flecks of dried blood.

Heads turned. One by one, villagers stopped what they were doing to stare, and people emerged from cottages, eyes widening at the sight of Raff seated on the bench, blood streaking his face, shirt torn, his eyes burning with something wild and desperate.

But it wasn’t the sight of him that made them cry out, it was the empty space beside him.

“Ingrid?” someone called out.

“Where’s Ingrid?” Edith shouted, fear sharpening her words.

The cart barely stopped before Raff leapt down, stumbling as pain lanced through his side. “Chafton’s men,” he ground out, his voice angry. “They took her.”

A stunned hush fell.

“They ambushed us not far from here. Knocked me out and dragged her off.”

Murmurs swelled.

“They came for her?” Latham asked warily. “Why?”

Tolan said what they all feared. “They think she’s a witch.”

Raff spun to face them, rage crackling in his voice. “She’s not! She is a kind woman, a skillful weaver who has been nothing but helpful and giving to you all. You all know her! You know she is a good woman.”

Instead of rising anger, he saw hesitation, worry etched into furrowed brows and nervous eyes. A few exchanged uneasy glances. Others looked down, refusing to meet his glance.

“You expect us to go against Chafton’s warriors?” Tolan asked, almost apologetic. “They’ve got a skilled troop of warriors and the chieftain’s law at their back. If we defy them, we risk the same fate.”

“Aye,” another added. “If we help her, they’ll say we aided a witch.”

Raff’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. “So that’s it?” he barked. “You’ll let them take her and do nothing to save her?”

No one answered.

He stared at them, his chest heaving. “Cowards,” he spat, and turned away.

He didn’t get far before a hand gently caught his arm. He turned to find Edith standing there, her face pale and streaked with tears. “Raff…” she said softly. “I want to help. I do. But I’ve a husband… children. If they come for me next—if they see me as a traitor—what happens to them?”

Raff pulled his arm from her grasp, his voice rough. “Ingrid would’ve helped you. All of you. Without a second thought. That’s who she is.” He paused. “You don’t deserve her.”

He walked on, leaving her sobbing behind him.

When he reached their cottage, he hesitated. The door stood closed, as it had when they’d left that morning—together, cautious yet smiling because they were together, unaware of what the day would bring.

He opened it slowly and stepped inside.

A heavy silence met him.

Her shawl was still draped over the chair. Her basket of wool rested by the hearth, a thread of yarn trailing like a path that led nowhere. He crossed to it, kneeling and brushing his fingers over the spun wool.

“I should’ve known,” he whispered. “I should’ve taken you away the moment rumors started spreading. I should have insisted.”

He rose abruptly, anger boiling up to meet his grief. His hand caught the wooden bowl on the table and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered, the pieces clattering across the hearthstones like bones.

“This is my fault.”

He gripped the edge of the table, head bowed. Did the witch know this would happen? Had the wish—had she—brought this down on Ingrid?

From the very first moment, Ingrid was the only one who had truly seen him. While others dismissed him or looked through him, Ingrid looked at him. Spoke to him. Trusted him. Loved him.

Had that love somehow broken through the curse?

And if it had… had the witch punished Ingrid for it?

His heart pounded. He didn’t know. But he couldn’t stand here wondering. There was only one who might have answers and only one who could truly help him.

He threw on his cloak and strode from the cottage, ignoring the wary stares that followed him. He grabbed the axe from the cart as he passed by it. Then he headed to the forest that loomed ahead, dark and waiting, and he made for the stream.

Cold stone pressed against Ingrid’s back as she leaned against the wall of the dungeon. The darkness was thick, the air stinking of rot, blood, and hopelessness. Chains clinked softly from somewhere farther down the corridor. A rat scurried past her foot.

And then came the laughter.

Two guards stood just beyond the bars of her cell, faces half-lit by torchlight, shadows dancing like devils on their cheeks.

“She doesn’t look like much of a witch,” one sneered. “Bit scrawny. She hasn’t eaten enough children to keep meat on her bones.”

The other chuckled. “Aye, but soon enough she’ll burn bright. That’ll warm her, eh?”

They laughed louder.

Ingrid said nothing. She stared at the mold-darkened floor, her fingers wrapped tightly around the iron bars. She refused to let them see her fear.

But it was there. Not for herself.

For him.

Raff… please be safe. Please stay away.

She pictured his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his mouth tilted when he teased her, the warmth in his eyes when he watched her work. Her heart twisted. I love you. I always will.

She closed her eyes, tears threatening, and whispered a prayer under her breath. Don’t come for me, Raff. Not this time. Not if it means your life.

The guards hadn’t noticed. They were still making fun of her being a witch.

One of them swaggered forward, stumbling a bit as he reached to lean against the bars. His hand brushed hers.

A heartbeat passed.

Then another guard let out a sharp gasp. “You touched her!”

The man straightened quickly. “What of it?”

“She’s a witch, you dolt!”

A flicker of doubt crossed the guard’s face.

“She as good as cursed you,” the other insisted, stepping back.

“I… I didn’t mean—” He began swiping frantically at his garment, slapping at something invisible, unknowing. “I feel—my skin—something’s crawling—” His voice cracked as he scratched violently at his arm. “It’s in me! I can feel it spreading!”

The other guard backed away, face pale. “Don’t come near me!”

“I didn’t—I didn’t mean to!” the cursed man wailed, now clawing at his chest. Panic consumed him. “Help me! Help me!”

“No one will touch you now,” his companion muttered, already turning away.

Ingrid stepped back from the bars, breath steady, watching as the man screamed and fled down the corridor, his cries echoing off the stone walls.

She sank to the floor.

Words, she thought. Sometimes, all it takes is a few words to make someone believe a lie. Or a truth too frightening to face.

A sob swelled in her chest, but she bit it back.

The guards would tell others. They would spread fear. There would be no mercy now.

Her fate was sealed.

And yet… he will come for me.

Raff would not let her die alone. She could feel the certainty of it in her heart. He loves me too much not to try.

And that terrified her more than the flames they would set for her to burn.

Her hand went to the small pouch tucked in her belt—the herbs the old woman at market had slipped her with no explanation but a soft whisper, “It will keep you safe. Hide who you are.”

Ingrid clutched the pouch, closed her eyes, and with her hope fragile but fierce, she whispered, “Spirits of stone, wind, and flame, carry my voice, whisper my name. To those who hear with heart and soul, guide them swift to keep me whole.”

Raff stopped in his tracks, every muscle tense, his breath caught in his throat. The woods stretched quiet and still around him, heavy with mist and the scent of rich earth. Then it came again, soft as a sigh, distant as a dream.

“Raff.”

“Ingrid,” he whispered, but the sound cracked as it left him.

He turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the trees, but there was no one. Only the hush of the forest. And yet… he had heard her. Not with his ears, but somewhere deeper, where soul met bone. Her voice had found him.

Love . It had to be. Love kept them bound to each other.

He took a step forward, then another, drawn by something he couldn’t explain—wouldn’t question. His hand clenched at his side, rage and fear twisting tight in his gut. She was calling to him. She needed him. And damn any man, beast, or devil who stood in his way.

He dropped to one knee, pressed his palm to the earth, and murmured low, his voice a promise more than a prayer.

“Not blade nor fire, not witch nor warlord, will keep me from you. I will find you, Ingrid. I will burn the world if I must.”

He stood, the air thicker now, the trees pressing closer, as if the forest itself heard and braced for what would come. And Raff walked on, no longer searching for the witch.

He was following his wife’s voice.