Page 3 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

“ T he village is up just around the bend,” Ingrid said, with a light flick of the reins on the horse to get her moving.

That’s when Raff noticed it. The end two fingers on her left hand moved together as one. They were fused together, and he wondered how that might have happened. It wouldn’t be mannerly of him to mention it, so he said nothing even though he was curious.

Raff followed alongside the cart as it rolled along the winding path.

It wouldn’t have been proper, he being a stranger, to join her on the cart’s bench.

She kept a slow pace, so it wasn’t difficult to keep pace alongside her, and he didn’t mind.

He enjoyed watching the sun begin its descent, casting a golden glow over the hills as they neared the village.

It was similar to places he had wandered through in the past year—thriving, alive with the sounds of laughter and the clatter of daily work.

Children ran past, their laughter ringing in the air as they chased one another with sticks, pretending to be warriors.

Women stood outside their cottages, chatting while others tended to steaming pots set over outdoor hearths.

A group of men repaired a fence, pausing to wipe the sweat from their brows and exchange a few words.

The entire village pulsed with a sense of purpose, of belonging.

And yet, what unsettled Raff most was the way people acknowledged him.

A man carrying a stack of firewood nodded in his direction. A woman walking by with a bundle of herbs smiled kindly at him. Another called out a casual greeting to Ingrid and included him as if he were no stranger at all.

He had spent the last year as a ghost. No one had recognized him. No one had spared him more than a passing glance. But here…

Here, they saw him.

His unease must have shown, for Ingrid glanced at him as they reached the steps of a modest cottage with a thatched roof.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

Raff hesitated. He had no explanation for what was happening, and voicing his suspicions would sound foolish.

“Nay, I can see to your horse for you,” he offered to avoid any unwanted questions.

“I appreciated the offer, but my Tilly can be fussy with a stranger.”

Raff turned to see the horse nudging a stocky, broad-shouldered man.

“I’m Latham, and you’d be?” the man asked with a cautious smile.

Ingrid made the introductions. “This is Raff, Latham. He came to my assistance when a group of Laird Chafton’s warriors demanded my basket of wool. He dispatched them quite hastily and, Raff,” she said turning to him. “This is Latham. He keeps our fields plentiful.”

Raff nodded. “Good to meet you, Latham.”

“And it is good to meet you as well, Raff, and I am grateful to hear you helped Ingrid. Laird Chafton’s men enjoy threatening us and the laird himself makes endless demands on us.”

“I have offered him a good hearty meal for his help before he goes on his way,” Ingrid said.

“We could use a good man like you in the village, strong and fearless,” Latham said. “Maybe you’d like to stay awhile. Winter’s not far off. You’d have shelter and food here. Think about it, Raff. Now I need to tend to Tilly.”

Latham walked off, people halting his steps as he went, and Raff saw by the way they cast quick glances his way that they were asking about him.

Raff was shocked that the man had not only acknowledged him but also took time to speak with him and invited him to remain here. And that other people were curious about him, startled him even more. What about this place was different? Why was he seen here yet no place else?

Raff breathed in the scent of fresh bread and dried lavender as he followed Ingrid into the small cottage.

A sturdy wooden table sat at the center, surrounded by chairs that bore the marks of years of use.

Shelves lined the walls, filled with earthenware, bundles of herbs, and neatly folded linens.

A fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering light across the earth floor.

Ingrid set her basket down and moved to stir the pot hanging over the flames. “I hope you don’t mind rabbit stew,” she said. “It’s hearty enough to fill the belly.”

Raff leaned against the closed door, arms crossed. “After a year of eating whatever I could scavenge, I won’t be complaining.”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, wondering about his features mostly hidden by his hair and beard that needed trimming.

“A year of wandering. That’s a long time to have been without a place to call home.”

He didn’t answer, annoyed that he hadn’t minded his words. How did he explain his granted wish had turned into a curse?

Instead, he watched as she worked, her movements quick and sure.

It was easy to see that she was a woman accustomed to doing things herself, not relying on anyone.

And yet, there was a warmth in her and an openness that attracted him.

She was also beautiful. Her dark hair flowed in soft waves over her shoulders and onto her ample chest. She had the fairest complexion and the loveliest green eyes that brightened with her smile.

Raff had been with women before and had seen desire spark in their eyes when they looked at him. But Ingrid… she did not spare him a second glance beyond polite conversation. No lingering gaze, no sign that she found him handsome or intriguing.

In a way, he remained invisible. And of all the things he had lost in the past year, this was the most unexpected. He never knew how unwanted and lonely it made one feel to not have a single woman show even a bit of interest in him.

He shook off the thought as she stirred the pot in thoughtful silence before finally saying, “Latham is right about Laird Chafton making endless demands on us, more so of late.”

Raff straightened. “The man whose warriors tried to take your wool?”

She nodded, her lips pressing tight for a moment in hesitation, wondering if she should guard her words, since he was a stranger and yet he had helped her. So, what was there to fear about him?

“Aye. Like other crofts on his land, we pay him for the privilege, as he claims, to allow us to farm on it. First, it was a small share of our goods; grain, wool, and such. But lately, he’s grown greedy. He takes more than his due. And if we do not give it willingly, his men take it anyway.”

Raff’s jaw tightened. “And no one stands against him?”

Ingrid let out a soft laugh, though there was no humor in it. “We’re a village of spinners and farmers, not warriors. And those who have spoken out…” She trailed off, shaking her head. “We cannot afford to lose more.”

He studied her, the firelight playing over her features. She spoke of it with the weariness of someone who had fought in her own way but knew the battle was slipping beyond her grasp.

“You seem the type to fight anyway,” he observed.

Her lips quirked. “Aye, I do. But even the most stubborn fighter knows when she’s outmatched.”

She reached for a knife resting on the wooden table and began slicing the loaf of bread on a wooden board.

“The wool we spin and weave into cloth is valuable. Lord Chafton knows it. The merchants clamor for it. It’s softer than most and brings comfort to those who wear it.

That is why Chafton wants more. He can sell it for a higher price, lining his coffers while we work ourselves raw to meet his demands. ”

Raff frowned. “If the wool is so sought after, why not sell it elsewhere? Why remain under his rule?”

Ingrid sighed. “Because we have no choice. We are not traders. We do not have the means to travel to markets far from here, only to local ones. Chafton keeps watch on the roads as you witnessed earlier. If we try to send our cloth elsewhere, he ensures it never reaches its destination.”

Raff’s fingers curled into fists. He had seen men like Chafton before—lairds who took what they wanted, bleeding the people dry with little regard for the lives they ruined.

He had fought battles before against greedy men, but this wasn’t his battle.

But as he watched Ingrid move about her cottage, as he listened to the resignation in her voice, he felt something stir deep within him.

She actually paid heed to him as did Latham and others here.

Perhaps it was time he stopped wandering and planted some roots where people didn’t ignore him as if he didn’t exist.

Supper had been a simple meal, yet Raff could not remember the last time food had tasted so satisfying.

Perhaps it was because he had spent so long eating alone, or perhaps it was the company.

The warmth of the fire, the scent of fresh bread, and the sound of Ingrid’s voice as she talked about the village, all of it, made him feel like he had stepped back into a life he thought was lost to him.

He found himself stealing glances at her as she moved about the cottage, her presence steady and familiar, as if he had always been there.

The thought unsettled him. He had not realized how much he had missed the comfort of simply being in another’s presence, sharing food, conversation—belonging, even if only for a moment.

As she wiped her hands on a cloth, she regarded him thoughtfully.

“We can always use an extra hand in the fields, the reason Latham invited you to remain here,” she said with a soft smile.

“The last of the harvest needs gathering before the harvest celebration. Maybe you should stop wandering for a while and settle here.”

Raff hesitated. The thought of staying in one place again, of belonging, was unfamiliar. Yet, the idea of leaving, of walking away from this place and returning to the hollow solitude of wandering, felt unappealing in a way it never had before.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” Ingrid added, sensing his uncertainty.

“But I think you’d do well here. The people are kind, the work is honest, and you might find something you weren’t even looking for.

” Her smile remained gentle. “At the very least, you’d have shelter from the cold and a warm meal every evening. That has to count for something.”

He let out a brief laugh. “Aye. More than you know.” To his surprise, he acquiesced. “It might be good to stay in one place for a while.”

She smiled and led him outside and looking around, spotted Latham speaking with another villager and called out to him. “Latham, a moment please.”

Latham hurried over to her.

“Raff has decided to stay for a while”.

Latham grinned from ear to ear. “We’ve got plenty to get done before the harvest festival. There’s barley to be cut, root vegetables to be pulled, and the land to ready for winter.” He scratched his beard. “You know how to handle a scythe?”

Raff smirked faintly. “I think I can manage.”

“Good, we need all the hands we can get,” Latham said, looking pleased. “We start tomorrow at first light.” He gestured toward a small cottage on the edge of the village. “That’ll be yours while you’re here. Not much, but it’s warm and dry.”

“Welcome to the village, Raff,” Ingrid said with a smile and turned and joined two women busy chattering not far from her cottage.

Raff didn’t want her to go. There was something about her that he was drawn to. He couldn’t say what it was, couldn’t even explain to himself. He just felt different being in her presence.

He walked alongside Latham as they headed toward the cottage.

Latham glanced around as if ensuring no one else could hear before lowering his voice. “You should know that there’s talk.”

Some things never changed. Gossip was the mainstay of any village, proving this one was no different. He only hoped it wasn’t about him. “Talk about what?”

He looked hesitant to speak but anxious as well. He finally managed to say, “Some believe a witch lives in the area. She may even be here among us.”

Raff arched a brow, not expecting that. “A witch?”

“Aye.” Latham glanced around before continuing. “Some believe she’s the reason our harvests are so bountiful, why our wool is so fine and soft. Laird Chafton doesn’t like things he can’t explain. It won’t be long before he goes hunting for her.”

Raff frowned. “And what proof does he have of a witch?”

Latham shook his head. “None. Not yet. But men like Chafton don’t need proof. If they can’t find a witch, they’ll accuse an innocent.”

Raff had heard of such accusations before, used as weapons against those who could not fight back. It was an easy way to control the fearful and eliminate the problem.

“And when he does?”

Latham’s expression turned grim. “She’ll burn.”