Page 4 of The Unencumbered Warrior (Highland Wishes Trilogy #1)

R aff lay on the narrow bed, the ceiling of the cottage feeling as if it pressed down on him as he stared into the darkness. Latham’s parting words echoed in his mind. She’ll burn .

A witch.

There was a witch in the village.

His fingers tightened around the soft blanket, his pulse quickening. He had long suspected that a witch had granted his and his friends’ wishes, cursing them in the process. If that were true, then it stood to reason that a witch could undo it.

Could she? Could a witch banish another witch’s spell? And more importantly, what would she demand in return?

Raff shook his head at his own foolishness. Freedom had been his wish, and he had been granted exactly that, an existence unfettered by duty, by battle, by bonds of kin or love. He had reveled in it briefly, but now? Now, he saw the bars of his own cage.

His thoughts turned to Laird Chafton. If the man suspected there was a witch here, she was in danger . She’ll burn. The words slithered back again, making his stomach clench.

He had to find her first.

But if she was truly a witch, what price would she extract? Magic was never freely given. He knew that now, far too late. The thought unsettled him. He had nothing worth trading, no land, no wealth, no sword-arm for hire. Only himself. Would that be enough? And if it was, what would she take?

Raff threw off the blanket and sat up. The air was thick with the scent of woodsmoke, the faintest trace of herbs lingering beneath it. He pressed his palms against his thighs, anxiously.

Come morning, he would start his search. Before Chafton did. Before it was too late.

Before she burned.

Morning brought a crisp breeze, the kind that hinted at the turn of the seasons. Raff stood in the field just beyond the village, hands wrapped around the handle of a wooden hoe. He worked the soil with strong, measured movements, using the task as an excuse to observe.

If a witch walked among them, how would he recognize her? Would she bear the mark of her craft upon her skin? Would her eyes flash with unnatural knowing? Or would she be just another face in the crowd, no different from the rest?

He watched as villagers went about their tasks, men working alongside him, women tending to baskets of wool and food. A few children darted about, laughing, oblivious to the weight of the world their elders carried.

His gaze went from one person to the next, searching for something—anything—that might give the witch away. But all he saw was ordinary folk, bound by toil and duty. If a witch hid among them, she concealed herself well.

The sun faded along with the morning, and the work slowed as the villagers paused for a respite.

Ingrid approached with a woven basket, her sleeves rolled to her elbows, wisps of her dark hair having slipped out from the braid she wore, the autumn breeze grabbing hold of them to brush across her face.

Raff found himself watching her a moment longer than he should, taking in her delicate curves, the way her rosy lips lifted in a smile. She had a quiet strength, one that pulled him in despite himself. But then it had been some time since a woman had paid him any mind or any appealed to him.

“I brought food for you,” she said when she reached him.

“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’t mind 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 too demanding.” 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?