Page 2 of To Wed a Witch (Reluctant Brides #3)

The jarring effect brought her back to her dire circumstances as she struggled to right herself and took off running again.

Her best dress she'd worn to the festival was now torn and ruined, but she did not care as adrenalin and sheer panic drove her on.

She heard the gruff utterances and words.

"Witch!" They'd repeated, and it irked her.

All she had done was see to the welfare of a young child, but in hindsight, perhaps she should have minded her own matters and not intervened.

Sìne shook her head from her distracting thoughts and focused on reaching the safety of the Keep.

Sprinting through the forest with one's hands tied behind one's back was not an easy feat, especially when the only thing to prevent her running into trees and dirt was her face.

She needed to focus and keep going. "Run, Sìne, run!

" she mentally chanted as the brambles tore at her hem and her lungs burned with each ragged breath.

Sìne thought of her beloved Aidyn and her maid Paisley, and that made her run even faster.

Behind her, the shouts grew closer. "There!

I saw her!" and "Dinnae let the witch escape!

" The rope binding her wrists had rubbed them raw, and blood trickled down her fingers.

How had saving a child's life marked her as a servant of the devil?

A root caught her ankle, and she pitched forward, rolling down a steep embankment. Leaves and debris clung to her hair as she struggled to her feet, spitting dirt from her mouth. The sound of pursuit echoed through the trees. Heavy boots crashed through bracken, men calling to one another.

"She went this way!"

"Aye, toward MacKay Keep!"

"We'll see what Laird MacKay has to say about harboring a witch!"

Father. The thought of him gave Sìne strength to push through the burning in her chest. Just a little further to the Keep's walls. She could see them now through the trees. Blessed grey stone rising against the darkening sky.

But her legs were failing her. The stitch in her side had become a knife-twist of pain, and her vision blurred with exhaustion. She stumbled again, this time staying down longer, gasping like a landed fish. The voices were so close now she could hear individual words clearly.

"Track her to the gates if ye must!"

"MacKay will hand her over once he kens that she is the devil's own!"

With a surge of panic, Sìne forced herself forward. The Keep's gates loomed before her. She could see torchlight flickering in the Great Hall's windows.

Safety. Sanctuary.

She half-ran, half-fell across the courtyard, her remaining strength focused on reaching those massive oak doors.

***

B HALTAIR SAT ON THE dais of MacKay Keep with a mixture of resignation and curiosity.

The three-day journey had given him time to consider his options, and each mile had only confirmed what Dugald had said.

This was his only chance to save his clan.

Still, the thought of wedding a witch was one he could barely stomach.

But there was nothing for it. What surprised him more was the genuine welcome he received from Laird MacKay.

The man appeared to be relieved, yet there was something in the air, a subtle nuance that Bhaltair could pick up.

It seemed too joyous. His daughter was most likely a very unpleasant sort if it had men balking at the mere thought of her and her father so overjoyed he'd sell her to the nearest beggar.

It was true Bhaltair was known as a man of few words, but that did not mean he was not observant.

He just never felt the need to over explain things.

Inside the Great Hall, Laird MacKay was doing his utmost to present his household in the best possible light.

The rushes had been changed, the best ale brought up from the cellars, and every piece of decent silver polished to gleaming.

"I'll not lie to ye, Ferguson," MacKay said, gesturing with his cup. "There have been... stories about my Sìne. But I assure ye, they're naught but superstitious nonsense spread by those who fear what they dinnae understand."

Bhaltair's expression remained carefully neutral. "And what exactly is it they dinnae understand?"

"She has a gift for healing, nothing more. The lass has a gentle touch with the sick and wounded. But ye ken how villagers talk. They see someone ease suffering and cry 'witchcraft' rather than admit to ignorance."

"A healer," Bhaltair mused, though his tone suggested skepticism. "And this gift of hers... it's brought her no suitors?"

MacKay shifted uncomfortably. "Well, ye see—"

They were interrupted when the Great Hall's doors exploded inward with a tremendous crash.

A wild creature burst through the entrance—or at least, that's what it appeared to be at first glance.

Hair the color of dark autumn leaves hung in tangled snarls around a face streaked with mud and blood.

A torn gown of once-fine wool hung in tatters, and the woman's eyes held the wild look of a hunted animal.

Her hands were bound behind her back with rough rope, and she was muttering under her breath in rapid, breathless rantings.

"Saints preserve us," one of Bhaltair's men muttered, crossing himself.

The apparition stumbled into the hall like a banshee, her voice rising to a half-shriek as she spotted the assembled men.

"They're coming! They followed me. The whole bloody village with their torches and their—" Her wild gaze fell upon the strangers, and for a moment she stood frozen, chest heaving.

Laird MacKay had gone white as new wool. "Sìne? Daughter, what in heaven’s name..."

Bhaltair was already on his feet, his chair scraping against stone as he rose. Every instinct honed by years of battle had him stepping forward, his hand moving unconsciously toward where his sword would hang.

But Sìne wasn't listening to her father.

Her eyes had fixed on Bhaltair. She had no idea why, but she just knew this man, as fearsome as he looked, would shelter her.

Instinctively, without thought or reason, Sìne launched herself across the hall toward him rather than seeking her father's protection.

Something told her this stranger was powerful enough to keep her safe when her own father might not be.

"Please," she gasped, dodging around the high table with surprising agility for someone whose hands were bound. Before anyone could react, she'd positioned herself directly behind Bhaltair. "They think I'm a witch. They're right behind me. Dinnae let them take me back!"

The moment she pressed against his back, trembling, Bhaltair's arm swept around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side. The trust she'd shown in coming to him hit him like a physical blow. Something primal stirred in his chest as he felt her complete faith in his ability to shield her.

"What's this about?" he demanded.

Before anyone could answer, angry voices erupted from the courtyard outside, growing louder as they approached the hall.

"MacKay! We ken she's here!"

"Send out the witch!"

"Justice for what she's done to the boy!"

The guardsmen at the gates had recognized Sìne immediately and let her through without question, but the pursuing villagers had surged through behind her, overwhelming the small contingent. The guards, unwilling to draw swords against unarmed villagers had been forced to let them pass.

Bhaltair's arm tightened around her waist protectively, and he felt her shudder against him.

"Easy, lass," he whispered, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. "Tell me true. What exactly did ye do to this lad?"

Sìne's voice was steadier now, though still breathless.

"I was headed to the market day festival when I came upon a small crowd gathered for a burial of a wee lad they said had died from a fall.

But I kenned he was not dead because I caught a flicker of movement behind his eyelids.

But they were determined on lowering him into the ground.

I told them to wait, that he lived still.

I reached out and felt a weak pulse and leant forward to check for breath, when at that moment the lad stirred and opened his eyes.

.." She let out a shaky laugh. "The crowd decided I'd called him back from the dead. "

"And had ye?"

"No! He was never dead to begin with, just deeply asleep from the blow to his head. Any healer worth their salt would have kenned to check for breath and heartbeat before pronouncing death."

When Bhaltair turned slightly to look at her, he saw intelligence and indignation in her strangely colored eyes—one brown, the other green—equally striking beneath the mud and scratches. She was nothing like what he'd expected.

The angry crowd could now be heard just outside the Great Hall.

"Well then," Bhaltair replied, "it seems we have a problem."

***

B HALTAIR COULD NOT for the life of him understand why he would not let the daft woman go.

She was every inch completely unhinged and utterly beguiling.

The first thing that struck him was that she was not a mythical creature, an old crone, nor was she crazed as the rumors suggested.

Sìne MacKay was, in fact, full flesh and blood, and right now she was trembling against him so much so he could feel the fear despite her show of bravery.

Despite the tattered clothing and her current predicament, she had bewitched him.

The Great Hall erupted into chaos as the mob of villagers burst through the doors, their faces twisted with righteous fury. They filled the space with angry shouts and accusations.

"There she is!"

"The devil's own!"

"She raised the dead with her dark magic!"

Laird MacKay stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Now see here, good people, there's been some misunderstanding..."