Page 4 of The Cruel Highlander's Healer
There was a clanging inside the house, and Conall imagined pots and pans being shuffled about in a washbasin as the witch of the woods dried her hands. He and Eliot continued their trek across the porch. Once they reached the door, he raised his fist to knock, but the door was pulled open quickly before he had the chance.
The vision he had conjured earlier danced in his mind’s eye, the old crone with the warts decorating a large, protruding nose. The light from the fire in the cabin silhouetted the woman standing in the door frame, and it took a moment for Conall’s vision to clear.
But when it did, it was far from what he was expecting.
The woman before him was beautiful, with yellow hair that tumbled down around her shoulders in wispy curls. Soft brown eyes like that narrowed on the two men. Suspicion colored every line of her face as those lovely eyes flicked between Conall and his man-at-arms.
“Witch,” he grunted, trying not to let a bonnie face distract him, “We need yer help.”
Her brow knit together, gaze flickering between the Laird and Eliot.
“Witch?” she asked, eyebrows knitting together as she seemed to consider the word.
The confusion in her tone brought Conall up short. Eliot opened his mouth to speak, but the Laird didn’t give him the chance.
“Aye,” he said with a nod of his head. “We need the help of the Witch of the Wood.”
Conall had been surprised when the woman had first opened the door, even if that surprise had been a pleasant one. He had expected many things as they’d approached the cottage in the wood. But, so far, she had not met a single one of those expectations.
The Laird was also well aware of the effect he often had on people. Fear, suspicion, respect – being branded the Beast of the MacKinnons elicited varied responses, even if the name did chafe against his skin.
But one of the responses that he hadn’t yet received, not from a stranger, was when the woman before him threw her head back and laughed.
And that is exactly what happened. The Witch of the Wood laughed, cackling directly in Conall’s face.
CHAPTERTHREE
“Witch?” Eliza snorted, eyes flicking between the two menaces standing on her doorstep. “Ye believe thatIam the Witch of the Wood?”
Doubt crossed the faces of the two men, and they spared a moment to glance at each other. One of the fire embers gave a loud pop behind her, the only sound filling the air around them as the trespassers turned their attention back to her.
“Ye’re nae the Witch of the Wood?” One of the men, the more brutish one with a scar running down his face, asked.
His dark eyebrows were pressed firmly together, confusion in every line of his expression. She shook her head.
“Nay,” she answered with a chuckle. “If ye’ve come lookin’ for her, ye’ve found yerself the wrong woman.”
It was the other man who spoke next.
“But ye’re a healer?”
Eliza turned to regard him. He was smaller than the other one, although that was still not saying much, since the brutish man with the scar was so large she was certain he’d tower over most men.
“Why do ye want to ken?” she placed a still soapy hand on her hip, narrowing her eyes at the two men again.
The scarred-faced brute smirked. “I think that’s an aye, lassie.”
The two men shared a quick glance, but no words passed between them before they pushed past her and into her cottage beyond.
“And what do ye think ye’re doin’?” The words poured out of her as she turned and rushed after them.
They didn’t turn to look at her, not as both of them began casting wild glances around the cottage Eliza had called home since she was nine years old.
She watched as the scarred man grabbed one of her healer’s bags, opening it and prodding at some supplies.
“We think ye’re comin’ to help us,” he grunted. “So we’re helpin’ ye pack.”
He snapped the healer’s bag shut, looking around the cottage once more. Immediately, she glanced toward the window. The sun was halfway set, streaks of orange and red filling the sky as it gave way to night.
