“Aye?”
“I thought only to help ye. Instead, I made your difficulty with Agatha worse.”
His admission surprised her. How many men would admit to any mistake, much less one that did not affect themselves? She nodded and kept her tone even. He did not deserve her ire. But he did need to know the consequences of his carelessness. “Aye. She thinks she heard ye confirm that I could have saved her bairn. She’ll never forgive—or forget.”
“How likely is she to cause trouble for ye?” He turned back to his study of the countryside.
Aftyn pressed her lips together, reluctant to give voice to her fears. But he’d compounded them, so she would tell him how badly. “More than she has already? Very likely. She was never certain, but she thought ye are a healer and I? I only pretended to be.” How many ways could she embarrass herself?
He dropped his hands to his sides. “Is she dangerous?”
Aftyn noticed one hand rested on his dirk. “Do ye mean can she sway others in the village to do me harm? I’ve helped many, so I would like to hope not, but she and her husband, their post house and stables, are important to our village life.”
“I could talk to her. Explain about a bairn’s weak heart…”
Aftyn whirled, fists on hips, and glared at him, suddenly tired of trying to convince him to stay out of it. Tired of fighting Agatha. Just tired. “She willna hear ye any more than she listens to me. She doesna want to ken the truth. Ye will just make matters worse.” She turned away and added the only thing she could think of that would shock him out of the path he seemed determined to be on, no matter how she objected. “Perhaps ’tis time for ye to take Niall home.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him shake his head.
“He is no’ ready. And I canna leave ye to bear the brunt of my careless words.”
He crossed his arms again and took a breath, as if coming to a decision.
“Ye could go with us when we leave.”
“Go with ye?” She choked out a laugh, then sobered. “That is no’ possible. My reputation would be ruined. Nay.”
He shifted to face her. “Is death preferable to a risk to your reputation?”
“She will no’ go so far.”
“The king did, soon after midsummer. Did ye hear of it?” He dared not describe it to her. “Word of that execution is spreading. What the king does, others will do.”
She shook her head. “The royal court is no’ the same as this glen.”
“Fear and hatred are the same everywhere.” He reached out a hand and rested it on her shoulder, tightened his fingers but stopped short of tugging. “Come with me.”
She gave his hand a sideways glance, pretending indifference. “Nay.” In truth, his touch made her knees go weak and her heart fill with longing. The heat from his hand sizzled straight to her core, and its proximity to her breast made her wish he’d touch her there, or take her in his arms and kiss her. Foolish wishes.
He let go of her and turned back to the view of the glen as his fingers curled into a fist. “Then to keep ye safe, I must stay. Rabbie and the others can see Niall safely home in a few days.”
Really? He would stay for her? The image of being wrapped in his arms she’d had when she first saw him filled her mind again. She dismissed it. Dreaming about this man would not solve anything. “I thank ye for yer concern, but ye are needed at home. Ye said so.”
He shrugged. “I’ll go when Agatha no longer poses a threat to ye.”
He was resolute. Where other men might leave her to her fate, he insisted on taking responsibility. She should be pleased to have the protection of such a man, but sadness filled her. No matter what she felt, the result would be the same.
She pivoted to face him this time and shook her head. “Then ye will never leave this glen.”
10
Jamie’s blood chilled at Aftyn’s words. They had the ring of prophesy, but he shook himself and started walking down the rough track into the glen. To warm his blood, he told himself, not because of anything the daft lass had said.
Daft, aye. But also strong, to dismiss his help when she could be in danger from Agatha’s rantings.
Or overconfident. She was, after all, merely a lass, poorly trained to care for her people, but trying her best, and unable to defend herself if someone attacked her. Yet she was so much more. She filled his dreams with images of holding her, touching her, feeling her arms go around him and her body press against his, eager to return his kisses. His caresses. In the deepest part of the night, he sometimes dreamt of taking her to his bed, their clothes left on the floor, and making love to her. Those dreams left him hard, aching, and kicking himself for foolish yearnings. On other nights, not all of his imaginings were good.
He paused for a moment, listening for her footsteps following him in the springy ground. But also to force the image from his mind of Aftyn tied to a stake in the village’s market square, flames rising around her as a mob chanted, “Burn, witch, burn” and she fought the scream tearing her throat. He had no gift of prophesy, thankfully, just a vivid imagination that helped him see what his talent revealed. The one gift he had gave him trouble enough.
