Page 44 of Fire in his Highland Heart

Arguen felt a similar blush bloom in her cheeks. “I’m usually called a witch, not an angel,” she said, her tone the slightest bit rueful.

Blake looked down fondly at her. “Nay, witches are not good an’ kind like ye,” he said.

“Ye ken many witches, then?” she joked.

“My fair share,” he said dryly.

And before she knew it, he was kissing her again, soft, slight, unobtrusive, as if she were some fragile thing he was afraid to break. Much to his delight, she returned the kiss with fervor.

When they broke apart, Blake was happy to see that look on her face again—the dreamy one.

“You really are...” he took a moment and gulped nervously, “quite beautiful.”

All Arguen could do was blush and smile back up at him. At that moment, there was a knock on the door. They jumped apart, as if they had been up to mischief in worse ways, and Blake bade the knocker enter.

Dinner was served, and from the smell of it, Arguen anticipated good things. The two servants brought the food to the table at the far end, and left soon after that. In those few moments, Arguen felt very self-conscious. She recognized one of the servants but not the other, and she felt as if she were doing something illegal by having dinner with Blake in a manner like this. If not illegal, it was certainly unorthodox. She imagined how it must look to others, to have the laird of the castle invite the strange healer who showed up on his doorstep half-dead to dinner in a private, intimate setting with him.

But then...he had invited her, after all, and had kissed her and called her beautiful...so perhaps he did not consider those things. Or if he did, they were evidently of no consequence to him.

As if sensing her uneasiness, he led her to the table with a gentle hand on the small of her back, and pulled out the chair for her before she sat down.

Before they began, he gave short prayer of thanks to God. Arguen hadn’t prayed aloud in so long, she’d almost forgotten that praying before a meal was a regularity in Scotland.

“Are ye quite devout, then?” she asked. It was a casual meal where either could serve themselves, and Arguen had to restrain herself a bit. At her cottage, she had mostly vegetables from her garden or bread that she baked—meat was a rarity unless someone insisted on paying her for her services. Then, she could splurge a little at the butcher’s. Roast pheasant with vegetables to complement it and a platter of fruit and small cakes for dessert later seemed a luxury.

“I wouldna say so, nay. I dinnae attend church so regularly. But I think ‘tis naive tae think we could be here without divine guidance. An’ ye? What say ye?” Blake answered, not taking his eyes off her even when eating.

Arguen had to stifle a moan of pleasure as she tasted the sumptuous food. This was far better than boiled vegetables. “Erm...” she took a few moments to chew and swallow, not wanting to be rude.

An amused smile tugged at one corner of Blake’s mouth. He found the action endearing.

“Erm, aye, I do think there is someone out there, watchin’ us. I dinnae ken that he cares for me, though.”

Blake raised an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

Arguen took a sip of her wine (equally as wonderful as the food) and thought a moment before answering him. “After...after all that’s happened, some good, some bad, I wonder why a loving God would rip me away from me home, ye ken?”

He desperately wanted to know more about what had happened to her, but he didn’t want to push. If she were truly comfortable with him, she would reveal it in her own time.

“I’m truly sorry. I do hope ye feel that yer at home an’ welcome here though,” he said, and he looked at her sincerely.

“I do, aye. I’m so grateful tae have a cottage of me own here, an’ everyone is so welcomin’. I cannae help but miss home, ye ken?”

“Aye,” he said softly. He’d stopped eating for a bit to talk and listen. “Tell me,” he said, his fingers tapping the side of the goblet, “Why did ye have tae leave?”

Arguen took a deep breath. She had sensed this conversation was coming. It was only natural, after all. She was even relieved that he asked first; ever since she’d begun treating Mirellain, she had been practicing in her mind how to approach him and what to say.

“Well, I...” she began, and it all came out, every part of her story. Nothing was left out. She started by telling her of Malcolm’s marriage to a cold and cruel Englishwoman. Blake seemed to pale at that part, but he recovered himself well with a sip of wine. She told him about Marianne’s pregnancy, how it ended, how she’d been thrown in jail for nearly two months, and her escape. She told him about the incident with the yarrow and the hemlock, and how the old woman in the forest had helped her. That also seemed to pique his interest, but he quickly turned sympathetic when she expressed her despair about possibly giving Marianne hemlock instead of yarrow. Her days on the moors were uneventful, just her trying to survive, until she passed out that day at the stream.

Blake had been very quiet the entire time, and had not interrupted her for questions or comments. He instead ate quietly, chewing thoughtfully. When she was finished with her tale, he sat there and pondered it, for what seemed like hours (though really it was only minutes), as he sipped his wine. When he still said nothing after a while, Arguen cleared her throat and spoke again. “If ye wish me gone, I understand. ‘Tis a lot tae learn, an’ not all of it is pleasant.”

Blake took a deep breath. “She accused you of witchcraft, after all ye did tae help her?”

Arguen nodded.

“She’d even told ye that ye were like family?”

“Aye. Came as a shock tae me an’ Douglas.”