Page 2 of Seduction in a Kilt

There stood a cottage with a broken-backed roof of thatch. A stream of gray smoke rose into the air from the crumbling chimney. The small windows were covered with what appeared to be oiled cloth, and no light could be seen from the outside. In between was a scarred front door.

“This looks like the home of a witch if ever I saw one,” he murmured, surveying the gloomy, run-down place. The rain only made it appear more dismal than it already was. A sense of foreboding washed over him.

The shaggy creature headed at its leisurely pace straight for the cottage, with Liam and Alana following at a safe distance. But they both stopped when the door swung open before the dog reached it, fully expecting to see someone standing there to greet them. But there was no one, and all was darkness within.

A chill ran up Liam’s spine. He felt Alana’s hand grope for his, and he clasped

hers tightly, suddenly grateful for the human warmth and companionship it offered.

“Liam, did ye see that?” she breathed in a quavering voice. “The door opened on its own. How is that possible?”

“I dunno, but it gives me the willies,” he admitted, watching the giant dog pad through the open door and into the cottage. He would rather have been on the battlefield facing his worst foes than standing there.

“Should we go in?” she asked.

“We should at least go and see if anyone’s home,” he reluctantly agreed.

“Ye mean see if the witch is home.” She gripped his hand tightly.

He did not reply but put his other hand on the hilt of his sword and walked slowly towards the door, with Alana trailing behind him. The darkness beyond the open door seemed to beckon them inside.

“We’d best knock first,” Alana suggested in a whisper.

“Go on then,” he replied, “I have me hands full.” His heart was thudding in his ears.

Hesitantly, she raised her hand and was about to knock when a scratchy, irritable voice from inside suddenly called out, “Well, are ye gonnae stand out there all day, or are ye comin’ in? ’Tis cold on me old bones, and ye’re lettin’ in the rain.”

They almost jumped out of their skins and looked at each other with alarm. Get a hold of yersel’, man, Liam told himself sternly. He pulled back his shoulders and stood tall. “I’ll go first,” he whispered. Letting go of Alana’s hand, he took a deep breath and stepped slowly over the threshold into the gloom. He felt Alana holding onto the back of his jerkin as she followed him in.

A low cackle came from his left. He looked over and saw a small, hunched figure stirring a pot hanging over the fire blazing in the hearth with a long spoon.

“By the old Gods, ye took yer time gettin’ here.” The figure turned its head and looked over its shoulder. It revealed itself to be an ancient woman with a lined face and milky eyes. In the firelight, she looked almost devilish, her toothless mouth a dark, grinning cavern. “I havenae all day tae spend waitin’ fer ye, ye ken? I’m a busy woman. I had tae send out Grim tae find ye and bring ye here.”

She turned back to her pot, stirring the bubbling contents with a long spoon. Liam stared at her thick hank of wispy white hair that fell to the earthen floor from beneath a knitted cap. His skin prickled with unease. If ever there was a model for a witch, she was it. Grim?

It was then he noticed the gigantic hound laying on the floor a few feet from its mistress, near an old wooden settle, seemingly fast asleep.

The witch said in a gentler voice, “Well, now ye’re here, ye’d best come on in and warm yersel’s by the fire. Old Grim’ll nae hurt ye.”

“Thank ye kindly. Are ye Miss Selma?” Alana asked, stepping out bravely from behind him. Liam felt safer staying near the door.

“Aye, lassie, I’m Selma. Give me a hand up, will ye?” A tiny, gnarled paw appeared from beneath what resembled a pile of rags and groped in the air.

“Och, of course.” Alana hurried over, took the witch’s hand in hers, and supported her as she hauled herself to her feet, her bones cracking.

“Ach, thank ye, dear,” Selma said, bestowing on Alana one of her toothless smiles as she brushed down her layers of rusty garb.

She’s nae more than a harmless old lady, Liam told himself. ’Tis just this awful place that puts ye on edge.

As if she could hear his thoughts, Selma shot him a mirthful glance. “Aye, that’s right, lad, ye keep on believin’ that, eh? Old Selma’s just a wee old lady, nae harm in her at all. And there’s nae such things as witches.” She let out one of her low cackles, chilling his blood.

Selma hobbled over to a battered armchair by the hearthside and lowered herself into it. She smiled at Alana. “Ye’re pretty fer a healer, arenae ye, lassie?”

“H-how dae ye ken I’m a healer,” Alana asked, going pale.

“Ah, there’s nae much I dinnae ken, pet,” Selma replied. “That’s me blessin’ and me curse.” Her pale eyes fixed on Liam, increasing his unease, though he tried to conceal it. She was rapidly converting him from skeptic to believer.

But while staring at him, she carried on talking to Alana. “See that little bottle on the table there, lass? The one with the red wax seal?”