The Betrayal - By Ruth Langan Page 0,5
herbs and a great deal of meditation for some of the older scars.”
“Older scars?” Beneath the covers he ran his hand over his chest and discovered that the long-familiar knots and twists of flesh were gone. His skin was now as smooth as a newborn babe’s. Shocked, he started to sit up and the fur covering slipped to his waist, revealing the fact that he was naked. Though he quickly recovered and tucked the fur around himself for modesty, he could see the color spreading on Kylia’s cheeks as she scrambled to her feet.
“I’ll just fetch your plaid. Mum repaired it and washed the blood from it.”
As she disappeared from sight, Grant lay back, feeling more than a little overwhelmed. Had he lost his senses? Or was this really happening to him?
It didn’t seem possible that such a serious wound to his arm could heal within three days without leaving a mark. What was more, even older scars had disappeared, leaving his flesh without a blemish. He felt reborn. In truth, he couldn’t recall ever feeling this rested. He felt a wave of momentary discomfort when he thought about strange women examining his body for scars. Still, what mattered more was that every scar had been swept away with a few spells.
He pressed an arm over his eyes and gave a long, deep sigh. Either he had gone completely mad, or the tales he’d heard for a lifetime were true and he was actually in the Mystical Kingdom, in the company of witches.
Grant tossed the plaid over one shoulder, leaving his arms and torso bare in the manner of a Highlander. As he stepped from the cottage, he felt the warmth of the sun on his face and paused a moment to enjoy the view.
A variety of women in gaily-colored gowns were involved in diverse activities. A woman with long, dark hair threaded with gray stood beside a fire, stirring something in a cauldron. But this was no witch’s brew. The wonderful scent wafting on the breeze had his mouth watering. To one side was a younger woman, working a loom. A hunched, older woman was seated at her feet, twisting the yarn, gathering it into a skein. And approaching from the loch was a little troll who had to be Jeremy, as well as a blue-eyed, golden-haired waif striding alongside Kylia, holding a string of fish.
They called out, “Good day to you.”
“Good day.” He paused. “I thank you all for your gift of healing. I am forever in your debt.”
The older woman smiled. “We were pleased to be of service. I am Wilona, of the clan Drummond.” She turned to a woman seated at a loom. “This is my daughter, Nola, and our friend, Bessie. This is Jeremy, and my granddaughters Gwenellen and Kylia, whom you’ve already met.”
He tried not to stare at the raven-haired beauty, whose damp gown clung to every line and curve of her slender body. She seemed completely unaware of how she looked as she picked up a sharp knife and began preparing the fish for the fire.
“I am Grant, laird of the clan MacCallum.”
“A laird?” Wilona gave him an assessing look. “We are honored by your visit. But a man doesn’t pit his courage against a dragon without good reason. What does the laird of the clan MacCallum desire from the Mystical Kingdom?”
He thought of the bitter betrayal that had brought him to such a desperate journey. His tone hardened. “I come seeking the name of my enemy, who walks in the guise of friend.”
“What makes you think we can help you?”
“You have already proved that you can heal my body. I must heal my clan by learning a name.”
“So that you can seek vengeance?”
He heard the note of censure in the old woman’s voice. “So that I can keep my people safe from future betrayals.”
Wilona studied him before turning back to the kettle. “There is time to speak of this later. For now, since you’ve regained your strength, Kylia and Gwenellen are eager to show you our kingdom.”
Grant knew that he was being dismissed, yet he took no offense. These women needed time to allay their fears of him, just as he needed time to adjust to his situation. “I’m eager to see it, for I’ve heard of this place since I was a wee bairn.”
He followed slowly behind the two young women who danced ahead, leading their guest across a meadow abloom with heather. Jeremy, no taller than a lad, trailed far