Under the Highlander's Spell by Donna Fletcher

encouraged the laboring mother with soft words and assured her repeatedly that all would be fine.
    Artair found the husband camped out on the side of the cottage, face in his hands, sobbing. He was barely old enough to be considered a man, but a man he needed to be.
    â€œCrying will not help her,” he said, reaching his hand down to the lad.
    The scrawny young man looked up, startled, wiped at his tears, then hesitantly grabbed for the offered hand. “I am Albert.”
    Artair yanked him to his feet. “Albert, you’re a man who is about to be a father. You must be strong for your wife and child.”
    â€œShe suffers and I can do nothing,” he said.
    â€œShe needs your strength.” Artair grasped his shoulder. “Come eat and strengthen yourself. Then clean up and be ready to go to your wife a man.”
    The lad nodded and stood a little taller as he walked with Artair to the roasting pit.
    The villagers feasted, laughed, and offered prayers for mother and child and the healer who had brought them such fortunate luck.
    That is until the feudal lord arrived with six of his men.
    The villagers grew quiet and huddled close to each other when he and his men rode up to the roasting pit and stared at what was left of the carcasses.
    His dark narrow eyes warned that he was not pleased and the tight set of his thin lips showed he fought to hold his tongue. He and his men looked well fed and their garments freshly woven. They obviously lived well off the sweat of others.
    Artair stepped forward before any could be accused of theft. “I am Artair, brother to Cavan, laird of the Clan Sinclare of Caithness.”
    The man’s eyes rounded and his demeanor immediately changed. “I am William, laird of the Clan MacWalter. You are most welcome on my land.”
    Artair knew the Sinclare clan would be recognized and respected, actually feared by some. His clan was known for its fierce and noble warriors, and many paid homage to them in hopes of earning them as friends rather than foes.
    â€œI appreciate your hospitality, William, though I am more than willing to reimburse you for the game my men hunted.”
    â€œNonsense,” William said with a dismissive wave. “Sinclares are welcome to hunt on my property whenever they pass through.”
    â€œYour generosity is appreciated. I will be two, perhaps three days. My healer is seeing to one of the villagers.”
    â€œSomeone is ill?” he asked sharply.
    Artair knew it wasn’t out of consideration that William asked, but rather, fear of catching a deadly illness. He set his mind at ease. “A difficult birth.”
    William sneered. “These pagans whelp their babes in the field and continue working. Do not waste your healer’s time on them.”
    â€œMy healer helps all those in need,” Artair said firmly, knowing an altercation with this man would only provoke suffering for the villagers.
    William gave a curt nod. “As you wish.” He sent a stern look at the villagers. “This man is my honored guest; make certain you see to his care.”
    The villagers bowed their heads and kept them bowed until their liege lord had disappeared out of sight. Their frightened expressions showed that they feared reprisals. There was little Artair could do to help them since they belonged to another’s clan. He could, however, make certain that the village was supplied with enough game to smoke and dry for the winter.
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    Nightfall arrived, though the babe didn’t. The longer it took, the more worried the women in the village became, and soon whispers were predicting that mother and child would not survive.
    Albert trembled with fear, and Artair walked him away from the gossiping tongues.
    â€œZia is an excellent healer,” he said, hoping to reassure the lad, though wondering if there could be any truth to the chatter.
    â€œIt has been nearly a full day my Ciley has labored to deliver our