The Virgin Spring

“Good God, she’s English!”

Gilchrist started at Hugh’s words and immediately took a step back. “She’s not.”

“Just listen to her,” Hugh said. ’Tis plain she’s no one of us.”

“I…” Rachel stammered. “And—and what are you, then?”

“We’re bluidy Scots!” Hugh roared.

Rachel’s soft brow furrowed. Gilchrist could see her mind working, trying to fathom Hugh’s words. Realization finally dawned on her face.

“Of course,” she said. “Scots. But, I am not—”

“Aye, she’s English all right,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “An English whore!”

This was getting out of hand. Gilchrist scanned the faces of his kinsmen. “Who said that?”

Arlys elbowed her way forward. She whipped her hair behind her then arched a thin brow, fisting her hands on her hips. “Ye found her at the spring, did ye no?”

“I did,” he replied.

“The virgin’s spring,” Arlys said and shot Rachel a cool look. “Just look at her.”

Rachel met Arlys’s disapproving gaze and tipped her chin high. “I—I am no whore.”

“Oh, nay?” Arlys said. “If ye canna remember, how do ye know?”

“That’s enough,” Gilchrist said. “She hit her head. ’Tis no uncommon to forget things after such an injury.”

Hugh tilted his head and eyed both women. “Arlys is right, Laird. How d’ye know what she is?”

Rachel moved closer to him and he fought the ridiculous urge to put his arm around her.

“Maybe she hasna forgot at all,” Hugh said. “Maybe she’s lying.”

Gilchrist hadn’t thought of that. In fact, given the circumstances in which he’d found her, ’twould never have crossed his mind that she was anything other than a victim of foul play. The small crowd had grown to near a score of clan folk. He looked out over the tops of their heads.

Where had Alex gone? ’Twas unlike him not to offer some piece of advice. Not that Gilchrist needed it. He promised the woman he’d protect her, and he would. At least until he discovered more about her.

The low murmurs and snickers of his kinsmen grew louder. A warrior in the back shouted an obscenity, unmistakably directed at Rachel. Gilchrist shot him a murderous glare and the warrior promptly shut his mouth.

A second later, the door of the cottage in front of them creaked open and Murdoch, one of the elders, stepped out. Now there’d be trouble. The crowd parted to let him approach. Murdoch studied Rachel, his expression blank, then nodded at him. “What’s all this?” Gilchrist explained how he’d found her at the spring, and the old man cocked a wiry, white brow.

“She’s English,” Hugh said flatly.

Murdoch frowned.

“She’s a whore!” Arlys shouted. “And no fit to wear our plaid!” Before Gilchrist could stop her, Arlys reached out and ripped the dark hunting plaid from Rachel’s body.

All hell broke loose.

Instead of cowering, as he expected, Rachel lunged at Arlys, and the two women crashed backward into the wall of bodies that surrounded them. The crowd went wild.

He reached for Rachel at the same time Hugh stepped toward Arlys. Too late. The two women went down—a spitting, hair-tearing, roil of limbs. He and Hugh collided with a collective grunt.

“Bluidy hell!” He pushed backward, fighting to stay on his feet.

The crowd pressed closer, cheering Arlys on. He, Hugh and Murdoch elbowed them back and formed a tight circle around the combatants, trying to shield them from further harm.

Gilchrist had had enough. He leveled his gaze at Hugh, and his friend nodded. In one swift motion the two of them reached into the tangle of arms, legs, raven and gold hair, and pulled the women apart.

Arlys and Rachel came up snarling, gazes locked.

“Whore!”

“Bitch!”

“Enough!” Gilchrist shouted. “Both of you!”

He pulled Rachel backward against his chest, his good arm tight around her rib cage. His right side screamed in pain. He could feel her heart pound and the soft heaving of her breasts with each labored breath she drew. ’Twas absurd—all of it. He had no time for such foolishness.

“Peg!” he shouted into the crowd. The girl had noticed Rachel’s ring. She was smart and trustworthy.

Peg’s head popped through a muddle of elbows beside him. “Aye, Laird,” she said, breathless and uncommonly cheerful.

“Here,” he said, nodding down at Rachel. “Take her and find her a bed.” He thrust Rachel toward her, then caught the eye of a warrior he trusted. “And ye, go with them—and see to it no harm comes to her.” He glared hard at the warrior. “D’ye understand?”

“Aye, Laird,” the warrior said and moved to take Rachel’s arm. Peg rushed to help him. The two of them guided her through the crowd, which began to disperse now the commotion was ended.

Men and women alike shot Gilchrist disapproving glances and whispered among themselves as they returned to their duties. Hugh was right. His position as laird was tenuous, at best. He ignored them and watched as Rachel was led away.

Just before the trio disappeared behind a row of cottages, Rachel turned and cast one long look back at him. He met her gaze and his gut tightened. She smiled suddenly, and by sheer will he did not return the gesture. The warrior tugged on her arm, and she was gone.

He turned away, in time to catch Hugh lecturing Arlys, whispering something about unladylike behavior. “Silly chit,” he muttered. He watched, shaking his head, as Hugh sent her off home.

’Twas then he noticed Murdoch leaning casually against the cottage doorway stroking his beard, taking it all in. The elder cast him a blank but pointed look and after a moment went inside and closed the door.

Gilchrist swore under his breath and turned to leave. Out of nowhere Alex appeared, between two of the cottages that lined the perimeter of the newly constructed curtain wall.

“Alex!” he called. “Where did ye run off to, man?”

Alex strode toward him, his expression unusually serious.

Hugh joined them. “Aye, ye missed all the excitement.”

“That woman,” Alex said. “What will ye do with her?”

He hesitated. “I know not.” He eyed Hugh’s dour expression. “I care not.”

“Good,” Hugh said. “Ye have more important matters to attend.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “What matters?”

“The laird will take a bride—Arlys,” Hugh said, a smug expression creasing his face.

“But—”

“I didna say I would do it,” Gilchrist snapped. “Only that I would think on it.” He glowered at Hugh.

“But, Laird,” Alex said. “Why would ye marry now? There’s plenty of time.” Alex nodded to Gilchrist’s injured arm. “Ye are no full healed yet.”

“He’s fit enough,” Hugh said.

Gilchrist considered all he’d seen and heard yesterday at the clearing. “Ye fancy Arlys for yourself, Alex, don’t ye? I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

“Nay, I—’Tis just I think ye are being hasty.” Alex nodded to the workers on the hill who were busy moving stones. “Dinna ye think ye should first finish the castle?”

Alex had a point. Perhaps he should wait. Besides, he wasn’t ready to choose a bride—not yet. Arlys had seemed a good enough choice yesterday, but today, well, he wasn’t so sure.

“To hell with the castle,” Hugh said and glared openly at Alex. “He should wed, and soon.”

Gilchrist had the distinct impression he was the only one here without an agenda. “I said I will think on it. Now that’s enough.” He shot them both a look that precluded response, then turned and walked away.

“Laird,” Hugh called out. “If ye dinna mind me saying, ye should keep away from that English who—that woman, until we know more about her.”

Gilchrist spun on his heel. “I do mind ye saying, and who are ye to tell me what to do?”

Hugh immediately shrank back.

“Gilchrist.” Alex took a step toward him. “Laird, on this point I agree with Hugh. Let me deal with the woman. ’Twill be better that way, seeing as how the clan disapproves of her.” He smiled. “And truly, ye canna blame them.”

He glared at the both of them and ground his teeth. They were right, damn them. Why, then, did he have the feeling he was making a mistake? “All right,” he said sharply. “Deal with her, then. I care not.”

He waved them away and turned toward the castle. His arm ached and his skin itched. His burned fingers raged as he unfurled them inside his plaid and tried to spread them wide.

He looked up at the stark battlement, gritting his teeth. ’Twas not the familiar pain that plagued him, but another—one that had naught to do with his burns.

He recalled the fire in Rachel’s eyes when he’d pulled her from the brawl, the blush of her cheek, the soft weight of her breast against his forearm. If he closed his eyes he knew he could conjure the beating of her heart against his palm.

He did care.

“Well, if I’m no the bluidy fool,” he muttered and strode up the hill to the keep.

Peg pushed open the door of the stone-and-timber cottage. “It’s no much, but ’tis dry and warm.” She crossed the threshold and beckoned her to follow.

Rachel glanced briefly at the warrior. He nodded once, then turned and stood, feet apart and arms crossed over his chest. ’Twas plain he did not intend to leave.

What could she do? She sighed and ducked under the low doorway. All at once, a bouquet of familiar scents invaded her senses. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deep. Rosemary, laurel, and mint—nay, something else.

Just as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Peg pulled back the furs that covered the one window. Sunlight drenched the room. The cottage was new. Small, but well kept.

A hearth, laid with peat and twigs, commanded most of the wall opposite the entry. Peg knelt before it and rummaged through the few cooking items stacked neatly on the flagstones.

A plaid-covered pallet which served as a bed rested against the wall to Rachel’s left. She looked longingly at the plump straw mattress. She was exhausted.

The center of the room was dominated by a simple wooden table, flanked by benches. An old, thick book rested upon it. How unusual. She let her hand light on the stained, frayed cover. Something else caught her eye—a deep, wooden bowl and well-used pestle. Someone had been grinding herbs and nuts. An odd feeling of familiarity washed over her.

She inhaled again. Her nose drew her to the low wall to her right, which was fitted with sturdy shelves from floor to rafters. Every inch of space was crammed with—

She whirled just as Peg rose from the hearth. “Is this your cottage, Peg? Are these your things?” Her heart beat faster as she grasped at the veiled memory.

The girl smiled thinly. “Nay, well, I suppose they are my things now.” She moved to the table and ran her hand almost reverently over the battered book. “This is the cottage where the old woman worked. She’s gone now. Dead nigh on two moon ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You were close to her?”

Peg looked up with huge, liquid eyes. Rachel realized the girl was barely grown—fifteen at most. She had pale-brown hair that fell in wisps around her face. A spray of freckles dotted her impish nose.

“Aye, she was…everything to me. Ye see, I have no kin. My own parents died when I was just a bairn. The old woman raised me in the cottage next door and taught me things.”

Rachel let her gaze roam over the wall of containers. Slowly she reached out and let her hand come to rest on the book, next to Peg’s small fist. The girl met her gaze.

“She was a healer,” Rachel said, overcome by the strong impression. “The old woman.”

“Aye.”

Her head throbbed again. She unconsciously moved her hand to the tender spot.

Peg’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, your head. I’d forgotten.” She pulled out one of the benches and gestured for Rachel to sit. “Here, let me look at it. Mayhap there is something I might do to ease your pain.”

She smiled, still rubbing the good-size lump. “So, you are a healer, too, then?”

Peg blushed and fisted her hands at her sides. “Well, sort of. The old woman had just begun to teach me in earnest when…when she passed.” She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “But I’m all the clan has now. So, aye, I’m the healer.”

Apparently, ’twas important to the girl to be so viewed. She suppressed another smile and sat down on the bench. “Well then, healer, do something about this blasted throbbing.” She caught Peg’s expression of delight as she bent her head forward for examination.

Peg tentatively moved her hands over her scalp. She poked and prodded for a minute then stepped back, brow furrowed, and proceeded to chew on her lower lip. “Hmmm, I—I’m no so sure.”

Rachel looked at her through the midnight fall of her hair, then straightened up. “I’ve heard it said that a leaf or two of feverfew infused in boiling water does much to ease a headache.”

Peg’s eyes lit up. “You’re right!” She turned and quickly scanned the apothecary against the wall.

“If you haven’t any,” she said, “valerian and skullcap, infused together, would work as well.”

Peg stood on tiptoe and reached for a clay jar on the top shelf. “Nay, the old woman kept feverfew—here, here it is.” She removed the lid and handed the open container to her. “This is it, is it no?”

She quickly inspected the contents. Peg stood stock-still, eyes wide, looking at her with all the expectation of an apprentice who’d just completed her first assignment. Rachel smiled. “Aye, this is it.” She drew a small handful of the dried leaves from the jar and placed them in the wooden mortar. “If you’ll draw some water, I’ll start the fire.”

Peg grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll be back straightaway!” She bolted from the cottage, leaving the door wide-open.

Rachel glanced out at the warrior whom Gilchrist had assigned to protect her. He spared her not a look. She rose and shut the door, then leaned back against the rough timbers.

A healer.

She was a healer.

That much she remembered. But where was her horse, and where had she been going when Gilchrist found her, half-clothed and unconscious? On the walk to the cottage, Peg had recounted the tale of the virgin’s spring. Rachel shuddered.

What if Arlys was right?

Chapter Four

Arlys was wrong.

Gilchrist felt the truth of it in a way he couldn’t explain. He sat atop the newly constructed battlement of Monadhliath Castle and gazed down into the bailey at Rachel and Alex.

She blushed as Alex unexpectedly took her arm and guided her through the maze of hewn stone and sweating workmen. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened.

“Let it go,” Hugh said. “Ye’ve other matters to attend to.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“The Englishwoman. Rachel.”

He snapped to attention and leveled his gaze at Hugh. “What about her?”

Hugh smirked and raised both tawny brows.

“Well, what about her?” He was losing patience. Hugh had been acting strangely the past day, ever since he’d returned from the spring with the woman.

“It’s just that…” Hugh paused and nodded below into the bailey. “At first I didna like it, ye being so smitten with her and all. But then—”

“What?” He leapt to his feet. “I’m no smitten. What are ye think—”

“Och, man, ’tis plain as the nose on yer face.” Hugh pointed a finger at his chest. “But she’s English. Ye must no forget that.”

“Are ye daft? I told ye, I’m no—”

“’Tis a miracle, really,” Hugh said, “the way she’s rallied yer spirit.” He nodded appreciatively in Rachel’s direction.

“But—”

“Just dinna think on her too seriously. Ye’ve other—”

Gilchrist reached out and gripped Hugh’s shoulder, stopping him in midsentence. “That’s enough.”

Hugh’s eyes widened. “I…excuse me, Laird.” He quickly lowered his gaze and Gilchrist released him.

“Ye’ve been my friend long years, Hugh, but dinna think to tell me my business.”

He fisted his hands at his sides. Hugh nodded once in compliance, then strode to the steps leading below. Gilchrist almost called him back, then changed his mind, swearing silently under his breath.

He turned toward the battlement and peered over the edge, looking for Rachel. Ah, there she was, inspecting the masonry of the steps leading to the keep.

Peg had loaned her a gown. ’Twas no much—a thin garment of pale-green wool. He noticed how it gently skimmed her body and pulled slightly at her breasts and hips as she moved. She wore her dark hair loose—a midnight tumble of silk that reached nearly to her waist.

All at once, he recalled her scent and the feel of her in his arms as they rode astride his mount. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, but continued to watch her.

The workers paid her no mind and the few women in the bailey turned from her and pulled their children away when Alex led her toward them. No one would speak to her, save Peg and Alex. It had been like that since she’d arrived.

Rachel tipped her chin high and fisted her hands at her sides, not breaking her stride. Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, but she did not avert her eyes from the small knot of clan folk who whispered as she walked past, nor did she respond to the occasional insult tossed in her direction.

Gilchrist knew the feeling well.

“Brave lass,” he whispered, and absently flexed the muscles in his burned arm.

He watched her. Every move.

She could feel Gilchrist’s eyes upon her as Alex led her down the path and away from the castle. Gilchrist had not come near her since he’d sent her away with Peg, and yet everywhere she looked he was there, watching her from a distance.

On impulse she looked back. There he was, leaning against the battlement, his gaze fixed on her. A small thrill coursed through her. He fascinated her—there was no other word for it. He looked almost made of stone, himself—a citadel within the citadel, alone by design.

“Did ye no hear me?” Alex said.

Rachel shook off the strange emotion and turned her attention back to Alex. “I—I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The warrior smiled, his dark eyes studying her face. “I said, can ye no remember anything more?”

Alex had prodded her with the same questions, over and over, for the last hour. “Nay, I’ve told you,” she said, trying to conceal her irritation. “I remember naught before I awoke in the cave. Neither name, nor family, nor what led me to the spring.”

She met his inquisitive gaze and pursed her lips. Alex’s rigid posture relaxed and a warm smile broke across his face. Finally, he believed her.

“Well, ’tis a shame, but dinna worry. We shall take care of you.” Alex took her hand in his and gently moved his thumb over her palm.

She resisted the urge to pull away. Her pulse quickened as she met his gaze. He’d been overfriendly and protective of her all morning. She supposed she should be grateful, but something about him unsettled her.

He was fair handsome, his brown eyes penetrating, his voice rich and soothing. Still, an uneasiness washed over her as he continued to so boldly caress her hand.

“I shall take care of you,” he whispered.

She did pull away then, her thoughts racing. There was something about his voice…his words. What was it? Rachel stopped and massaged her brow for a moment.

“Are you unwell?” Alex asked.

“Nay, I—”

“She looks fit enough to me.”

Rachel whirled toward the feminine voice. Arlys leaned against the doorway of one of the cottages that lined the castle’s curtain wall, her arms folded across her chest, one hip thrust forward.

“Arlys,” Alex said as he moved toward the woman. “D’ye no have chores to do?”

Arlys shot him a nasty look then flashed her blue eyes at Rachel. “And what chores have ye assigned her?”

Rachel started to speak but Alex interrupted her. “Rachel is our guest, and is still recovering from her…accident. She need no trouble herself with work.”

“Ha!” Arlys said.

“But, I’d like to work,” Rachel said and took a step toward her. “I’m not used to idleness.”

Alex stepped between the two of them, worried, no doubt there would be a repeat of yesterday’s sparring.

“Well, I’m sure Alex can find plenty to occupy yer time.”

Before Rachel could respond, Arlys stepped into the cottage and began to close the door. She paused and glanced briefly at Alex. Her venomous expression softened. Rachel caught the barest hint of tears glassing her eyes before the door slammed shut.

She looked to Alex who stood motionless, eyes fixed blankly on the cottage, his smile faded. There was something in his face that surprised her.

Regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve upset her.”

Alex shook off his momentary melancholy and moved toward her, transforming himself in three strides into the delightful escort he’d played at all morning. “Bah, ’tis naught. She’ll come ’round.”

“She has every right to dislike me.”

Alex took her arm and guided her down the hill and into the maze of small cottages that surrounded the castle. Arlys’s accusation still nagged at her.

“Peg told me the story of the virgin’s spring,” she said.

“Och, dinna listen to those old wives’ tales. The girl is a simpleton. She knows naught of what she speaks.”

“Peg is sweet, and has been most kind to me.” Rachel looked from one woman to the next, as they made their way through the tiny village. None returned her hopeful smile. “In truth, she’s the only one who’s offered to call me friend.”

Alex stopped before a small structure at the end of the last row of cottages. “Come now, Rachel, have I not been a friend to ye?” He raised his brows in question and the corners of his mouth turned up in a handsome smile.

“You have,” she said and felt grateful for it.

“Well, then, come—there is someone who’d like to meet you.”

Alex led her to the door of the small cottage. “This is my mother’s house.” He tripped the latch and bade her cross the threshold.

Rachel entered and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The cottage was tiny and ill kept. A table stood in the center of the room. An old woman sat on a crude stool near the hearth, rocking herself back and forth, seemingly oblivious to their arrival.

“Mother,” Alex called to her. “I have brought ye a visitor.”

The woman looked up and, as she met the eyes of her son, a dazzling smile broke across her wrinkled face. “Alex,” she said and rose from the stool.

“Mother, this is Rachel, the woman of whom I have spoken.”

Rachel took a step forward and smiled as the woman turned her attention to her.

“Ahh, Rachel.” The old woman’s eyes lit up as she studied her with surprising alacrity.

“I am pleased to meet you.”

Alex hung back as his mother greeted her. “You may call me Moira,” the old woman said.

“Moira,” Rachel repeated. “’Tis a lovely name.”

The woman chuckled. “’Tis ye who are lovely, lass. My son never spoke of your beauty.” She glanced briefly at Alex, whose face colored at his mother’s words. “Only that ye canna recall a thing about yourself before your fall in the wood.”

“’Tis true,” she said. “Except for one thing.”

“What?” Alex said and moved quickly to her side. “Tell me.”

Rachel hesitated for a moment. She did not like the overzealous look in his eyes. “I—I’m a healer,” she said finally.

Moira’s eyes widened.

“How d’ye know that, if ye canna remember?” Alex said.

“I just know,” she said. “And there are other things—not so much things I remember, but things I see in my mind, like a picture.”

“What things?” Alex asked, his voice a bit unsteady. He took her hand and bade her sit on the bench that flanked the table. Both of them hovered over her, waiting for her response. ’Twas odd, their interest in her.

“Well, when I close my eyes,” Rachel began, “I see a place—a high place.”

“A high place,” Alex repeated.

“Aye, bleak and windswept, with a half circle of stones at its crest.”

Moira leaned closer. “Standing stones.”