The Virgin Spring

“Aye, standing stones.”

Alex squeezed her hand tighter. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “This place,” he said, “d’ye know it?”

The both of them leaned closer still. Rachel felt warm all of a sudden, and uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I…not so much know it, as feel drawn to it. It calls to me, in a way I can’t explain.” For a moment she thought the two of them would devour her, so near did they hover.

Then a smile graced Alex’s face; he abruptly let go her hand and stood tall, hands on hips. “’Tis nonsense,” he said. “Ye must put such thoughts out of your mind, lass. Your recovery depends upon it.”

Moira moved a wrinkled hand toward Rachel’s face and let her thin fingers come to rest in her hair. The old woman smiled. “My son is right. Forget this vision.”

Rachel felt oddly comforted by their response. She would like to forget about the high place. The image disturbed her, frightened her almost.

Moira ran her hand through Rachel’s hair. Her touch was cool, soothing. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and felt the old woman fist a handful of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Lean forward, lass,” Moira whispered.

Not questioning why, Rachel complied. She felt Moira’s fingers rake her thick tresses. The dark fall of hair spilled forward onto her lap.

“Ahh, you were right, son,” Moira said. “You were right.” The door latch clunked heavily, as if someone who’d been holding it had just let it fall. Rachel looked up as Moira’s hand fell away. The old woman stifled a gasp.

Murdoch, one of the clan’s elders, stood in the doorway to the cottage, his eyes fixed on Moira’s startled face. Rachel wondered how long he’d stood there, unnoticed. Alex shot his mother a meaningful look, the significance of which Rachel had not a clue.

“Right about what?” Rachel asked, remembering Moira’s words. No one looked at her. “Right about what?”

“Alex,” Murdoch said, not sparing the warrior a glance. His gaze burned into Moira. “The laird wishes to see ye.”

Alex didn’t move, his eyes darting from Murdoch’s face to his mother’s. They all knew something she didn’t, but what?

Moira shook off her surprise and nodded to her son. “Go,” she said, “and take the lass with ye.”

Rachel stood as Alex beckoned her toward the door. Murdoch turned his attention to her at last, and his expression softened. “Aye, lass,” he said. “Go with Alex. Methinks Gilchrist would like to see ye, as well.”

Murdoch stepped aside and let them pass. Once outside, Rachel turned to speak to him, but he had already closed the door.

Gilchrist gripped the dirk in his left hand and lunged at his opponent.

Hugh leapt sideways as a flash of steel cut the air where he’d stood. “Christ, man! Are ye practicing or d’ye mean to skewer me?”

Gilchrist relaxed and lowered the dirk, breathless from Hugh’s surprise attack.

“I told ye so.” Hugh nodded and leaned against the stone wall of the keep.

He felt the weight of the dagger in his hand. ’Twas strange, but not so awkward as he’d thought ’twould be. “Hmm? What did you tell me?”

“That ye could learn to use your left if needs be.”

On impulse, he tossed the dirk into the air. Hugh flattened himself against the wall. Gilchrist watched as the dagger descended, end over end. At the last moment he reached in to grab it. “Damn!” The blade nicked his palm and thudded to the ground.

Hugh laughed as Gilchrist sucked at the cut. “Weel, it may take a while.”

Gilchrist was suddenly aware of the workmen in the bailey. They’d stopped their labors and were looking at him. Most stared blankly, but a few shot him looks of contempt. He grimaced as he stooped to retrieve the dirk. The quick movements of the past few minutes caused his side to burn with pain.

He motioned Hugh to follow him up the steps and into the castle. “They blame me still,” he muttered as the two of them strode into the newly finished hall.

“Blame ye for what?” Hugh asked.

“For their laird’s death.”

Hugh met his gaze. “You are their laird now.”

“Aye.” Gilchrist strode to the center of the empty hall, his footfalls echoing off the flagstones. Sunshine streamed into the room from the small, high windows, and riddled the stone floor with a tapestry of light. He tilted his face up and let the sun bathe him in its warmth. “If only I could have saved them,” he whispered.

Unbidden, memories of the fire came crashing in on him. The desperate cries of his uncle and aunt, the roar of the blaze, and the heat—the stifling, hellish heat. Gilchrist raised his hand instinctively to his brow as if to block the visions that raced through his mind.

“Ye did all any man could have done,” Hugh said.

“Did I?”

“Aye, ye did.” Hugh’s expression softened. “Ye did all but die with them. And who would that have served?”

The stony faces of his kinsmen swam before his eyes. “Mayhap everyone,” he whispered.

Footsteps sounded on the threshold. Gilchrist looked up to see the elders, all save Murdoch, enter the hall. He stood tall and quickly slipped his burned hand into the folds of his plaid.

“Thomas, Donald,” he said and strode toward the older men.

“Ah, there ye are,” Thomas said. “We’d have a word with ye.”

“Aye, we would,” Donald added.

Gilchrist joined them in the doorway and Hugh moved swiftly to his side. “So, what is it ye wish to discuss?”

The elders exchanged a brief look, then turned to him. “The Macphearson,” Thomas said.

“Aye, The Macphearson,” Donald repeated.

Gilchrist knit his brows. “What about him?”

“Alex thinks we should no trust him,” Thomas said. “That we should move against him afore he moves against us.”

“Aye,” Donald said. “Afore he moves against us.”

“Alex said this?” Gilchrist caught Hugh’s I-told-ye-so look out of the corner of his eye and frowned.

Both men nodded.

“And do you, Thomas Davidson, think we should no trust him? And you, Donald?”

The elders exchanged another look before Thomas spoke. “Weel—”

“And why should we no trust him?” Gilchrist said, his patience wearing thin. “What has The Macphearson done to us that we should make war on his clan?”

“But Alex said—”

“Does The Macphearson no wish to join us at the gathering this summer?” He turned to Hugh. “Did ye no tell me this less than a sennight ago?”

Hugh nodded. “I did. Our scouts carried the news from the western border where they’d met up with a Macphearson hunting party.”

Gilchrist leveled his gaze at Thomas. “They may wish to join the Chattan. The alliance. Did ye no think of that?”

“That’s exactly what I’d thought, at first,” Thomas said. “But then Alex—”

“Aye, Alex said—” Donald repeated.

Gilchrist silenced the both of them with an upraised hand. The elders stared at it, wide-eyed. He realized then, he’d raised his burned hand. To hell with the both of them. He was sick to death of concealing it.

“Think of it,” he said. “The Chattan, the four—Davidson, Mackintosh, Macgillivray, and MacBain. The alliance my father worked his whole life to see, and that my brother, Iain, at long last forged.” He paused to let his words sink in. “And now Macphearson. We could be five. Five Highland clans at peace instead of war.” Gilchrist nodded slowly and looked from Thomas to Donald, then let his gaze fall upon Hugh.

“Aye,” Hugh said, nodding agreement. “And Alex would destroy it before it’s e’er begun.”

The elders were quiet. Gilchrist leaned against the stone portal of the keep and looked out across the bailey which bustled with activity.

He caught sight of Rachel, arm in arm with Alex, making their way up the hill from the village. He didn’t like the way Alex was smiling at her, nor the way he occasionally patted her hand with his.

“And what about her?” Thomas asked, nodding in Rachel’s direction.

Gilchrist gritted his teeth. “What about her?”

Hugh shot him a cautionary look, which he immediately ignored.

“What will ye do with her?” Thomas asked.

“Aye, what will ye do, Laird?” Donald repeated, much to his annoyance.

God’s truth, he had not a clue. His gaze fixed on Rachel, he answered in slow, carefully chosen words. “I promised to keep her safe, and that I intend to do.” He glanced briefly at all three men. “D’ye have a problem with that?”

A shout went up among the workmen.

Gilchrist shot from the doorway and stood on the top step of the keep, scanning the bailey for the source of the commotion.

“There,” Hugh said and pointed east, past the village.

A small group of Davidson warriors rode up the hill toward the keep. Nothing unusual about that. As they passed the village, one by one, they turned off toward their cottages. Only one man remained. He rode his own mount, a horse Gilchrist recognized, but led another—a white mare. ’Twas small and did not bear the Davidson livery.

“Look!” Hugh cried and pointed toward the village.

Gilchrist froze.

Rachel was trying to free herself from Alex’s grasp. She wrestled in his embrace and shouted something Gilchrist could not make out.

“Bluidy hell,” he breathed and started down the steps toward her.

“Wait!” Hugh said. “Look.”

The warrior led the white mare past the struggling couple. He appeared only mildly interested in their quarrel.

Rachel suddenly lurched forward and shot from Alex’s grip. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened as Alex lunged for her, then missed. She raced up the hill, after the warrior and the strange mare. Alex followed.

Gilchrist sprang from the steps with Hugh in his wake. He snaked his way through the knot of workmen and clan folk choking the bailey, and met them at the opening in the curtain wall.

He stopped short when he saw Rachel, her gray-green gaze fixed on the white mare.

“My horse!” she cried, eyes glazed and wide. “My horse!”

Chapter Five

Amethyst waves of heather shifted in the breeze. The stones rose up, gray sentinels against a flawless, cerulean sky. ’Twas bitter cold. She pulled the edges of the plaid close about her, conserving her warmth, mustering her strength.

A great bear of a man appeared on the ridge top, in the center of the stone circle, shading his eyes, scanning the horizon. She waved to him but he did not see her. She waved again and called his name. Why didn’t he see her?

She must reach him—make him see.

Why didn’t he see her?

Rachel’s eyes flew open.

“That’s it!” she cried and bolted upright. “I must go there! I must find him!” She struggled against the firm hands that pushed her back on the pallet. Her vision was blurred and she fought to clear her mind.

“Hush now, ye must rest.” The girl’s soothing voice was familiar…Peg. “Ye’ve had a shock, ’tis all.”

Rachel blinked a few times, then focused her gaze on the concerned face hovering above her. “Peg,” she said. “Peg!” She struggled to sit up again.

“Nay, ye mustn’t—”

Rachel grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “I must go there! I must find him! Don’t you see?”

“Go where? Find whom?” The voice was Gilchrist’s, and before Rachel could respond, he’d motioned Peg out of the way and sat gently on the pallet beside her. “Here,” he said, offering her a cup. “Drink this.”

Rachel met his gaze briefly, then lowered her eyes to the cup. “What is it?”

“’Tis a libation I make myself. Here.” He pushed the cup into her hand. “Drink it. ’Twill soothe your nerves.”

She accepted the cup and put it to her lips. Before she drank, she looked up at him. His expression was different, softer. She’d not seen him look so before.

“Drink it,” he whispered.

She obeyed. The warm liquid blazed a path of fire down her throat. She felt her eyes widen and she began to cough and sputter. Gilchrist grinned. He put a hand to her back and rubbed in small circles as she caught her breath. “Better?” he asked.

She looked at him and then the cup in wonder. “Aye,” she rasped. “Better.”

He laughed. “’Tis my own concoction. Some like it, some dinna.”

“’Tis powerful.”

“Aye, ’tis.”

Rachel drew a few deep breaths and began to feel better. She was suddenly aware of her surroundings and the small crowd gathered around her.

She was inside the keep in a small, starkly furnished chamber—Gilchrist’s chamber, she surmised. Alex stood against the far wall, his dark gaze fixed on her, his expression blank. Murdoch and two older clansmen whom Alex had called the elders, hovered behind Gilchrist. Peg knelt beside him, her face a mask of concern.

She tried to get up but Gilchrist placed a hand firmly on her shoulder and would not allow it. “What happened?” she asked.

“Ye saw the horse—the white mare—and fainted dead away.”

Her horse! She tried to sit up again, and again he pushed her back. “But, my horse—I must see her. I must—”

“Your horse is being well cared for at the stable,” Gilchrist said. “Later, after ye’ve rested, I’ll take ye there to see her.”

His voice was calm, reassuring, but everything in Gilchrist’s demeanor told her he would not allow her to move from the pallet until he was certain she was well.

“All right,” she conceded and let her head fall back on the pillow. “But I must have my horse. I must leave soon.”

Gilchrist frowned. “And where would ye go?”

“To the high place. I must find it. ’Tis most urgent.” She implored him with her eyes. “Don’t you see?”

“What high place, lass?” Murdoch knelt beside the pallet and furrowed his great gray brows.

Rachel closed her eyes and conjured the vision.

“The name of this place, what is it?” Gilchrist whispered.

“’Tis all too much for the lass. Ye should let her rest now.” The voice was Alex’s. ’Twas soothing and moved closer as he continued to speak. “She’s had a shock. Let her be.”

Rachel ignored them all and concentrated on the image that burned in her mind. “Craigh…Mur,” she said, and opened her eyes. “That’s the place. Craigh Mur.”

A tiny smile tugged at the edges of Gilchrist’s mouth. The elders exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alex opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.

“Craigh Mur,” Murdoch repeated.

“Aye,” she said.

“’Tis on Macphearson land, is it no?” Peg, who’d been quiet all this time, asked suddenly.

Gilchrist nodded his head, his gaze fixed on Rachel. “It is.”

The feeling that she must go there, and quickly, overwhelmed her. But the image of the man atop the ridge continued to nag at her. Who was he? They did not question her further, and she decided not to mention it again until she better understood its meaning.

All she knew was that she must go to Craigh Mur. Whatever it was, wherever it was, the place held the key to her identity, of that she was certain.

“Will you take me there?” she asked, returning Gilchrist’s steady gaze.

Hugh appeared in the doorway just as Alex began to voice a protest. Gilchrist beckoned Hugh closer, and the elders moved aside to let him pass into the small chamber.

Hugh glanced briefly at her, then nodded to Gilchrist. “’Tis an English horse, but the livery has no markings. The saddlebags carry a bit of spoiled food and a few garments, that is all.”

“An English horse,” Murdoch repeated.

“A lady’s horse.” Hugh caught Gilchrist’s eye. “For certain.”

Gilchrist pushed the trencher of food away, untouched, and studied the faces of the elders who shared his table for the midday meal.

Hugh sat across from him on a wooden bench, and ate in silence, while Alex fidgeted in his customary place at Gilchrist’s right. Like him, the dark warrior seemed to have lost his appetite.

“Ye’ve ordered me to deal with her,” Alex said abruptly, “now let me do it.”

Hugh looked up from his food long enough to cock a tawny brow.

“Ye are laird,” Alex continued. “Surely ye have no interest in what becomes of some lying English whore.” He paused. “Do ye?”

Gilchrist bristled at his friend’s words. His unguarded reaction was not lost on the elders. Murdoch sat quietly, taking it all in, as was his wont. They waited for Gilchrist to respond.

Hugh suddenly put down his dirk, which had been poised to deliver a chunk of roasted venison into his still-open mouth. “Whores dinna own horses, be they English or Scots.”

“The lad has a point,” Thomas said, nodding at Hugh.

“Aye, he does,” Donald agreed. “A point.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gilchrist watched Alex’s expression darken.

“Well,” Alex said, “be she whore or nay, surely ye dinna mean to deliver her to Craigh Mur?” He glanced briefly at each of the elders, then turned to Gilchrist. “At least no yourself?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Gilchrist asked.

“Ye are no fit, for one thing,” Alex said and gestured to Gilchrist’s uncovered right hand.

He fisted it tight on the surface of the table, betraying not a hint of the pain it caused him. Blisters had risen yet again on his skin. ’Twas a condition he knew not how to prevent, and one which had plagued him continuously since the fire.

“And besides,” Alex continued, his gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s burns, “ye wouldna wish the Macphearsons to see ye so, would ye now?”

Thomas and Donald nodded their heads in agreement. Murdoch merely arched a snowy brow. Gilchrist wavered, his gaze drawn to his disfigured hand. How easily Alex’s words could unman him. Mayhap he was right.

“Och, what are ye talkin’ about?” Hugh said. “He’s fair fit.” Hugh pushed back from the table and rose. “And did ye think to take her to Craigh Mur yourself, Alex?”

“Aye,” Alex said. “I did.”

“And pay a no-so-friendly surprise visit to the Macphearsons, as long as ye were in the vicinity?”

Alex sprang to his feet, nearly toppling the bench and Gilchrist to the floor.

“All right!” Gilchrist slammed his good fist on the table. “That’s enough, both of you.” Hugh and Alex stood rigid, nodding slowly, each at the other, as if some silent challenge had again been leveled. “No one is going to Craigh Mur,” Gilchrist said. He glanced at Murdoch’s ever calm expression. “The woman stays here—for a time, at least.”

Before any of them could respond, Gilchrist rose from the table and left the cottage, pulling the door closed behind him. He leaned against the timbers of the door frame and inhaled deeply.

Damn this all-consuming interest in her! What had come over him? He’d not felt this way about a woman since…

“Bah!” Gilchrist fisted his hands at his sides. ’Twas dangerous, this interest. He could not afford to compromise his position as laird. That was the most important thing, was it not? The reason he must stay away from her.

At least that’s what he told himself. And stay away from her he would.

Hugh had been right all along. He should put away such nonsense and take a Davidson bride. Secure his place as leader. Gain his clan’s respect.

Gilchrist looked up to see Arlys standing not ten paces from him, a covered basket in her hand. How long had she watched him? “What d’ye want?” he asked.

She moved closer. “Alex. He is in the cottage?”

“He is.”

She smiled at him suddenly. “I have brought him some fresh honey cakes.”

Gilchrist stepped aside to let her pass, when his eye caught a whip of dark hair and a pale-green gown.

Rachel.

Peg was leading her down the hill from the castle, toward the row of cottages where they stood. Arlys frowned as she followed Gilchrist’s gaze, which was now fixed on the Englishwoman.

Rachel appeared full recovered from her faint. She walked briskly, without assistance. In fact, Peg had to run to keep up with her. She was heading straight for them.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced quickly at Arlys. “Those honey cakes, ye wouldna rather share them with me?”

She tore her murderous gaze away from Rachel and let her blue eyes light on him. His words surprised her, he could tell. She recovered herself quickly and smiled. “Aye,” she said.

Her voice was breathy, her demeanor suddenly flirtatious. Gilchrist willed himself to hold her gaze even as he heard Rachel’s footfalls approach, then stop abruptly before them.

Aye, ’twas time he lay this dangerous interest in the Englishwoman to rest. Without another thought, he grabbed Arlys around the waist with his good arm and pulled her into an embrace. She dropped the basket as he kissed her hard on the mouth. He was vaguely aware of the broken honey cakes lying ruined at their feet.

The eager girl responded with well-practiced skill. But ’twas not her lips he tasted, nor the fragrance of her hair that permeated his senses. His all-consuming awareness was for another.

Out of slitted eyes he watched Rachel’s response. Shock, and something more. Pain. He read it in her face. He felt it as much as saw it, and the knowledge caused his heart to pound, his head to spin.

Damn her! And damn himself for caring.

Rachel closed the door of the cottage and pressed her forehead against its cool timbers. She drew a deep breath and tried to get a grip on her shifting emotions.

“Are ye truly an English lady?” Peg asked. “Or, or are ye a whore, d’ye think?”

She whirled on the girl and Peg jumped backward like a startled kitten.

“I—I didna mean to offend ye.” Peg’s wide, doe eyes and naive concern softened Rachel’s anger. “I’m just curious is all.”

“I know you didn’t, Peg.” She gestured for the girl to sit at the table, then joined her.

“Ye truly dinna remember, do ye?”

She smiled. “Nay, I do not.”

“Some of the women say ye could be both—a fine lady and a whore. But Moira says ’tis nonsense and we must no speak such things.”

Both. Could such a thing be true?

She closed her eyes and let her mind wander. As always, the image of the high place burned bright, obliterating all other thoughts. For all she knew, she could be the queen of England.

More likely a common whore. She recalled the way her cheeks burned and her blood stirred when Gilchrist held her atop his mount that first afternoon. He’d wanted to kiss her, and she’d wanted it, too. She shook off the unsettling memory.

Her path was clear to her. She must get to Craigh Mur. She must find out who and what she was. Mayhap she was a married woman with children. Rachel moved a hand across the flat plane of her belly. That possibility hadn’t crossed her mind until just this moment. Children. Nay, she was certain she had none. She would feel it if she had.

“Would ye teach me?” Peg asked abruptly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Teach you?”

The girl ran her hand over the tattered cover of the book that lay on the table, then pushed it toward her. “Aye, the healing arts. Will ye teach me?”

Rachel had not had time to examine the old woman’s book. She opened it now and scanned page after page of bold script, lists of herbs and their common uses, simples and other preparations, and a log of injuries and illnesses she had treated. Gilchrist’s name caught her eye, but before she had time to read what the old woman had written, Peg reached out and caught her hand.

“I canna read it, ye see. The old woman wanted to teach me, but I was no much of a student.” Peg’s childlike face colored.

“You can’t read?”

“Nay. Few can. Only the laird and a handful of others. I knew right off that ye could, though. ’Tis a wondrous thing for a woman, is it no?”

Of course the girl couldn’t read; what had she been thinking? Reading was for scholars and priests, and precious few others. But Peg was right—she could read. Rachel’s eyes flew over the words on the page. ’Twas Latin. She could easily decipher the old woman’s hand.

“I am the clan’s healer now,” Peg said. “They depend on me.”

She met the girl’s gaze and smiled. “Of course they do.”

Peg grinned from ear to ear. “So will ye teach me? To read the old woman’s book, and all that ye know of the art?” She gestured to the apothecary that filled the wall of shelves behind her. “Ye know much more than I, and it seems ye will be staying with us for quite some time.”