The Virgin Spring

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.”