The Virgin Spring

Peg slowly nodded her head. “Aye.”

“Who is he?”

“Jamie Davidson,” she breathed. “The stable master.”

“I see. Well then…” She linked arms with Peg. “We’d best go speak to him.” Peg sprang to life and began to protest. “About my horse,” she added.

“But—”

“He looks friendly enough. I’m sure he’ll let me see her.” She dragged Peg toward the stall she’d seen the man enter. “He’s young to be a stable master.”

“Oh, aye,” Peg said. “He was apprenticed as a lad and grew up in the stable at Braedûn Lodge. I’ve known him since we were bairns.” She paused and a pretty blush colored her cheeks. “When the old stable master died, Jamie took over. Duncan loved him like a son. ’Twas only fitting for Jamie to take his place.”

“And he has reared all these fine mounts?”

“He cares for them now, aye. But the original stock was bred by Duncan and Lady Alena.”

This surprised her. “A woman?”

“Aye. She’s the wife of the laird’s elder brother, Iain. And a finer horsewoman ye’ve ne’er seen. She lived with us at Braedûn Lodge for a time, before she and Iain wed and went off to live at Findhorn Castle.”

“Findhorn Castle—where is that?”

Peg pondered the question for a moment. “North, me-thinks. I have never been there. ’Tis the Mackintosh stronghold.”

Now she was truly confused. “I thought Gilchrist was a Davidson.”

“Oh, he is—his mam was a Davidson, the old laird’s sister. But his da was a Mackintosh, The Mackintosh, as is his brother now.”

“I see.” She wondered at this arrangement.

“And Alex. What is he?”

Peg stopped. “His mother is a Davidson.”

“Moira. Aye, I have met her. And his father? He is a Davidson, too?”

Peg’s blush deepened. “Weel, most likely. One of them is certain to be his da.” She stared at the ground and idly drew a line in the soft dirt with her foot.

“What do you mean, one of them?”

“His mam ne’er married.” Peg met her gaze. “D’ye catch my meaning?”

Rachel hid her surprise. “I understand,” she said simply, and drew Peg further along the row of mounts.

They slowed their pace as they approached the stall Jamie had entered. Rachel could hear him whistling. She peeked inside the timber enclosure. His back was to them; he was currying a mare’s coat with huge handfuls of fresh straw.

A white mare—her mare.

“Glenna,” she whispered.

The stable master stopped in midstroke and spun on his heel. His expression was all interest and mild surprise. “Glenna? Is that her name, then?”

She moved closer and began to stroke the mare’s snowy coat. “Aye.” Glenna nudged her hand and softly nickered in response. The simple gesture brought the sting of salt tears to Rachel’s eyes. She quickly wiped them away.

“Glenna,” Peg repeated. “’Tis a bonny name for a mare.”

Rachel smiled and threw her arms suddenly around Glenna’s neck. The mare knew her. ’Twas a small thing, but it was the only tangible evidence she had of her former life. She clung to it and it buoyed her strength.

“Her saddle, and the leather bags attached to it,” she said. “Where are they?”

“In the shed yonder.” Jamie nodded at a small cottage on the perimeter of the stable yard. “The clothes and things that was in ’em have already been taken away.”

“Who took them?”

“Alex.”

Alex. He’d shown her much kindness, yet there was something about him that unsettled her, something in his eyes. “Why would Alex take my things?”

Peg stumbled forward, blushing hotly, trying for all the world not to look at Jamie. “Perhaps to keep them safe?”