The Virgin Spring

Davidson. Mackintosh. What was he now?

The pain was worse today. The rough hunting plaid, even the soft wool of his shirt, burned against his skin. He longed to tear the garments free and let the stiff breeze cool his body. But he dared not. Too many eyes were on him. He could bear their revulsion, but not their pity.

Hugh nodded to the clearing ahead. “Are ye comin’?”

Gilchrist closed his eyes and drew a breath. Rain. He could smell it in the air, cool and threatening. He almost smiled. Then a familiar, acrid scent yanked him back to reality. His eyes flew open.

There it was.

The charred remains of Braedûn Lodge, seat of Clan Davidson, the only home he remembered. ’Twas once a great house, full of laughter and hearty enterprise. How many times had he ridden up this very path, returned from hunting or a bit of wenching, to be greeted by his uncle at the door? He frowned and pushed the flood of memories from his mind.

“Well,” Hugh said, “are ye comin’ or no?”

It had been six months since the fire and in all that time Gilchrist hadn’t returned to the spot. He’d skirted the clearing on a few occasions and once he’d even approached—but the smell, the stench of charred oak and other things he was loath to remember kept him away. Even now his gut roiled.

“Nay,” he said, “I canna.”

Hugh set his jaw. “’Tis just a pile o’ burnt wood, nothing more.” The dozen or so warriors who accompanied them rode past and into the clearing. Hugh’s expression softened. “What demons remain, ye carry with ye, Gilchrist.”

He met his friend’s steady gaze. “Mayhap.”

“Ye are laird,” Hugh said. “Snap out of it, man. There’s work to be done and the clan needs a leader, no a—”

“A what?” Slowly, he drew his right hand from the folds of his plaid. “A cripple?” Clenching his teeth against the pain, he unfurled his burned fingers and willed them to grip Hugh’s bare forearm. “A monster?” Hugh neither flinched nor broke his gaze, and for that Gilchrist was grateful.

“Bah! ’Tis just a burn, and it’s no so bad.”

“No so bad?” Gilchrist released him. “Christ, I canna hold my own sword. A laird who canna protect his clan is no leader—he’s no even a man.”

They sat quiet for a moment, listening to the early morning larks and the creaking of branches in the rising wind. His hair whipped at his face. Absently he brushed it back with his good hand.

“Ye can learn to fight with your left,” Hugh said quietly. “There’s two or three clansmen wield a sword left-handed. One of them can show you.”

He shrugged, pushing the thought away.

“Ye must be fit for the spring gathering. Rumor has it the Macphearsons would join us this year. It’s been months since ye’ve met with them.”

Hugh’s point could not be argued. Gilchrist had seen no one outside the clan since the fire. More importantly, no one had seen him, and that suited him fine.

“Let Alex handle it.”

Hugh frowned. “Aye, I expect he’d jump at the chance to do that—and more.”

He raised a brow and shot his friend a cool look.

“There’s been talk,” Hugh said. “Among the elders—and the clan. Alex is well liked. Some say—”

“Where is Alex? He didna return from his hunt last night.”

Hugh shook his head. “There’s no telling. Busy with affairs of the clan, I suspect. Your affairs.”

He snorted.

“I’m lettin’ ye know is all. There’s been talk.”

“What talk? Why d’ye harbor this ill will toward him? Alex is a trusted friend.” The three of them had grown up together for God’s sake.

“Mayhap,” Hugh said. “But mark me—he fancies himself laird, and some say with good reason.”

’Twas a serious accusation, and one that made no sense.

Gilchrist let the stallion’s reins drop from his hand. He looked ahead into the clearing where a dozen warriors toiled at clearing away the burnt rubble of Braedûn Lodge. The girl, Arlys, who’d so innocently flirted with him earlier, watched them intently from her perch on a blackened log.

“Now there’s your answer,” Hugh said, nodding in the girl’s direction.

“What answer?”

“A bride—a Davidson bride.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are ye talking about?”

“That’s it!” A grin broke across Hugh’s rugged face. “Ye shall wed and produce a son.” Hugh slapped him across the back, taking care, Gilchrist noticed, to avoid his injured right side.

“You’re daft.”

“Think about it. Arlys is a good choice.”

“She’s a silly chit.”

“Nay,” Hugh said. “She’s well liked and the right age. ’Twould cinch the clan’s affection—and please the elders.” Hugh nudged his mount closer and forced Gilchrist to meet his gaze. “And…’twould keep others in their place.”

“Alex, ye mean.” Gilchrist shook his head, again dismissing Hugh’s allegation. “Nay, I willna wed.”

“Och, come now. She’s bonny, is she no?” Hugh nodded at her and grinned. “And she fancies you, canna ye tell?”

Arlys smiled and waved at the two of them.

Gilchrist looked away, embarrassed, and slipped his burned hand back into the folds of his plaid. “I hadna noticed.”

“No so long ago ye would have had her wedded and bedded in a fortnight. Or at least bedded, and that within the week.”

He ignored Hugh’s well-meant, but stinging comment. Aye, he’d had a way with women—once. Before the fire. Before his betrothed left him for another man—a whole man. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his burned hand inside his plaid.

Undaunted, Hugh continued his argument for a swift marriage. After a few minutes Gilchrist began to listen, then nudged his mount forward a step and shot the girl a sideways glance. Mayhap Hugh was right. Taking Arlys to wife would solve his problem with the clan. After all, she was a Davidson.

“She’d be loyal and true,” Hugh said. “No like—”

“Say her name, and crippled or nay I’ll knock ye off that mare.”