The Virgin Spring

Gilchrist knew the answer. He was laird and must protect his position, do what was right for the clan. He ran his good hand through his dripping hair, pushing it off his forehead. Water streamed down his face. He tipped his chin high and closed his eyes for a moment.

Aye, he’d do it.

He’d wed and be done with it. A Davidson, a Macphearson, mayhap, it didn’t matter who. Arlys was a good choice. He knew he could never love her, and that suited him fine. A marriage to appease the clan—but just that. Never again would he lose his heart to a woman. Never. He glanced at his burns. Besides, who could love him now…like this?

The stallion emerged from the cover of the trees as a bolt of lightning split the sky, startling and brilliant, above them. Thunder boomed in deafening response. The horse reared.

Gilchrist held fast and reined the beast into submission, soothing him with soft words. The air was thick with a sharp, metallic odor; all the hairs on his body stood on end.

“We must get to cover!”

He spurred his mount forward, toward the spring. A good-size cave where he’d spent many a night lay just beyond it. ’Twould serve to protect both him and the horse.

Halfway there lightning flashed again, this time closer. He slipped from the stallion’s back and threw his shirt over the beast’s head, covering his eyes. The rain whipped at him in stinging, horizontal sheets, the wind a maelstrom of some vengeful god.

Just a few more steps and—there it was! The virgin’s spring, near overflowing from the torrential rains. But what’s that, near the edge? A body?

He raced to the cave and tethered his stallion just inside the opening, then turned and wiped the water from his eyes. It was a body—a woman.

He stepped from the cave. Another flash lit up the roiling sky and he quickly stepped back again. “Well, ’tis a good thing she’s already dead. She’d no last another minute out there in this.”

He studied the prone figure from the safety of the cave while the storm raged outside. She was most certainly dead, sprawled at the edge of the spring, limbs splayed, as if she’d fallen from some height—from a horse, mayhap.

Even from this distance, he could see she was soaked to the skin. Water pooled fast around her. Hmph. What if she wasn’t dead? He stood for a moment, glancing from the body of the woman to the dry interior of the cave.

“Of all the bluidy nuisance—”

He waited for the next flash, then bolted toward her as a clap of thunder split the air. Reaching her in a half-dozen strides, he knelt beside her in the trampled heather.

She wore naught but a shift, thin and soaking, near translucent as it clung to her limp body. Her feet were bare. On impulse he reached out and touched one foot—cold as ice. Her hair was a raven-black mass plastered to her head. He could not see her face, and there was no time to check her for signs of life.

With his good arm he lifted her up and half dragged her, half carried her, back to the safety of the cave. In minutes he’d built a small fire—a task he loathed—and laid her carefully on the bed of dry furs he kept there for overnight stays. Gently he brushed the dripping, midnight tresses from off her face.

“Good God.”

Illuminated in the firelight, she was akin to some ghostly angel. Her lips were full and slightly parted, bluish at the edges, her skin a frigid white. But her cheeks had color, the blush of spring on an otherwise lifeless landscape.

She was lovely—and she was alive.

Chapter Two

She was exactly what he didn’t need.

It had been months since Gilchrist had been this close to a woman—and he didn’t like it. Women were unpredictable, shallow. A faithless lot. He’d revive this one and send her on her way.

He lifted her hand in his and shook it. No response. Her fingers were stiff and icy, and the fire seemed to do little to warm her skin. In truth, he was half frozen himself, soaked as he was. He needed dry garments and so did she.

He rummaged in a corner of the cave for some extra plaids and shook one out. ’Twould have to do. He spread it over her and tucked the bottom edge under her feet. There. She’d be fine in no time. He paced the earthen floor, occasionally glancing at her still form.

“Ah, Christ.” He ripped the plaid away again and took a deep breath. It had to be done—and he had to do it. If he didn’t, she might die. Fine. It wasn’t as if he’d never handled a naked woman before. He’d handled plenty—more than he cared to remember.

So why did he hesitate?

He swore under his breath and picked at the tie that gathered her shift about her shoulders. ’Twas impossible with one hand. With no small effort he flexed the fingers of his burned hand and attacked the tie again. There, he’d done it. Now to get the bloody thing off her.

He lifted her with his good arm and tugged at the shift. His injured fingers screamed, but he gritted his teeth and continued. He managed to bare her to the waist, then laid her gently back upon the furs.

“Good God.”

She was beautiful.

Gilchrist swallowed hard and let his gaze rove over her. For the barest moment he watched her pink-tipped breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the hideous juxtaposition of his fire-scarred hand against her milky flesh. ’Twas revolting. Thank God she was unconscious.

He pushed the roil of emotions from his mind and finished the job. In a matter of minutes he had her wrapped in the dry plaid and hung her shift to dry on a tree root that breached the craggy wall of the cave.

As an afterthought he lifted her head and shoved a rolled-up fur under her neck for support. When he drew his hand away he saw the blood.

“What’s this?” He ran his fingers gingerly over her scalp until he found the spot, swelled big as a wren’s egg. She’d hit her head. He dabbed at the spot. The bleeding was slight, naught to fear. But the injury itself…

There was no telling when she would wake—if she woke at all.

Something smelled good—delectable, in fact.

She was hungry. Nay, she was starving. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Someone had forgotten to shade the window. She squinted and rolled toward the brilliant morning sunlight.

Then she saw him.

God’s blood! She shot from the crude pallet of furs into a crouch, her heart hammering, her head throbbing. The plaid that covered her slipped to the ground. She felt gooseflesh rise on her naked skin. Quickly, she snatched up the garment and wrapped it around herself, then skidded backward away from the entrance to the—why, ’twas a cave!

What on earth had happened?

She flattened herself against the uneven rock wall and scanned the interior, eyes darting over every shadow. She was alone, except for the hare roasting on a spit over the small fire—that’s what had smelled so good—and except for…

Him.

She crouched lower and crept forward, stopping just short of the blinding sunshine that lit the cave’s irregular entrance. She caught a whiff of something else here—horse, though she did not see one.

Once her eyes adjusted to the intensity of the light, she could see the man clearly. He was big, well made—and had not a stitch on! Under normal circumstances she would have averted her eyes. But the circumstances, from what she could tell, were far from normal.

He was bathing, in what appeared to be a good-size spring. ’Twas a pretty place, alive with greenery and shoots of new heather and—What was she thinking? She was in danger. She must get away. She must get to—to where?

Her head pounded and a brief bout of dizziness threatened to knock her off her feet. She pushed back against the cool wall and took a few deep breaths. There, ’twas better now.

Splashing sounds drew her attention back to the spring. The man was pulling himself up onto the bank, but ever so slowly. He turned, awkwardly, in an attempt to seat himself on the bed of new grass that graced the water’s edge.

Then she saw what her barely focused eyes had missed the first time—he’d been burned, and badly. Mother of God. She let her gaze trace the angry red path the flames had blazed across his body.