The Virgin Spring

Gilchrist started at Hugh’s words and immediately took a step back. “She’s not.”

“Just listen to her,” Hugh said. ’Tis plain she’s no one of us.”

“I…” Rachel stammered. “And—and what are you, then?”

“We’re bluidy Scots!” Hugh roared.

Rachel’s soft brow furrowed. Gilchrist could see her mind working, trying to fathom Hugh’s words. Realization finally dawned on her face.

“Of course,” she said. “Scots. But, I am not—”

“Aye, she’s English all right,” a voice shouted from the crowd. “An English whore!”

This was getting out of hand. Gilchrist scanned the faces of his kinsmen. “Who said that?”

Arlys elbowed her way forward. She whipped her hair behind her then arched a thin brow, fisting her hands on her hips. “Ye found her at the spring, did ye no?”

“I did,” he replied.

“The virgin’s spring,” Arlys said and shot Rachel a cool look. “Just look at her.”

Rachel met Arlys’s disapproving gaze and tipped her chin high. “I—I am no whore.”

“Oh, nay?” Arlys said. “If ye canna remember, how do ye know?”

“That’s enough,” Gilchrist said. “She hit her head. ’Tis no uncommon to forget things after such an injury.”

Hugh tilted his head and eyed both women. “Arlys is right, Laird. How d’ye know what she is?”

Rachel moved closer to him and he fought the ridiculous urge to put his arm around her.

“Maybe she hasna forgot at all,” Hugh said. “Maybe she’s lying.”

Gilchrist hadn’t thought of that. In fact, given the circumstances in which he’d found her, ’twould never have crossed his mind that she was anything other than a victim of foul play. The small crowd had grown to near a score of clan folk. He looked out over the tops of their heads.

Where had Alex gone? ’Twas unlike him not to offer some piece of advice. Not that Gilchrist needed it. He promised the woman he’d protect her, and he would. At least until he discovered more about her.

The low murmurs and snickers of his kinsmen grew louder. A warrior in the back shouted an obscenity, unmistakably directed at Rachel. Gilchrist shot him a murderous glare and the warrior promptly shut his mouth.

A second later, the door of the cottage in front of them creaked open and Murdoch, one of the elders, stepped out. Now there’d be trouble. The crowd parted to let him approach. Murdoch studied Rachel, his expression blank, then nodded at him. “What’s all this?” Gilchrist explained how he’d found her at the spring, and the old man cocked a wiry, white brow.

“She’s English,” Hugh said flatly.

Murdoch frowned.

“She’s a whore!” Arlys shouted. “And no fit to wear our plaid!” Before Gilchrist could stop her, Arlys reached out and ripped the dark hunting plaid from Rachel’s body.

All hell broke loose.

Instead of cowering, as he expected, Rachel lunged at Arlys, and the two women crashed backward into the wall of bodies that surrounded them. The crowd went wild.

He reached for Rachel at the same time Hugh stepped toward Arlys. Too late. The two women went down—a spitting, hair-tearing, roil of limbs. He and Hugh collided with a collective grunt.

“Bluidy hell!” He pushed backward, fighting to stay on his feet.

The crowd pressed closer, cheering Arlys on. He, Hugh and Murdoch elbowed them back and formed a tight circle around the combatants, trying to shield them from further harm.

Gilchrist had had enough. He leveled his gaze at Hugh, and his friend nodded. In one swift motion the two of them reached into the tangle of arms, legs, raven and gold hair, and pulled the women apart.

Arlys and Rachel came up snarling, gazes locked.

“Whore!”

“Bitch!”

“Enough!” Gilchrist shouted. “Both of you!”

He pulled Rachel backward against his chest, his good arm tight around her rib cage. His right side screamed in pain. He could feel her heart pound and the soft heaving of her breasts with each labored breath she drew. ’Twas absurd—all of it. He had no time for such foolishness.

“Peg!” he shouted into the crowd. The girl had noticed Rachel’s ring. She was smart and trustworthy.

Peg’s head popped through a muddle of elbows beside him. “Aye, Laird,” she said, breathless and uncommonly cheerful.

“Here,” he said, nodding down at Rachel. “Take her and find her a bed.” He thrust Rachel toward her, then caught the eye of a warrior he trusted. “And ye, go with them—and see to it no harm comes to her.” He glared hard at the warrior. “D’ye understand?”

“Aye, Laird,” the warrior said and moved to take Rachel’s arm. Peg rushed to help him. The two of them guided her through the crowd, which began to disperse now the commotion was ended.

Men and women alike shot Gilchrist disapproving glances and whispered among themselves as they returned to their duties. Hugh was right. His position as laird was tenuous, at best. He ignored them and watched as Rachel was led away.

Just before the trio disappeared behind a row of cottages, Rachel turned and cast one long look back at him. He met her gaze and his gut tightened. She smiled suddenly, and by sheer will he did not return the gesture. The warrior tugged on her arm, and she was gone.

He turned away, in time to catch Hugh lecturing Arlys, whispering something about unladylike behavior. “Silly chit,” he muttered. He watched, shaking his head, as Hugh sent her off home.

’Twas then he noticed Murdoch leaning casually against the cottage doorway stroking his beard, taking it all in. The elder cast him a blank but pointed look and after a moment went inside and closed the door.

Gilchrist swore under his breath and turned to leave. Out of nowhere Alex appeared, between two of the cottages that lined the perimeter of the newly constructed curtain wall.

“Alex!” he called. “Where did ye run off to, man?”

Alex strode toward him, his expression unusually serious.

Hugh joined them. “Aye, ye missed all the excitement.”

“That woman,” Alex said. “What will ye do with her?”

He hesitated. “I know not.” He eyed Hugh’s dour expression. “I care not.”

“Good,” Hugh said. “Ye have more important matters to attend.”