The Virgin Spring

Alex narrowed his eyes. “What matters?”

“The laird will take a bride—Arlys,” Hugh said, a smug expression creasing his face.

“But—”

“I didna say I would do it,” Gilchrist snapped. “Only that I would think on it.” He glowered at Hugh.

“But, Laird,” Alex said. “Why would ye marry now? There’s plenty of time.” Alex nodded to Gilchrist’s injured arm. “Ye are no full healed yet.”

“He’s fit enough,” Hugh said.

Gilchrist considered all he’d seen and heard yesterday at the clearing. “Ye fancy Arlys for yourself, Alex, don’t ye? I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

“Nay, I—’Tis just I think ye are being hasty.” Alex nodded to the workers on the hill who were busy moving stones. “Dinna ye think ye should first finish the castle?”

Alex had a point. Perhaps he should wait. Besides, he wasn’t ready to choose a bride—not yet. Arlys had seemed a good enough choice yesterday, but today, well, he wasn’t so sure.

“To hell with the castle,” Hugh said and glared openly at Alex. “He should wed, and soon.”

Gilchrist had the distinct impression he was the only one here without an agenda. “I said I will think on it. Now that’s enough.” He shot them both a look that precluded response, then turned and walked away.

“Laird,” Hugh called out. “If ye dinna mind me saying, ye should keep away from that English who—that woman, until we know more about her.”

Gilchrist spun on his heel. “I do mind ye saying, and who are ye to tell me what to do?”

Hugh immediately shrank back.

“Gilchrist.” Alex took a step toward him. “Laird, on this point I agree with Hugh. Let me deal with the woman. ’Twill be better that way, seeing as how the clan disapproves of her.” He smiled. “And truly, ye canna blame them.”

He glared at the both of them and ground his teeth. They were right, damn them. Why, then, did he have the feeling he was making a mistake? “All right,” he said sharply. “Deal with her, then. I care not.”

He waved them away and turned toward the castle. His arm ached and his skin itched. His burned fingers raged as he unfurled them inside his plaid and tried to spread them wide.

He looked up at the stark battlement, gritting his teeth. ’Twas not the familiar pain that plagued him, but another—one that had naught to do with his burns.

He recalled the fire in Rachel’s eyes when he’d pulled her from the brawl, the blush of her cheek, the soft weight of her breast against his forearm. If he closed his eyes he knew he could conjure the beating of her heart against his palm.

He did care.

“Well, if I’m no the bluidy fool,” he muttered and strode up the hill to the keep.

Peg pushed open the door of the stone-and-timber cottage. “It’s no much, but ’tis dry and warm.” She crossed the threshold and beckoned her to follow.

Rachel glanced briefly at the warrior. He nodded once, then turned and stood, feet apart and arms crossed over his chest. ’Twas plain he did not intend to leave.

What could she do? She sighed and ducked under the low doorway. All at once, a bouquet of familiar scents invaded her senses. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deep. Rosemary, laurel, and mint—nay, something else.

Just as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Peg pulled back the furs that covered the one window. Sunlight drenched the room. The cottage was new. Small, but well kept.

A hearth, laid with peat and twigs, commanded most of the wall opposite the entry. Peg knelt before it and rummaged through the few cooking items stacked neatly on the flagstones.

A plaid-covered pallet which served as a bed rested against the wall to Rachel’s left. She looked longingly at the plump straw mattress. She was exhausted.

The center of the room was dominated by a simple wooden table, flanked by benches. An old, thick book rested upon it. How unusual. She let her hand light on the stained, frayed cover. Something else caught her eye—a deep, wooden bowl and well-used pestle. Someone had been grinding herbs and nuts. An odd feeling of familiarity washed over her.

She inhaled again. Her nose drew her to the low wall to her right, which was fitted with sturdy shelves from floor to rafters. Every inch of space was crammed with—

She whirled just as Peg rose from the hearth. “Is this your cottage, Peg? Are these your things?” Her heart beat faster as she grasped at the veiled memory.

The girl smiled thinly. “Nay, well, I suppose they are my things now.” She moved to the table and ran her hand almost reverently over the battered book. “This is the cottage where the old woman worked. She’s gone now. Dead nigh on two moon ago.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. You were close to her?”

Peg looked up with huge, liquid eyes. Rachel realized the girl was barely grown—fifteen at most. She had pale-brown hair that fell in wisps around her face. A spray of freckles dotted her impish nose.

“Aye, she was…everything to me. Ye see, I have no kin. My own parents died when I was just a bairn. The old woman raised me in the cottage next door and taught me things.”

Rachel let her gaze roam over the wall of containers. Slowly she reached out and let her hand come to rest on the book, next to Peg’s small fist. The girl met her gaze.

“She was a healer,” Rachel said, overcome by the strong impression. “The old woman.”

“Aye.”

Her head throbbed again. She unconsciously moved her hand to the tender spot.

Peg’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, your head. I’d forgotten.” She pulled out one of the benches and gestured for Rachel to sit. “Here, let me look at it. Mayhap there is something I might do to ease your pain.”

She smiled, still rubbing the good-size lump. “So, you are a healer, too, then?”

Peg blushed and fisted her hands at her sides. “Well, sort of. The old woman had just begun to teach me in earnest when…when she passed.” She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “But I’m all the clan has now. So, aye, I’m the healer.”

Apparently, ’twas important to the girl to be so viewed. She suppressed another smile and sat down on the bench. “Well then, healer, do something about this blasted throbbing.” She caught Peg’s expression of delight as she bent her head forward for examination.

Peg tentatively moved her hands over her scalp. She poked and prodded for a minute then stepped back, brow furrowed, and proceeded to chew on her lower lip. “Hmmm, I—I’m no so sure.”

Rachel looked at her through the midnight fall of her hair, then straightened up. “I’ve heard it said that a leaf or two of feverfew infused in boiling water does much to ease a headache.”

Peg’s eyes lit up. “You’re right!” She turned and quickly scanned the apothecary against the wall.

“If you haven’t any,” she said, “valerian and skullcap, infused together, would work as well.”

Peg stood on tiptoe and reached for a clay jar on the top shelf. “Nay, the old woman kept feverfew—here, here it is.” She removed the lid and handed the open container to her. “This is it, is it no?”

She quickly inspected the contents. Peg stood stock-still, eyes wide, looking at her with all the expectation of an apprentice who’d just completed her first assignment. Rachel smiled. “Aye, this is it.” She drew a small handful of the dried leaves from the jar and placed them in the wooden mortar. “If you’ll draw some water, I’ll start the fire.”

Peg grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll be back straightaway!” She bolted from the cottage, leaving the door wide-open.

Rachel glanced out at the warrior whom Gilchrist had assigned to protect her. He spared her not a look. She rose and shut the door, then leaned back against the rough timbers.