Читать книгу The Virgin Spring - Debra Brown Lee - Страница 11

Amethyst waves of heather shifted in the breeze. The stones rose up, gray sentinels against a flawless, cerulean sky. ’Twas bitter cold. She pulled the edges of the plaid close about her, conserving her warmth, mustering her strength.

A great bear of a man appeared on the ridge top, in the center of the stone circle, shading his eyes, scanning the horizon. She waved to him but he did not see her. She waved again and called his name. Why didn’t he see her?

She must reach him—make him see.

Why didn’t he see her?

Rachel’s eyes flew open.

“That’s it!” she cried and bolted upright. “I must go there! I must find him!” She struggled against the firm hands that pushed her back on the pallet. Her vision was blurred and she fought to clear her mind.

“Hush now, ye must rest.” The girl’s soothing voice was familiar…Peg. “Ye’ve had a shock, ’tis all.”

Rachel blinked a few times, then focused her gaze on the concerned face hovering above her. “Peg,” she said. “Peg!” She struggled to sit up again.

“Nay, ye mustn’t—”

Rachel grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “I must go there! I must find him! Don’t you see?”

“Go where? Find whom?” The voice was Gilchrist’s, and before Rachel could respond, he’d motioned Peg out of the way and sat gently on the pallet beside her. “Here,” he said, offering her a cup. “Drink this.”

Rachel met his gaze briefly, then lowered her eyes to the cup. “What is it?”

“’Tis a libation I make myself. Here.” He pushed the cup into her hand. “Drink it. ’Twill soothe your nerves.”

She accepted the cup and put it to her lips. Before she drank, she looked up at him. His expression was different, softer. She’d not seen him look so before.

“Drink it,” he whispered.

She obeyed. The warm liquid blazed a path of fire down her throat. She felt her eyes widen and she began to cough and sputter. Gilchrist grinned. He put a hand to her back and rubbed in small circles as she caught her breath. “Better?” he asked.

She looked at him and then the cup in wonder. “Aye,” she rasped. “Better.”

He laughed. “’Tis my own concoction. Some like it, some dinna.”

“’Tis powerful.”

“Aye, ’tis.”

Rachel drew a few deep breaths and began to feel better. She was suddenly aware of her surroundings and the small crowd gathered around her.

She was inside the keep in a small, starkly furnished chamber—Gilchrist’s chamber, she surmised. Alex stood against the far wall, his dark gaze fixed on her, his expression blank. Murdoch and two older clansmen whom Alex had called the elders, hovered behind Gilchrist. Peg knelt beside him, her face a mask of concern.

She tried to get up but Gilchrist placed a hand firmly on her shoulder and would not allow it. “What happened?” she asked.

“Ye saw the horse—the white mare—and fainted dead away.”

Her horse! She tried to sit up again, and again he pushed her back. “But, my horse—I must see her. I must—”

“Your horse is being well cared for at the stable,” Gilchrist said. “Later, after ye’ve rested, I’ll take ye there to see her.”

His voice was calm, reassuring, but everything in Gilchrist’s demeanor told her he would not allow her to move from the pallet until he was certain she was well.

“All right,” she conceded and let her head fall back on the pillow. “But I must have my horse. I must leave soon.”

Gilchrist frowned. “And where would ye go?”

“To the high place. I must find it. ’Tis most urgent.” She implored him with her eyes. “Don’t you see?”

“What high place, lass?” Murdoch knelt beside the pallet and furrowed his great gray brows.

Rachel closed her eyes and conjured the vision.

“The name of this place, what is it?” Gilchrist whispered.

“’Tis all too much for the lass. Ye should let her rest now.” The voice was Alex’s. ’Twas soothing and moved closer as he continued to speak. “She’s had a shock. Let her be.”

Rachel ignored them all and concentrated on the image that burned in her mind. “Craigh…Mur,” she said, and opened her eyes. “That’s the place. Craigh Mur.”

A tiny smile tugged at the edges of Gilchrist’s mouth. The elders exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alex opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.

“Craigh Mur,” Murdoch repeated.

“Aye,” she said.

“’Tis on Macphearson land, is it no?” Peg, who’d been quiet all this time, asked suddenly.

Gilchrist nodded his head, his gaze fixed on Rachel. “It is.”

The feeling that she must go there, and quickly, overwhelmed her. But the image of the man atop the ridge continued to nag at her. Who was he? They did not question her further, and she decided not to mention it again until she better understood its meaning.

All she knew was that she must go to Craigh Mur. Whatever it was, wherever it was, the place held the key to her identity, of that she was certain.

“Will you take me there?” she asked, returning Gilchrist’s steady gaze.

Hugh appeared in the doorway just as Alex began to voice a protest. Gilchrist beckoned Hugh closer, and the elders moved aside to let him pass into the small chamber.

Hugh glanced briefly at her, then nodded to Gilchrist. “’Tis an English horse, but the livery has no markings. The saddlebags carry a bit of spoiled food and a few garments, that is all.”

“An English horse,” Murdoch repeated.

“A lady’s horse.” Hugh caught Gilchrist’s eye. “For certain.”

Gilchrist pushed the trencher of food away, untouched, and studied the faces of the elders who shared his table for the midday meal.

Hugh sat across from him on a wooden bench, and ate in silence, while Alex fidgeted in his customary place at Gilchrist’s right. Like him, the dark warrior seemed to have lost his appetite.

“Ye’ve ordered me to deal with her,” Alex said abruptly, “now let me do it.”

Hugh looked up from his food long enough to cock a tawny brow.

“Ye are laird,” Alex continued. “Surely ye have no interest in what becomes of some lying English whore.” He paused. “Do ye?”

Gilchrist bristled at his friend’s words. His unguarded reaction was not lost on the elders. Murdoch sat quietly, taking it all in, as was his wont. They waited for Gilchrist to respond.

Hugh suddenly put down his dirk, which had been poised to deliver a chunk of roasted venison into his still-open mouth. “Whores dinna own horses, be they English or Scots.”

“The lad has a point,” Thomas said, nodding at Hugh.

“Aye, he does,” Donald agreed. “A point.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Gilchrist watched Alex’s expression darken.

“Well,” Alex said, “be she whore or nay, surely ye dinna mean to deliver her to Craigh Mur?” He glanced briefly at each of the elders, then turned to Gilchrist. “At least no yourself?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” Gilchrist asked.

“Ye are no fit, for one thing,” Alex said and gestured to Gilchrist’s uncovered right hand.

He fisted it tight on the surface of the table, betraying not a hint of the pain it caused him. Blisters had risen yet again on his skin. ’Twas a condition he knew not how to prevent, and one which had plagued him continuously since the fire.

“And besides,” Alex continued, his gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s burns, “ye wouldna wish the Macphearsons to see ye so, would ye now?”

Thomas and Donald nodded their heads in agreement. Murdoch merely arched a snowy brow. Gilchrist wavered, his gaze drawn to his disfigured hand. How easily Alex’s words could unman him. Mayhap he was right.

“Och, what are ye talkin’ about?” Hugh said. “He’s fair fit.” Hugh pushed back from the table and rose. “And did ye think to take her to Craigh Mur yourself, Alex?”

“Aye,” Alex said. “I did.”

“And pay a no-so-friendly surprise visit to the Macphearsons, as long as ye were in the vicinity?”

Alex sprang to his feet, nearly toppling the bench and Gilchrist to the floor.

“All right!” Gilchrist slammed his good fist on the table. “That’s enough, both of you.” Hugh and Alex stood rigid, nodding slowly, each at the other, as if some silent challenge had again been leveled. “No one is going to Craigh Mur,” Gilchrist said. He glanced at Murdoch’s ever calm expression. “The woman stays here—for a time, at least.”

Before any of them could respond, Gilchrist rose from the table and left the cottage, pulling the door closed behind him. He leaned against the timbers of the door frame and inhaled deeply.

Damn this all-consuming interest in her! What had come over him? He’d not felt this way about a woman since…

“Bah!” Gilchrist fisted his hands at his sides. ’Twas dangerous, this interest. He could not afford to compromise his position as laird. That was the most important thing, was it not? The reason he must stay away from her.

At least that’s what he told himself. And stay away from her he would.

Hugh had been right all along. He should put away such nonsense and take a Davidson bride. Secure his place as leader. Gain his clan’s respect.

Gilchrist looked up to see Arlys standing not ten paces from him, a covered basket in her hand. How long had she watched him? “What d’ye want?” he asked.

She moved closer. “Alex. He is in the cottage?”

“He is.”

She smiled at him suddenly. “I have brought him some fresh honey cakes.”

Gilchrist stepped aside to let her pass, when his eye caught a whip of dark hair and a pale-green gown.

Rachel.

Peg was leading her down the hill from the castle, toward the row of cottages where they stood. Arlys frowned as she followed Gilchrist’s gaze, which was now fixed on the Englishwoman.

Rachel appeared full recovered from her faint. She walked briskly, without assistance. In fact, Peg had to run to keep up with her. She was heading straight for them.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced quickly at Arlys. “Those honey cakes, ye wouldna rather share them with me?”

She tore her murderous gaze away from Rachel and let her blue eyes light on him. His words surprised her, he could tell. She recovered herself quickly and smiled. “Aye,” she said.

Her voice was breathy, her demeanor suddenly flirtatious. Gilchrist willed himself to hold her gaze even as he heard Rachel’s footfalls approach, then stop abruptly before them.

Aye, ’twas time he lay this dangerous interest in the Englishwoman to rest. Without another thought, he grabbed Arlys around the waist with his good arm and pulled her into an embrace. She dropped the basket as he kissed her hard on the mouth. He was vaguely aware of the broken honey cakes lying ruined at their feet.

The eager girl responded with well-practiced skill. But ’twas not her lips he tasted, nor the fragrance of her hair that permeated his senses. His all-consuming awareness was for another.

Out of slitted eyes he watched Rachel’s response. Shock, and something more. Pain. He read it in her face. He felt it as much as saw it, and the knowledge caused his heart to pound, his head to spin.

Damn her! And damn himself for caring.

Rachel closed the door of the cottage and pressed her forehead against its cool timbers. She drew a deep breath and tried to get a grip on her shifting emotions.

“Are ye truly an English lady?” Peg asked. “Or, or are ye a whore, d’ye think?”

She whirled on the girl and Peg jumped backward like a startled kitten.

“I—I didna mean to offend ye.” Peg’s wide, doe eyes and naive concern softened Rachel’s anger. “I’m just curious is all.”

“I know you didn’t, Peg.” She gestured for the girl to sit at the table, then joined her.

“Ye truly dinna remember, do ye?”

She smiled. “Nay, I do not.”

“Some of the women say ye could be both—a fine lady and a whore. But Moira says ’tis nonsense and we must no speak such things.”

Both. Could such a thing be true?

She closed her eyes and let her mind wander. As always, the image of the high place burned bright, obliterating all other thoughts. For all she knew, she could be the queen of England.

More likely a common whore. She recalled the way her cheeks burned and her blood stirred when Gilchrist held her atop his mount that first afternoon. He’d wanted to kiss her, and she’d wanted it, too. She shook off the unsettling memory.

Her path was clear to her. She must get to Craigh Mur. She must find out who and what she was. Mayhap she was a married woman with children. Rachel moved a hand across the flat plane of her belly. That possibility hadn’t crossed her mind until just this moment. Children. Nay, she was certain she had none. She would feel it if she had.

“Would ye teach me?” Peg asked abruptly, interrupting her thoughts.

“Teach you?”

The girl ran her hand over the tattered cover of the book that lay on the table, then pushed it toward her. “Aye, the healing arts. Will ye teach me?”

Rachel had not had time to examine the old woman’s book. She opened it now and scanned page after page of bold script, lists of herbs and their common uses, simples and other preparations, and a log of injuries and illnesses she had treated. Gilchrist’s name caught her eye, but before she had time to read what the old woman had written, Peg reached out and caught her hand.

“I canna read it, ye see. The old woman wanted to teach me, but I was no much of a student.” Peg’s childlike face colored.

“You can’t read?”

“Nay. Few can. Only the laird and a handful of others. I knew right off that ye could, though. ’Tis a wondrous thing for a woman, is it no?”

Of course the girl couldn’t read; what had she been thinking? Reading was for scholars and priests, and precious few others. But Peg was right—she could read. Rachel’s eyes flew over the words on the page. ’Twas Latin. She could easily decipher the old woman’s hand.

“I am the clan’s healer now,” Peg said. “They depend on me.”

She met the girl’s gaze and smiled. “Of course they do.”

Peg grinned from ear to ear. “So will ye teach me? To read the old woman’s book, and all that ye know of the art?” She gestured to the apothecary that filled the wall of shelves behind her. “Ye know much more than I, and it seems ye will be staying with us for quite some time.”

Rachel frowned. She would not be staying with them for quite some time. In fact, she meant to leave as soon as possible. Peg leaned forward, her face alight, awaiting Rachel’s reply. She had not the heart to dash the girl’s hopes.

“For as long as I remain with you,” she said, “I will teach you what I know.”

Peg squealed with delight and nearly leapt across the table to hug her. She returned the embrace, then disentangled herself from the girl’s arms. “Now,” she said. “Will you do something for me, Peg?”

“Oh, aye—anything.”

Rachel rose from the bench. “’Tis time I see my horse.”

Peg followed her to the door, frowning. “Oh, I dinna think the laird will like that.”

“I expect he won’t,” she said, and let the corners of her mouth turn up in an impish smile.

Ten minutes later they arrived at the busy stable. ’Twas another newly built structure which lay inside the curtain wall not far from the keep. Alex had pointed it out to her earlier that day.

A stable lad scurried past them toting a saddle that was almost bigger than he was. Another labored in a far corner, pitching straw into a small hayloft. Peg led her down a row of stalls, past a number of impressive mounts.

She marveled at their shiny coats and supple musculature. They were well cared for, and were like no other mounts she’d seen. She recognized Gilchrist’s stallion and stopped before the magnificent beast.

“He is handsome,” she said, and ran her hand lightly over the beast’s flank. “Do you not think so?”

“Aye, he is that,” Peg sighed. “And so very smart.” Another breathy sigh escaped her lips. “But he doesna notice me.”

What a strange response. She turned toward Peg and her confusion vanished. The girl stood transfixed, staring at a young man who’d just come out of one of the small cottages that lined the perimeter of the stable yard.

He was tall and fair, and wore leather breeches instead of the plaids that were the garment of choice at the Davidson stronghold. Peg’s wide-eyed gaze fixed on him as he passed them by, heading toward a stall. True to the girl’s words, he spared them not a glance.

“Ah,” she said, suppressing a smile. “You fancy him.”

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?”