Читать книгу The Virgin Spring - Debra Lee Brown - Страница 10

Gilchrist—a lofty name for so vile a man.

She leaned forward in the saddle and he abruptly pulled her back against his chest, his good arm wrapped around her like a steel trap.

To think he would have given her to those pigs! She wiped her mouth with the edge of the plaid, recalling the tinker’s filthy hands. A small shudder escaped her.

“Are ye all right?” Gilchrist asked and leaned down to look at her. “You’re safe now. Do ye understand?”

She meant to glare at him, but the concern in his expression disarmed her. She merely nodded.

“Well then, we’ll be home soon. ’Tis just ahead.” He pointed to the top of a broad ridge. She narrowed her eyes but failed to see any kind of structure.

His arm returned to her waist and they settled in for the brief ascent. The gray stallion picked his way carefully up the slope along what looked to be a well-worn path. She reached out a hand and stroked the gray’s sleek neck. It reminded her of something…

Her horse!

She’d had a horse; at least she thought she had. Her head pounded again as she tried to recall what had happened to it. She tried to concentrate, to think, but the warrior—Gilchrist—kept distracting her. He had pulled her so tightly against him she could scarce breathe. He was warm, hot in fact, and she fidgeted in the saddle in front of him.

Glancing down, she noticed his injured hand resting on his thigh. The skin was nearly healed but looked tight and painful still. His fingers were balled into a fist. She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but she moved her hand to his and, very gently, ran her fingers over the angry red surface.

“Don’t!” He jerked his hand away, then let go her waist and pushed her roughly forward, putting some space between them.

Fine. She was only trying to—what? What was she doing? Everything was so confusing. Him, his strange speech, and this place—it seemed familiar, and yet…

She narrowed her eyes and focused on the widening path. The stallion quickened his pace and shot ahead, muscles straining, up the last steep hillock. Suddenly they broke from the trees onto a broad, windswept ridge. Gilchrist pulled the stallion up short.

The view was so breathtaking she gasped. One could see for miles across a landscape of stark, rolling hills peppered here and there with stretches of lush forest. A thin, silver necklace of a river snaked its way across a valley far in the distance. To the south and east the hills leveled off. The land there was verdant, flourishing.

“’Tis bonny, is it no?” Gilchrist said, his voice almost a whisper.

She dared to look up at him. He stared into the distance, blue eyes riveted to the far horizon. She was conscious of his hand around her waist again, and of his muscular thighs pressed against hers.

He looked down suddenly. Their gazes locked. Her pulse quickened as his arm tightened around her ever so slightly.

God’s blood, he was going to kiss her! She could see it in his eyes.

Her cheeks flushed hot with the knowledge that she wanted him to do it. Instinctively, she wet her lips. His gaze was drawn to her mouth and, for the briefest moment, she thought she could feel him trembling.

Abruptly, he looked away and let go her waist. Her heart was racing. She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm herself. The moment passed. Without a word, he turned the stallion and spurred him up the hill.

She held tight to the pommel, and was still trying to collect her thoughts when she saw it—a citadel rising to the sky.

“Monadhliath,” he said. “My home.”

She stared at the rough stone structure, looming dark and silent in the distance. It didn’t look at all appealing. ’Twas more of a fortress than a home.

As they approached, she realized the castle was under construction. It rested atop a craggy pinnacle and was girdled by a crude, half-finished wall. A goodly number of stone and timber cottages surrounded it.

Women and warriors, dressed in plaids much like Gilchrist’s, appeared along the path. A few nodded to him as the two of them rode past. She felt self-conscious, ashamed almost, as their gazes lit on her, appraising her bare feet and appalling attire.

She grasped the edges of the plaid and pulled it close about her. There was naught she could do about her shift, which barely covered her knees as she sat astride the horse.

Gilchrist guided the stallion to the very top of the hill and stopped before a large cottage. A few of his kinsmen followed.

“Ho, what’s this?” a young warrior called out and jogged toward them.

Gilchrist drew himself up in the saddle. “I found her, half-drowned, at the spring.”

The young warrior looked her over, one tawny brow cocked in appraisal. He frowned and she frowned back. “Weel, this I didna expect.”

Gilchrist dropped the stallion’s reins and dismounted. “Nor did I, Hugh.” He reached for her with his good arm and she tensed. “Come on, lass. You’re safe here.”

Whether she was safe or not, she had no choice but to obey. After a moment she leaned toward him. He drew her from the saddle and set her on her feet. A small crowd had gathered around them, and her natural urge was to move closer to Gilchrist.

“Who is she?” the warrior, Hugh, asked.

“I know not. She hasna spoken a word since I found her.”

Another warrior pushed his way forward. He was taller than the first, and striking. His dark eyes widened when they met hers. “Where did ye find her?” he asked.

“At the spring.”

The dark warrior’s gaze burned into her and she pulled the plaid tighter still around her body.

“What’s your name, lass?” Hugh asked.

She wanted to answer him but, try as she might, no words would come. What on earth was wrong with her? After a moment’s effort, all she could do was stare dumbly at them all.

Hugh cocked his head and frowned. Then a young girl stepped out in front of him and smiled meekly at her. ’Twas the first friendly face amongst the lot. She was tall and gangly, and blushed when Gilchrist asked her what she wanted.

“The ring,” the girl said, and pointed.

For the first time she noticed the finely carved, silver band circling the third finger of her right hand.

“’Tis very fine, that,” the girl said and nodded. “Mayhap ’tis engraved.”

Without warning, the dark-eyed warrior lunged forward and grabbed her hand. Her heart jumped to her throat as she choked back a scream.

“Alex!” Gilchrist barked. “Let her go.”

The warrior scowled at him, then immediately softened his expression. She didn’t like him. He frightened her with his quick moves. “Excuse me, Laird,” he said and backed away, his gaze riveted to her ring.

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. Her pulse was racing. Gilchrist, too, stared at her ring. She supposed it couldn’t hurt for him to examine it. Tentatively she offered him her hand.

He slipped the ring from her finger and peered inside the silver circle. “Rachel,” he said and leveled his gaze at her. “Is that your name, woman?”

Rachel.

She stared hard at the ring. Her hand unconsciously moved to her head, which throbbed in time to her heartbeat. Her gaze darted across the small crowd of warriors and women, then settled on Gilchrist’s questioning eyes.

“I…I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t remember.”

“Good God, she’s English!”

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.”

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.

A healer.

She was a healer.

That much she remembered. But where was her horse, and where had she been going when Gilchrist found her, half-clothed and unconscious? On the walk to the cottage, Peg had recounted the tale of the virgin’s spring. Rachel shuddered.

What if Arlys was right?