# The Virgin Spring

Debra Lee Brown

Though scarred by fire and betrayal, Gilchrist Mackintosh was laird of Clan DavidsonDespite those who questioned his right. And to secure his position, he must wed a Davidson woman, quickly.Then he stumbled upon the mysterious Rachel by the virgin spring, half drowned, half dressed and unable to recall her own name. Who was she? Englishwoman? Witch? No matter who she was, Rachel had managed to see beyond his scars, right to his heart. But with Gilchrist bound to marry another and Rachel's identity a mystery, love between them was forbidden. Yet he would risk his position as laird in order to save her from a traitor in their very midst….

“Ye make me dare to hope I could be again the man I was.”

“Nay, Gilchrist, never again will you be that man. And I am glad of it,” Rachel whispered, leaning closer. “For this is the man I love.”

“But you see with your own eyes what I am.” He spread wide the fingers of his fire-ravaged hand.

“And you know in your heart what I am.”

“Aye,” he breathed against her hair. “Ye are like the spring after winter’s darkness, a rare elixir, everything virtuous and good. Aye, that and more.” He brushed his lips lightly across her temple. “Which is why I must go….”

Dear Reader,

In The Bonny Bride by award-winning author Deborah Hale, a poor young woman sets sail for Nova Scotia from England as a mail-order bride to a wealthy man, yet meets her true soul mate on board the ship. Will she choose love or money? Margaret Moore, who also writes mainstream historicals for Avon Books, returns with A Warrior’s Kiss, a passionate marriage-of-convenience story and the next in her ongoing medieval WARRIOR series. Theresa Michaels’s new Western, Once a Hero, is a gripping and emotion-filled story about a cowboy who rescues a female fugitive and unexpectedly falls in love with her as they go in search of a lost treasure. For readers who enjoy discovering new writers, The Virgin Spring by Golden Heart winner Debra Lee Brown is for you. Here, a Scottish laird finds an amnesiac woman beside a spring and must resist his desire for her, as he believes she is forbidden to him.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

## The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jeannie

## Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

## Chapter One

The Highlands of Scotland, 1208

The girl batted gold-tipped lashes in Gilchrist’s direction then spurred her mount ahead into the forest.

“Harlot,” he muttered under his breath.

Hugh snorted. “Christ, man! If ye willna be friendly to the lass, at the least ye can be civil.”

“And why must I be civil?” Gilchrist snapped.

“Because ye are laird, and can no afford this ill temper ye bear our women.”

“Hmph.” He ducked to avoid a low hanging branch as his steed quickened his pace. “Aye, I am laird—so the elders say. But I am a Mackintosh—the clan will never accept me.”

Hugh nudged his mount closer and cocked a tawny brow. “Ye are a Davidson, too. Your mother was born and bred on this land, and ’tis here ye were raised.”

He turned in the saddle and glanced back at the Davidson warriors who rode in a tight formation behind them. A few met his gaze, but most looked away or pretended to check their weapons.

Davidson. Mackintosh. What was he now?

The pain was worse today. The rough hunting plaid, even the soft wool of his shirt, burned against his skin. He longed to tear the garments free and let the stiff breeze cool his body. But he dared not. Too many eyes were on him. He could bear their revulsion, but not their pity.

Hugh nodded to the clearing ahead. “Are ye comin’?”

Gilchrist closed his eyes and drew a breath. Rain. He could smell it in the air, cool and threatening. He almost smiled. Then a familiar, acrid scent yanked him back to reality. His eyes flew open.

There it was.

The charred remains of Braedûn Lodge, seat of Clan Davidson, the only home he remembered. ’Twas once a great house, full of laughter and hearty enterprise. How many times had he ridden up this very path, returned from hunting or a bit of wenching, to be greeted by his uncle at the door? He frowned and pushed the flood of memories from his mind.

“Well,” Hugh said, “are ye comin’ or no?”

It had been six months since the fire and in all that time Gilchrist hadn’t returned to the spot. He’d skirted the clearing on a few occasions and once he’d even approached—but the smell, the stench of charred oak and other things he was loath to remember kept him away. Even now his gut roiled.

“Nay,” he said, “I canna.”

Hugh set his jaw. “’Tis just a pile o’ burnt wood, nothing more.” The dozen or so warriors who accompanied them rode past and into the clearing. Hugh’s expression softened. “What demons remain, ye carry with ye, Gilchrist.”

He met his friend’s steady gaze. “Mayhap.”

“Ye are laird,” Hugh said. “Snap out of it, man. There’s work to be done and the clan needs a leader, no a—”

“A what?” Slowly, he drew his right hand from the folds of his plaid. “A cripple?” Clenching his teeth against the pain, he unfurled his burned fingers and willed them to grip Hugh’s bare forearm. “A monster?” Hugh neither flinched nor broke his gaze, and for that Gilchrist was grateful.

“Bah! ’Tis just a burn, and it’s no so bad.”

“No so bad?” Gilchrist released him. “Christ, I canna hold my own sword. A laird who canna protect his clan is no leader—he’s no even a man.”

They sat quiet for a moment, listening to the early morning larks and the creaking of branches in the rising wind. His hair whipped at his face. Absently he brushed it back with his good hand.

“Ye can learn to fight with your left,” Hugh said quietly. “There’s two or three clansmen wield a sword left-handed. One of them can show you.”

He shrugged, pushing the thought away.

“Ye must be fit for the spring gathering. Rumor has it the Macphearsons would join us this year. It’s been months since ye’ve met with them.”

Hugh’s point could not be argued. Gilchrist had seen no one outside the clan since the fire. More importantly, no one had seen him, and that suited him fine.

“Let Alex handle it.”

Hugh frowned. “Aye, I expect he’d jump at the chance to do that—and more.”

He raised a brow and shot his friend a cool look.

“There’s been talk,” Hugh said. “Among the elders—and the clan. Alex is well liked. Some say—”

“Where is Alex? He didna return from his hunt last night.”

Hugh shook his head. “There’s no telling. Busy with affairs of the clan, I suspect. Your affairs.”

He snorted.

“I’m lettin’ ye know is all. There’s been talk.”

“What talk? Why d’ye harbor this ill will toward him? Alex is a trusted friend.” The three of them had grown up together for God’s sake.

“Mayhap,” Hugh said. “But mark me—he fancies himself laird, and some say with good reason.”

’Twas a serious accusation, and one that made no sense.

Gilchrist let the stallion’s reins drop from his hand. He looked ahead into the clearing where a dozen warriors toiled at clearing away the burnt rubble of Braedûn Lodge. The girl, Arlys, who’d so innocently flirted with him earlier, watched them intently from her perch on a blackened log.

“Now there’s your answer,” Hugh said, nodding in the girl’s direction.

“What answer?”

“A bride—a Davidson bride.”

He narrowed his eyes. “What are ye talking about?”

“That’s it!” A grin broke across Hugh’s rugged face. “Ye shall wed and produce a son.” Hugh slapped him across the back, taking care, Gilchrist noticed, to avoid his injured right side.

“You’re daft.”

“Think about it. Arlys is a good choice.”

“She’s a silly chit.”

“Nay,” Hugh said. “She’s well liked and the right age. ’Twould cinch the clan’s affection—and please the elders.” Hugh nudged his mount closer and forced Gilchrist to meet his gaze. “And…’twould keep others in their place.”

“Alex, ye mean.” Gilchrist shook his head, again dismissing Hugh’s allegation. “Nay, I willna wed.”

“Och, come now. She’s bonny, is she no?” Hugh nodded at her and grinned. “And she fancies you, canna ye tell?”

Arlys smiled and waved at the two of them.

Gilchrist looked away, embarrassed, and slipped his burned hand back into the folds of his plaid. “I hadna noticed.”

“No so long ago ye would have had her wedded and bedded in a fortnight. Or at least bedded, and that within the week.”

He ignored Hugh’s well-meant, but stinging comment. Aye, he’d had a way with women—once. Before the fire. Before his betrothed left him for another man—a whole man. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his burned hand inside his plaid.

Undaunted, Hugh continued his argument for a swift marriage. After a few minutes Gilchrist began to listen, then nudged his mount forward a step and shot the girl a sideways glance. Mayhap Hugh was right. Taking Arlys to wife would solve his problem with the clan. After all, she was a Davidson.

“She’d be loyal and true,” Hugh said. “No like—”

“Say her name, and crippled or nay I’ll knock ye off that mare.”

“Forgive me, Laird, I—”

Hoofbeats sounded on the path behind them, and their conversation was forgotten.

Instinctively, Gilchrist reached for the broadsword strapped across his back and grimaced as the familiar, brilliant pain ravaged his torso and arm.

Hugh drew his weapon. Before he could position himself on the path in front of Gilchrist, the rider appeared.

“Alex!” they cried in unison.

Gilchrist relaxed and allowed himself a rare smile as the warrior approached. His steed was near spent, and Alex himself appeared little better. His plaid was filthy and rumpled, as if he’d ridden all night.

“We expected ye last eve,” Hugh said.

“Aye,” Alex said. “I was…detained.”

Gilchrist noticed a bit of dried blood streaked across Alex’s face. “What happened?” He motioned to the faint scratch marks.

Alex brushed his cheek with a gauntleted hand. “’Tis naught. Just—” He looked ahead to the clearing and his gaze lit on the girl. “’Twas Arlys,” he said and shot them a thin smile.

Arlys? “Hmph.” Gilchrist leveled his gaze at Hugh. “Loyal and true, indeed.”

Hugh shrugged and looked away.

Alex was clearly puzzled by their exchange. He nudged his gelding forward, even with Gilchrist’s mount. “Ye should be resting, Laird,” he said. “I’ll take care of things here.”

Hugh sprang to life, cocked a brow and set his jaw in that I-told-ye-so manner Gilchrist hated.

Aye, all right—I get the bluidy point, he replied with his eyes.

“Will ye come then, Laird?” Hugh said.

He looked again to the burnt-out clearing and wondered why the devil he had come here at all. Mayhap to see if he could bear it. He could not. “Nay, I’ll leave ye both here. I’m off to the spring.”

“What, the virgin’s spring?” Alex asked.

“Aye, that’s the one.” He turned his mount and guided him off the path into the wood. “I find the waters soothing.” Hugh followed but Gilchrist waved him back. “Nay, I wish to be alone. Stay here and help Alex.”

Hugh muttered something obscene under his breath, and shot Alex a stony glance. “As ye wish.”

Ignoring him, Alex said, “Do ye know the story of the spring? The one the old woman used to tell when we were lads?”

“The healer?” Gilchrist said.

“Aye, the same.”

“Go on—tell it.”

Alex drew his mount closer. “Dinna ye remember? ’Tis said three outlanders wrecked and murdered a Scots maiden on the very spot. ’Twas brutally done, and all wept for the loss. And when the girl’s father lifted her body in his arms, a spring flowed from ’neath the soft pillow of heather where rested her head.”

Gilchrist had heard the tale, but not for many a year. “I remember this story.”

“And the rest of it?” Hugh quipped. “Some say the waters have the power to heal.”

Alex smirked. “I think not. Nonetheless, for years after, women who were ill used or who’d compromised their virtue bathed in the waters as a means to restore their purity. There’s many who still believe in it.”

Gilchrist snorted. “The virgin’s spring—nonsense.”

“Mayhap not,” Hugh said, then laughed. “Alex, ’tis said your mother frequented the place often before ye were born.”

Alex kicked his mount forward, his face contorting in rage. Hugh’s hand moved like lightning to the hilt of his dirk.

“Enough!” Gilchrist shouted. The two warriors froze. “Get to work—the both of you. I’ll return on the morrow.” Hugh’s behavior was fair testing his patience.

Alex and Hugh turned their steeds, gazes locked like two feral predators, and made their way stiffly along the path to the clearing. The girl, Arlys, scrambled down from the burnt stump and ran toward them, waving at Alex, her face alight with surprise and pleasure.

Hugh nodded at her, then called back over his shoulder, “Laird, will ye do it?”

“Do what?” Gilchrist shouted.

Hugh nodded again toward the girl. “Marry!”

Alex’s eyes widened. He looked from Gilchrist to Arlys, his expression unreadable.

“I’ll think on it,” Gilchrist said and spurred his mount up the hill into the wood.

Thunderheads massed, full to bursting, the air chill and heavy with the scent of rain. Lightning flashed in the distance against an ominous sky. Gilchrist reined his stallion to a halt and listened. Any moment now…

Ah, there it was—the low, crackling rumble. He looked skyward and breathed deep. Winter was not yet ready to relinquish her hold, and he was glad. He favored the cool, dreary days and long nights.

The first few drops took him by surprise. Before he could react, the clouds burst and he was caught in the downpour. “Ah, well, no matter.” He proceeded to strip to the waist. His movements were slow, methodical; he gritted his teeth against the inevitable pain. “Bluidy hell.”

He was saved a pummeling by the thick canopy of larch and laurel that choked this part of the Highland wood. All the same, the rain stung his newly healed skin. God’s truth, he welcomed it in some perverse way.

He’d grown used to the pain. ’Twas almost comforting now, in a way he couldn’t fathom. Constant, true, something he could count on. It was what it was, and never deceived.

His stomach soured at the memory of the pretty, lying eyes of the woman he once thought to wed.

He spurred the stallion up a steep embankment. The horse protested, his hooves sinking deep into the mud, but Gilchrist urged him on with firm commands. They topped a ridge and turned south. ’Twasn’t far now.

He looked forward to his visits to the spring. They afforded him time alone, time to think. Aye, he’d done a lot of that of late.

Hugh’s words gnawed at him. He was right—the clan needed a strong laird, especially now. Gilchrist flexed the muscles in his ravaged arm and slowly opened the claw-like hand. Once, there had been no question he was that man. And now?

After the fire, when he lay near death, Alex had stepped easily into the role of leader. He was a good man, well liked by the elders and the clan. Mayhap ’twas all for the best. ’Twould be easy for Gilchrist to step down and fade neatly into the background.

As for those who loved him…What would they think of such a thing? He barely remembered his father and those early years before his death. ’Twas his uncle, Alistair Davidson, who’d raised him, God rest his soul, and his own brother, Iain. What would they expect of him now?

What did he expect of himself?

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.

’Twas only on the one side, the right, that he’d been hurt, from upper thigh, across the hip and up the length of his torso. His face had been spared, but his arm and hand had seen the worst of it.

She watched him as he slowly unfurled his fingers, flexed them, then made a crude fist. He did this several times, grimacing against the pain she knew must be unbearable. ’Twas a miracle he lived at all, really. Someone had healed him—someone highly skilled.

He braced himself with his good hand, then leaned back a little and tilted his face to the sun, eyes closed. She crept forward a few steps more to study him closer.

He was handsome, almost strikingly so. His face was clean-shaven; for some reason that seemed odd to her. ’Twas strong, angular, and framed by a mass of long, fair hair. She narrowed her eyes and—aye, she was right. He had thin braids, one at each temple. Never had she seen them on a man.

She let her gaze roam over the well-muscled expanse of his chest. ’Twas lightly furred with darker hair that tapered lower. Her cheeks grew hot and her pulse quickened as she took in the rest of him.

God’s blood, what am I doing? I’ve got to get away—

He opened his eyes.

She gasped and flattened herself against the wall of the cave. Too late—he’d seen her. Oh God, what now?

He sprang to his feet and grabbed the pile of garments lying next to him. She must flee—now! But where were her clothes? There wasn’t time to find them. She pulled the plaid tighter around herself and shot from the cave. In two strides he cut her off. She whirled in the other direction then stopped short. Before her rose a sheer rock wall, impossible to scale.

She was trapped.

Eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps, she backed into the sanctuary of the cave, pulling the plaid tighter around her body. She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t! She must find a weapon, something with which to defend herself.

She turned and ran toward the fur-covered pallet and the small fire that blazed near it. She kicked up the bed-covers and rummaged through a pile of food and cooking gear—nothing! Something moved behind her. She whirled.

There he was, clothed now in a dark hunting plaid, coarse shirt and boots. A dirk was belted at his waist and she could see the hilt of his sword peeking up over his shoulder. He looked every bit a warrior. His expression was hard, unreadable, and whatever he intended she couldn’t fathom from the cool blue eyes that now studied her.

He took a step toward her and her eyes widened. He read her fear. She could see it in his face, in the way he tilted his head and arched a brow. Another step, then another.

She scanned her immediate surroundings, looking for something, anything—there! She crouched and with the back of her hand sent the spitted hare flying from its position over the coals. She seized a brand from the fire—one that glowed red-hot at its tip—and rose to meet her assailant. She brandished it before her, her gaze locked on his.

He stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked from her to the brand and narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”

She frowned. His voice—Something was not right. She backed up a step, and he took another toward her.

“Woman, I said put it down.” His face was rigid, his jaw set, yet tiny clues belied his confidence. She watched the lump in his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard. A fine sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.

The brand. Why, he was afraid of it! The realization sparked her courage. She lurched forward and thrust the fiery end of her weapon at him. ’Twas a mistake. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.

Jesu! Her feet flew out from under her but he held fast, his hand a steel trap. She scrambled to regain her balance, then found herself looking up into his cool eyes.

“Let go,” he said and proceeded to squeeze her wrist.

He hurt her, the brute. She felt the sting of tears glass her eyes, but she did not look away. Instead, she pursed her lips and shot him her most defiant expression.

A corner of his mouth turned up at the edge, ever so slightly. What, did he think this amusing? His eyes warmed then, and he loosened his grip. “I willna hurt ye, woman. Ye have my word.”

His speech was strange—that’s what had bothered her. She understood him but something was not right. What was it?

“Now drop your weapon.” He nodded at the brand, which now seemed small and useless in light of his size and superior strength.

She let go, and it fell to the earthen floor. He kicked it neatly back into the fire. Only then did he let go her wrist. Shrinking backward, she pulled the edges of the plaid tighter around herself. Surprisingly, he turned and strode from the cave.

Where was he going? Before she had time to consider her options he was back. In his hand was a balled-up garment. Her shift! He tossed it to her and she caught it with one hand.

“Dress yourself,” he said.

She swallowed hard and examined the thin, white garment. ’Twas clean and dry. She started to slip the plaid from her shoulders then stopped. Her eyes met his. Oh, no.

“Hmph,” he grunted, and to her surprise he turned his back on her.

In seconds she was dressed. Well, half-dressed. A shift and a coarse, woolen plaid. Not exactly proper attire.

He turned to face her. “Now sit,” he commanded and nodded to the pallet of furs.

Her eyes widened and she took a step back. He didn’t move. It occurred to her if he meant to—to harm her, he wouldn’t have allowed her to dress. She obeyed.

He knelt in front of her and his expression softened. He was almost handsome without that scowl. “What in God’s name are ye doing here—a woman alone, and in naught but a shift?”

What was she doing here? The image of a high place, desolate and windswept, flashed briefly in her mind. Standing stones, in a half circle, reached toward a dark, starless sky.

Her head throbbed. She tried to speak, but couldn’t make the words. She ran a hand over her scalp and drew a sharp breath when she met the source of tenderness.

“Aye, ’tis a fair-size lump, but ye seem right enough now.” He reached out to touch her and she instantly drew back, her eyes riveted to his. “Hold still,” he commanded.

Her pulse quickened as he moved closer and ran his huge hand across the nape of her neck then slowly upward, seeking out her injury. Her skin warmed under his touch and she fought the strange urge to let her head roll back in his hand.

He was so close she could feel his breath on her face as he traced the bump with gentle fingers. He had a clean, male scent about him she found pleasing.

She felt strange all of sudden, confused—by him and by the muddle of emotions that erupted inside her: fear, excitement, attraction. What was happening?

Abruptly, he drew back and looked away, his face contorting, as if the exploration had been distasteful. “You’ll live,” he said, then stood.

He strode to the far corner of the cave and stooped to retrieve the spitted hare. “Too bad about this. I expect you’re hungry.” He inspected it and shrugged. “’Tis still edible. Here.” He tossed it to her and she caught it.

His manner had changed completely. He was stiff, cold. She felt a pang of disappointment. Was she daft? She had to get out of here. She must get to…where was she going? She could see the place in her mind, but—

“The storm has passed. I’m leaving now,” he said. He gathered up the scattered plaids and cooking gear and placed them in the corner of the cave. “Ye’d best do the same. ’Tis no safe here for a woman alone.” He kicked some dirt onto the fire and, before she could even get up, he was gone.

Her stomach growled. How long had it been since she’d eaten? She looked longingly at the roasted hare, then at the cave’s entrance. After a moment, the warrior appeared by the spring, leading a gray horse. She’d been right about that.

Without another thought, she ripped the hare from the spit, gathered the edges of the plaid about her, and followed him outside.

What a nuisance.

Gilchrist shook his head and urged the stallion into a trot. The woman clung to his back, a slender arm wrapped around his waist. He noticed she took great care to avoid touching his right side. She’d seen him bathing. Damn her prying eyes.

Christ, what was he going to do with her? He couldn’t just leave her here, now could he? And what was wrong with her? She had yet to utter a single word.

“Hmph.” None of this mattered as he’d be rid of her as soon as was practical. He tried to ignore her and focus on his own problems, but she made it damned difficult holding him as tightly as she did.

He guided his mount into the forest and the gray settled in at a casual pace. Sunlight streamed through the emerald canopy of larch, laurel and a few scattered pines. Everything was green, fresh, the damp ground and a few downed tree limbs the only evidence of yesterday’s storm.

Casting his head back, he inhaled deeply. There it was after all, the unmistakable scent of spring. He swore silently under his breath.

They reached the forest path in no time and he quickly reined the stallion south, away from the burnt-out clearing and toward the clan’s new demesne. The woman let go of him for a moment. She looked back, he was certain, at the charred rubble.

He issued one subtle command and the stallion lurched forward. The woman gasped and her arms flew around him. Served her right. The edges of his mouth turned up in a smile.

They rode like that for some time, the warmth of the sun and the stallion’s easy pace lulling him into a rare state of relaxation. The woman rested her head against his back, and with each footfall of the stallion he could feel the soft weight of her breasts moving against him.

For the first time in—how long?—he felt good.

He focused on the path in front of him and tried to think of something else: the clan, Alex’s almost too casual helpfulness, and Hugh’s words of advice.

A bride—a Davidson bride.

Moments later the sound of bells and the dull clanking of metal on metal snapped him to attention. He narrowed his eyes, quickly scanning the forest in all directions. The clamor originated in front of them. He urged his mount into the cover of the trees.

The woman squirmed and fidgeted behind him. Damn her! He grabbed one of her hands and squeezed it. “Be still!” She tensed, then quieted. Fixing his gaze on the path, he waited.

After a moment, a swaybacked draft horse came into view. The beast pulled a crude cart, laden with what looked to be household wares. Two men sat atop it, dressed in little better than rags.

Tinkers.

Gilchrist relaxed. He realized he was still holding the woman’s hand. He frowned and let it go, then guided the stallion out onto the path before them. The men saw him and their hands flew to their weapons.

“I mean ye no harm,” he called out to them.

The two men exchanged glances, then narrowed their eyes at him. One of them, a big, dirty-looking lout with stringy hair and bad teeth, rose from his seat. “Who are ye?” he shouted. “And what’s that ye got sittin’ behind ye?” The man tilted his head and eyed the woman.

Gilchrist nudged his mount closer, his left hand moving to the hilt of his dirk. “Who am I? I am Gilchrist of Clan Davidson and this is my land. Who are ye and what is your business here?”

The smaller man’s gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s disfigured hand. He tucked it quickly back into the folds of his plaid. “I have heard of ye,” the man said. “Ye are The Davidson, are ye no?”

“I am.”

“We are tinkers,” he said, “on our way north to Inverness.”

The big man continued to eye the woman. “And that one…who is she?”

“I dinna know,” he said. “She doesna speak.” He urged the stallion closer to the cart so the two men could get a better look at her. “Do ye know her? Have ye seen her before?”

The woman clung to him tighter as the two tinkers looked her over.

The big, dirty one grinned. “Nay, but I’d like to see more o’ her.”

The woman tensed.

The smaller man elbowed his sidekick in the ribs, then turned his attention to Gilchrist. “We’d gladly take her off yer hands. Perhaps ye’d like to trade?” He nodded to the cart full of goods.

The woman’s grasp was like steel now. If she squeezed him much harder he wouldn’t be able to breathe. He sighed. He had more important matters to tend to than the fate of a mute, half-clothed woman. He should unload her now and be done with it. He drew his mount alongside the cart.

“Go on then,” he said to the big man, “take her.”

The man grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. He reached out and grabbed the woman around the waist and tried to pull her from the saddle. She screamed, startling them all, and held fast to Gilchrist’s waist, struggling against the tinker’s grip.

“Oh, so ye can talk, can ye?” the man said and grinned wider.

Gilchrist could smell him now—he stank of wine and sweat. No matter. His decision was made. He swore and ripped the woman’s hands from his waist.

The tinker pulled her awkwardly onto his lap. Something about the way he looked at her made Gilchrist bristle. She fought wildly, but the tinker gripped her around the waist and clamped his other hand roughly over her mouth.

Gilchrist turned his mount abruptly and looked away. What difference did it make what happened to her? She was nothing to him. He nudged the stallion forward, down the path, but could still hear her struggles and the tinker’s low laughter. His gut roiled as he fought the ridiculous wave of emotion that threatened to overcome his better judgment.

“Ah, now here’s a pretty piece.” ’Twas the small man’s voice. “She won’t be needin’ this.”

Gilchrist turned in his saddle in time to see the man rip the plaid from the woman’s body. He swore silently to himself and spurred the stallion back to the cart. “You there, stop it!” he commanded. “Give it back to her—now.” He nodded at the plaid.

The big man smirked and tightened his grip on the woman’s mouth. Gilchrist willed himself not to look at her. “Me friend is right,” the tinker said. “She willna need it.” He moved his hand from her waist, slowly upward over the thin fabric of her shift, and cupped her breast.

Gilchrist came unglued.

Before he knew what he was doing, his broadsword was in his hand—his left hand—and pointed at the tinker’s throat. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want her back.”

The tinker’s eyes widened. His friend reached for his dirk and Gilchrist shot him a feral look. “Dinna even think it.” He was almost sorry when the small man backed off and the tinker released his grip. The woman scrambled from the cart then backed toward the cover of the trees.

Gilchrist weighed the sword in his hand. It felt surprisingly good. He itched to kill them both, the swine. Instead, he nodded at the path. “Off with you. And dinna come back this way again.”

Without a word, the small man snapped the reins, and the draft horse lurched forward down the path. Gilchrist watched them until they were out of sight, then sheathed his sword, somewhat awkwardly, as he’d never done it left-handed before.

The confrontation buoyed his spirits. Mayhap Hugh was right. He might just learn to wield a sword again. ’Twould take a bit of practice to get it right, though.

Turning his mount, he scanned the stand of larch and laurel. The woman was backed up to a tree, eyes wide. Poor lass. He approached her slowly and, for the first time, studied her eyes. They were fair strange—gray flecked with green. He’d never seen eyes like that. They held fear—and something else.

Anger.

He dismounted and retrieved the plaid that lay at her feet. “Here,” he said quietly.

For a moment she didn’t move, then she snatched the garment from him and wrapped it around her shoulders.

He felt like the lowest of dogs. “Come on, lass. Come home with me.” He offered her his hand. “I’ll no let anyone harm ye—ye have my word on it.”

Her steely gaze burned into him. As she slowly reached out to take his hand, he had the nagging feeling he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

## Chapter Three

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?

## Chapter Four

Arlys was wrong.

Gilchrist felt the truth of it in a way he couldn’t explain. He sat atop the newly constructed battlement of Monadhliath Castle and gazed down into the bailey at Rachel and Alex.

She blushed as Alex unexpectedly took her arm and guided her through the maze of hewn stone and sweating workmen. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened.

“Let it go,” Hugh said. “Ye’ve other matters to attend to.”

“What d’ye mean?”

“The Englishwoman. Rachel.”

He snapped to attention and leveled his gaze at Hugh. “What about her?”

Hugh smirked and raised both tawny brows.

“Well, what about her?” He was losing patience. Hugh had been acting strangely the past day, ever since he’d returned from the spring with the woman.

“It’s just that…” Hugh paused and nodded below into the bailey. “At first I didna like it, ye being so smitten with her and all. But then—”

“What?” He leapt to his feet. “I’m no smitten. What are ye think—”

“Och, man, ’tis plain as the nose on yer face.” Hugh pointed a finger at his chest. “But she’s English. Ye must no forget that.”

“Are ye daft? I told ye, I’m no—”

“’Tis a miracle, really,” Hugh said, “the way she’s rallied yer spirit.” He nodded appreciatively in Rachel’s direction.

“But—”

“Just dinna think on her too seriously. Ye’ve other—”

Gilchrist reached out and gripped Hugh’s shoulder, stopping him in midsentence. “That’s enough.”

Hugh’s eyes widened. “I…excuse me, Laird.” He quickly lowered his gaze and Gilchrist released him.

“Ye’ve been my friend long years, Hugh, but dinna think to tell me my business.”

He fisted his hands at his sides. Hugh nodded once in compliance, then strode to the steps leading below. Gilchrist almost called him back, then changed his mind, swearing silently under his breath.

He turned toward the battlement and peered over the edge, looking for Rachel. Ah, there she was, inspecting the masonry of the steps leading to the keep.

Peg had loaned her a gown. ’Twas no much—a thin garment of pale-green wool. He noticed how it gently skimmed her body and pulled slightly at her breasts and hips as she moved. She wore her dark hair loose—a midnight tumble of silk that reached nearly to her waist.

All at once, he recalled her scent and the feel of her in his arms as they rode astride his mount. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, but continued to watch her.

The workers paid her no mind and the few women in the bailey turned from her and pulled their children away when Alex led her toward them. No one would speak to her, save Peg and Alex. It had been like that since she’d arrived.

Rachel tipped her chin high and fisted her hands at her sides, not breaking her stride. Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, but she did not avert her eyes from the small knot of clan folk who whispered as she walked past, nor did she respond to the occasional insult tossed in her direction.

Gilchrist knew the feeling well.

“Brave lass,” he whispered, and absently flexed the muscles in his burned arm.

He watched her. Every move.

She could feel Gilchrist’s eyes upon her as Alex led her down the path and away from the castle. Gilchrist had not come near her since he’d sent her away with Peg, and yet everywhere she looked he was there, watching her from a distance.

On impulse she looked back. There he was, leaning against the battlement, his gaze fixed on her. A small thrill coursed through her. He fascinated her—there was no other word for it. He looked almost made of stone, himself—a citadel within the citadel, alone by design.

“Did ye no hear me?” Alex said.

Rachel shook off the strange emotion and turned her attention back to Alex. “I—I’m sorry, what did you say?”

The warrior smiled, his dark eyes studying her face. “I said, can ye no remember anything more?”

Alex had prodded her with the same questions, over and over, for the last hour. “Nay, I’ve told you,” she said, trying to conceal her irritation. “I remember naught before I awoke in the cave. Neither name, nor family, nor what led me to the spring.”

She met his inquisitive gaze and pursed her lips. Alex’s rigid posture relaxed and a warm smile broke across his face. Finally, he believed her.

“Well, ’tis a shame, but dinna worry. We shall take care of you.” Alex took her hand in his and gently moved his thumb over her palm.

She resisted the urge to pull away. Her pulse quickened as she met his gaze. He’d been overfriendly and protective of her all morning. She supposed she should be grateful, but something about him unsettled her.

He was fair handsome, his brown eyes penetrating, his voice rich and soothing. Still, an uneasiness washed over her as he continued to so boldly caress her hand.

“I shall take care of you,” he whispered.

She did pull away then, her thoughts racing. There was something about his voice…his words. What was it? Rachel stopped and massaged her brow for a moment.

“Are you unwell?” Alex asked.

“Nay, I—”

“She looks fit enough to me.”

Rachel whirled toward the feminine voice. Arlys leaned against the doorway of one of the cottages that lined the castle’s curtain wall, her arms folded across her chest, one hip thrust forward.

“Arlys,” Alex said as he moved toward the woman. “D’ye no have chores to do?”

Arlys shot him a nasty look then flashed her blue eyes at Rachel. “And what chores have ye assigned her?”

Rachel started to speak but Alex interrupted her. “Rachel is our guest, and is still recovering from her…accident. She need no trouble herself with work.”

“Ha!” Arlys said.

“But, I’d like to work,” Rachel said and took a step toward her. “I’m not used to idleness.”

Alex stepped between the two of them, worried, no doubt there would be a repeat of yesterday’s sparring.

“Well, I’m sure Alex can find plenty to occupy yer time.”

Before Rachel could respond, Arlys stepped into the cottage and began to close the door. She paused and glanced briefly at Alex. Her venomous expression softened. Rachel caught the barest hint of tears glassing her eyes before the door slammed shut.

She looked to Alex who stood motionless, eyes fixed blankly on the cottage, his smile faded. There was something in his face that surprised her.

Regret.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve upset her.”

Alex shook off his momentary melancholy and moved toward her, transforming himself in three strides into the delightful escort he’d played at all morning. “Bah, ’tis naught. She’ll come ’round.”

“She has every right to dislike me.”

Alex took her arm and guided her down the hill and into the maze of small cottages that surrounded the castle. Arlys’s accusation still nagged at her.

“Peg told me the story of the virgin’s spring,” she said.

“Och, dinna listen to those old wives’ tales. The girl is a simpleton. She knows naught of what she speaks.”

“Peg is sweet, and has been most kind to me.” Rachel looked from one woman to the next, as they made their way through the tiny village. None returned her hopeful smile. “In truth, she’s the only one who’s offered to call me friend.”

Alex stopped before a small structure at the end of the last row of cottages. “Come now, Rachel, have I not been a friend to ye?” He raised his brows in question and the corners of his mouth turned up in a handsome smile.

“You have,” she said and felt grateful for it.

“Well, then, come—there is someone who’d like to meet you.”

Alex led her to the door of the small cottage. “This is my mother’s house.” He tripped the latch and bade her cross the threshold.

Rachel entered and let her eyes adjust to the dim light. The cottage was tiny and ill kept. A table stood in the center of the room. An old woman sat on a crude stool near the hearth, rocking herself back and forth, seemingly oblivious to their arrival.

“Mother,” Alex called to her. “I have brought ye a visitor.”

The woman looked up and, as she met the eyes of her son, a dazzling smile broke across her wrinkled face. “Alex,” she said and rose from the stool.

“Mother, this is Rachel, the woman of whom I have spoken.”

Rachel took a step forward and smiled as the woman turned her attention to her.

“Ahh, Rachel.” The old woman’s eyes lit up as she studied her with surprising alacrity.

“I am pleased to meet you.”

Alex hung back as his mother greeted her. “You may call me Moira,” the old woman said.

“Moira,” Rachel repeated. “’Tis a lovely name.”

The woman chuckled. “’Tis ye who are lovely, lass. My son never spoke of your beauty.” She glanced briefly at Alex, whose face colored at his mother’s words. “Only that ye canna recall a thing about yourself before your fall in the wood.”

“’Tis true,” she said. “Except for one thing.”

“What?” Alex said and moved quickly to her side. “Tell me.”

Rachel hesitated for a moment. She did not like the overzealous look in his eyes. “I—I’m a healer,” she said finally.

Moira’s eyes widened.

“How d’ye know that, if ye canna remember?” Alex said.

“I just know,” she said. “And there are other things—not so much things I remember, but things I see in my mind, like a picture.”

“What things?” Alex asked, his voice a bit unsteady. He took her hand and bade her sit on the bench that flanked the table. Both of them hovered over her, waiting for her response. ’Twas odd, their interest in her.

“Well, when I close my eyes,” Rachel began, “I see a place—a high place.”

“A high place,” Alex repeated.

“Aye, bleak and windswept, with a half circle of stones at its crest.”

Moira leaned closer. “Standing stones.”

“Aye, standing stones.”

Alex squeezed her hand tighter. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “This place,” he said, “d’ye know it?”

The both of them leaned closer still. Rachel felt warm all of a sudden, and uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I…not so much know it, as feel drawn to it. It calls to me, in a way I can’t explain.” For a moment she thought the two of them would devour her, so near did they hover.

Then a smile graced Alex’s face; he abruptly let go her hand and stood tall, hands on hips. “’Tis nonsense,” he said. “Ye must put such thoughts out of your mind, lass. Your recovery depends upon it.”

Moira moved a wrinkled hand toward Rachel’s face and let her thin fingers come to rest in her hair. The old woman smiled. “My son is right. Forget this vision.”

Rachel felt oddly comforted by their response. She would like to forget about the high place. The image disturbed her, frightened her almost.

Moira ran her hand through Rachel’s hair. Her touch was cool, soothing. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and felt the old woman fist a handful of hair at the nape of her neck.

“Lean forward, lass,” Moira whispered.

Not questioning why, Rachel complied. She felt Moira’s fingers rake her thick tresses. The dark fall of hair spilled forward onto her lap.

“Ahh, you were right, son,” Moira said. “You were right.” The door latch clunked heavily, as if someone who’d been holding it had just let it fall. Rachel looked up as Moira’s hand fell away. The old woman stifled a gasp.

Murdoch, one of the clan’s elders, stood in the doorway to the cottage, his eyes fixed on Moira’s startled face. Rachel wondered how long he’d stood there, unnoticed. Alex shot his mother a meaningful look, the significance of which Rachel had not a clue.

“Right about what?” Rachel asked, remembering Moira’s words. No one looked at her. “Right about what?”

“Alex,” Murdoch said, not sparing the warrior a glance. His gaze burned into Moira. “The laird wishes to see ye.”

Alex didn’t move, his eyes darting from Murdoch’s face to his mother’s. They all knew something she didn’t, but what?

Moira shook off her surprise and nodded to her son. “Go,” she said, “and take the lass with ye.”

Rachel stood as Alex beckoned her toward the door. Murdoch turned his attention to her at last, and his expression softened. “Aye, lass,” he said. “Go with Alex. Methinks Gilchrist would like to see ye, as well.”

Murdoch stepped aside and let them pass. Once outside, Rachel turned to speak to him, but he had already closed the door.

Gilchrist gripped the dirk in his left hand and lunged at his opponent.

Hugh leapt sideways as a flash of steel cut the air where he’d stood. “Christ, man! Are ye practicing or d’ye mean to skewer me?”

Gilchrist relaxed and lowered the dirk, breathless from Hugh’s surprise attack.

“I told ye so.” Hugh nodded and leaned against the stone wall of the keep.

He felt the weight of the dagger in his hand. ’Twas strange, but not so awkward as he’d thought ’twould be. “Hmm? What did you tell me?”

“That ye could learn to use your left if needs be.”

On impulse, he tossed the dirk into the air. Hugh flattened himself against the wall. Gilchrist watched as the dagger descended, end over end. At the last moment he reached in to grab it. “Damn!” The blade nicked his palm and thudded to the ground.

Hugh laughed as Gilchrist sucked at the cut. “Weel, it may take a while.”

Gilchrist was suddenly aware of the workmen in the bailey. They’d stopped their labors and were looking at him. Most stared blankly, but a few shot him looks of contempt. He grimaced as he stooped to retrieve the dirk. The quick movements of the past few minutes caused his side to burn with pain.

He motioned Hugh to follow him up the steps and into the castle. “They blame me still,” he muttered as the two of them strode into the newly finished hall.

“Blame ye for what?” Hugh asked.

“For their laird’s death.”

Hugh met his gaze. “You are their laird now.”

“Aye.” Gilchrist strode to the center of the empty hall, his footfalls echoing off the flagstones. Sunshine streamed into the room from the small, high windows, and riddled the stone floor with a tapestry of light. He tilted his face up and let the sun bathe him in its warmth. “If only I could have saved them,” he whispered.

Unbidden, memories of the fire came crashing in on him. The desperate cries of his uncle and aunt, the roar of the blaze, and the heat—the stifling, hellish heat. Gilchrist raised his hand instinctively to his brow as if to block the visions that raced through his mind.

“Ye did all any man could have done,” Hugh said.

“Did I?”

“Aye, ye did.” Hugh’s expression softened. “Ye did all but die with them. And who would that have served?”

The stony faces of his kinsmen swam before his eyes. “Mayhap everyone,” he whispered.

Footsteps sounded on the threshold. Gilchrist looked up to see the elders, all save Murdoch, enter the hall. He stood tall and quickly slipped his burned hand into the folds of his plaid.

“Thomas, Donald,” he said and strode toward the older men.

“Ah, there ye are,” Thomas said. “We’d have a word with ye.”

“Aye, we would,” Donald added.

Gilchrist joined them in the doorway and Hugh moved swiftly to his side. “So, what is it ye wish to discuss?”

The elders exchanged a brief look, then turned to him. “The Macphearson,” Thomas said.

“Aye, The Macphearson,” Donald repeated.

Gilchrist knit his brows. “What about him?”

“Alex thinks we should no trust him,” Thomas said. “That we should move against him afore he moves against us.”

“Aye,” Donald said. “Afore he moves against us.”

“Alex said this?” Gilchrist caught Hugh’s I-told-ye-so look out of the corner of his eye and frowned.

Both men nodded.

“And do you, Thomas Davidson, think we should no trust him? And you, Donald?”

The elders exchanged another look before Thomas spoke. “Weel—”

“And why should we no trust him?” Gilchrist said, his patience wearing thin. “What has The Macphearson done to us that we should make war on his clan?”

“But Alex said—”

“Does The Macphearson no wish to join us at the gathering this summer?” He turned to Hugh. “Did ye no tell me this less than a sennight ago?”

Hugh nodded. “I did. Our scouts carried the news from the western border where they’d met up with a Macphearson hunting party.”

Gilchrist leveled his gaze at Thomas. “They may wish to join the Chattan. The alliance. Did ye no think of that?”

“That’s exactly what I’d thought, at first,” Thomas said. “But then Alex—”

“Aye, Alex said—” Donald repeated.

Gilchrist silenced the both of them with an upraised hand. The elders stared at it, wide-eyed. He realized then, he’d raised his burned hand. To hell with the both of them. He was sick to death of concealing it.

“Think of it,” he said. “The Chattan, the four—Davidson, Mackintosh, Macgillivray, and MacBain. The alliance my father worked his whole life to see, and that my brother, Iain, at long last forged.” He paused to let his words sink in. “And now Macphearson. We could be five. Five Highland clans at peace instead of war.” Gilchrist nodded slowly and looked from Thomas to Donald, then let his gaze fall upon Hugh.

“Aye,” Hugh said, nodding agreement. “And Alex would destroy it before it’s e’er begun.”

The elders were quiet. Gilchrist leaned against the stone portal of the keep and looked out across the bailey which bustled with activity.

He caught sight of Rachel, arm in arm with Alex, making their way up the hill from the village. He didn’t like the way Alex was smiling at her, nor the way he occasionally patted her hand with his.

“And what about her?” Thomas asked, nodding in Rachel’s direction.

Gilchrist gritted his teeth. “What about her?”

Hugh shot him a cautionary look, which he immediately ignored.

“What will ye do with her?” Thomas asked.

“Aye, what will ye do, Laird?” Donald repeated, much to his annoyance.

God’s truth, he had not a clue. His gaze fixed on Rachel, he answered in slow, carefully chosen words. “I promised to keep her safe, and that I intend to do.” He glanced briefly at all three men. “D’ye have a problem with that?”

A shout went up among the workmen.

Gilchrist shot from the doorway and stood on the top step of the keep, scanning the bailey for the source of the commotion.

“There,” Hugh said and pointed east, past the village.

A small group of Davidson warriors rode up the hill toward the keep. Nothing unusual about that. As they passed the village, one by one, they turned off toward their cottages. Only one man remained. He rode his own mount, a horse Gilchrist recognized, but led another—a white mare. ’Twas small and did not bear the Davidson livery.

“Look!” Hugh cried and pointed toward the village.

Gilchrist froze.

Rachel was trying to free herself from Alex’s grasp. She wrestled in his embrace and shouted something Gilchrist could not make out.

“Bluidy hell,” he breathed and started down the steps toward her.

“Wait!” Hugh said. “Look.”

The warrior led the white mare past the struggling couple. He appeared only mildly interested in their quarrel.

Rachel suddenly lurched forward and shot from Alex’s grip. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened as Alex lunged for her, then missed. She raced up the hill, after the warrior and the strange mare. Alex followed.

Gilchrist sprang from the steps with Hugh in his wake. He snaked his way through the knot of workmen and clan folk choking the bailey, and met them at the opening in the curtain wall.

He stopped short when he saw Rachel, her gray-green gaze fixed on the white mare.

“My horse!” she cried, eyes glazed and wide. “My horse!”

## Chapter Five

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?”