The Virgin Spring. Debra Brown Lee
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