The Virgin Spring. Debra Brown Lee
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