The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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