Debra Brown - The Virgin Spring

“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!”

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.