Debra Brown - The Virgin Spring

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.