Debra Brown - The Virgin Spring

Gilchrist weighed the sword in his hand. It felt surprisingly good. He itched to kill them both, the swine. Instead, he nodded at the path. “Off with you. And dinna come back this way again.”

Without a word, the small man snapped the reins, and the draft horse lurched forward down the path. Gilchrist watched them until they were out of sight, then sheathed his sword, somewhat awkwardly, as he’d never done it left-handed before.

The confrontation buoyed his spirits. Mayhap Hugh was right. He might just learn to wield a sword again. ’Twould take a bit of practice to get it right, though.

Turning his mount, he scanned the stand of larch and laurel. The woman was backed up to a tree, eyes wide. Poor lass. He approached her slowly and, for the first time, studied her eyes. They were fair strange—gray flecked with green. He’d never seen eyes like that. They held fear—and something else.

Anger.

He dismounted and retrieved the plaid that lay at her feet. “Here,” he said quietly.

For a moment she didn’t move, then she snatched the garment from him and wrapped it around her shoulders.

He felt like the lowest of dogs. “Come on, lass. Come home with me.” He offered her his hand. “I’ll no let anyone harm ye—ye have my word on it.”

Her steely gaze burned into him. As she slowly reached out to take his hand, he had the nagging feeling he’d just made the biggest mistake of his life.

Gilchrist—a lofty name for so vile a man.

She leaned forward in the saddle and he abruptly pulled her back against his chest, his good arm wrapped around her like a steel trap.

To think he would have given her to those pigs! She wiped her mouth with the edge of the plaid, recalling the tinker’s filthy hands. A small shudder escaped her.

“Are ye all right?” Gilchrist asked and leaned down to look at her. “You’re safe now. Do ye understand?”

She meant to glare at him, but the concern in his expression disarmed her. She merely nodded.

“Well then, we’ll be home soon. ’Tis just ahead.” He pointed to the top of a broad ridge. She narrowed her eyes but failed to see any kind of structure.

His arm returned to her waist and they settled in for the brief ascent. The gray stallion picked his way carefully up the slope along what looked to be a well-worn path. She reached out a hand and stroked the gray’s sleek neck. It reminded her of something…

Her horse!

She’d had a horse; at least she thought she had. Her head pounded again as she tried to recall what had happened to it. She tried to concentrate, to think, but the warrior—Gilchrist—kept distracting her. He had pulled her so tightly against him she could scarce breathe. He was warm, hot in fact, and she fidgeted in the saddle in front of him.

Glancing down, she noticed his injured hand resting on his thigh. The skin was nearly healed but looked tight and painful still. His fingers were balled into a fist. She didn’t know what compelled her to do it, but she moved her hand to his and, very gently, ran her fingers over the angry red surface.

“Don’t!” He jerked his hand away, then let go her waist and pushed her roughly forward, putting some space between them.

Fine. She was only trying to—what? What was she doing? Everything was so confusing. Him, his strange speech, and this place—it seemed familiar, and yet…

She narrowed her eyes and focused on the widening path. The stallion quickened his pace and shot ahead, muscles straining, up the last steep hillock. Suddenly they broke from the trees onto a broad, windswept ridge. Gilchrist pulled the stallion up short.

The view was so breathtaking she gasped. One could see for miles across a landscape of stark, rolling hills peppered here and there with stretches of lush forest. A thin, silver necklace of a river snaked its way across a valley far in the distance. To the south and east the hills leveled off. The land there was verdant, flourishing.

“’Tis bonny, is it no?” Gilchrist said, his voice almost a whisper.

She dared to look up at him. He stared into the distance, blue eyes riveted to the far horizon. She was conscious of his hand around her waist again, and of his muscular thighs pressed against hers.

He looked down suddenly. Their gazes locked. Her pulse quickened as his arm tightened around her ever so slightly.

God’s blood, he was going to kiss her! She could see it in his eyes.

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.”