Debra Brown - The Virgin Spring

“Ye make me dare to hope I could be again the man I was.”

“Nay, Gilchrist, never again will you be that man. And I am glad of it,” Rachel whispered, leaning closer. “For this is the man I love.”

“But you see with your own eyes what I am.” He spread wide the fingers of his fire-ravaged hand.

“And you know in your heart what I am.”

“Aye,” he breathed against her hair. “Ye are like the spring after winter’s darkness, a rare elixir, everything virtuous and good. Aye, that and more.” He brushed his lips lightly across her temple. “Which is why I must go….”

Dear Reader,

In The Bonny Bride by award-winning author Deborah Hale, a poor young woman sets sail for Nova Scotia from England as a mail-order bride to a wealthy man, yet meets her true soul mate on board the ship. Will she choose love or money? Margaret Moore, who also writes mainstream historicals for Avon Books, returns with A Warrior’s Kiss, a passionate marriage-of-convenience story and the next in her ongoing medieval WARRIOR series. Theresa Michaels’s new Western, Once a Hero, is a gripping and emotion-filled story about a cowboy who rescues a female fugitive and unexpectedly falls in love with her as they go in search of a lost treasure. For readers who enjoy discovering new writers, The Virgin Spring by Golden Heart winner Debra Lee Brown is for you. Here, a Scottish laird finds an amnesiac woman beside a spring and must resist his desire for her, as he believes she is forbidden to him.

Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Jeannie

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Highlands of Scotland, 1208

The girl batted gold-tipped lashes in Gilchrist’s direction then spurred her mount ahead into the forest.

“Harlot,” he muttered under his breath.

Hugh snorted. “Christ, man! If ye willna be friendly to the lass, at the least ye can be civil.”

“And why must I be civil?” Gilchrist snapped.

“Because ye are laird, and can no afford this ill temper ye bear our women.”

“Hmph.” He ducked to avoid a low hanging branch as his steed quickened his pace. “Aye, I am laird—so the elders say. But I am a Mackintosh—the clan will never accept me.”

Hugh nudged his mount closer and cocked a tawny brow. “Ye are a Davidson, too. Your mother was born and bred on this land, and ’tis here ye were raised.”

He turned in the saddle and glanced back at the Davidson warriors who rode in a tight formation behind them. A few met his gaze, but most looked away or pretended to check their weapons.

Davidson. Mackintosh. What was he now?

The pain was worse today. The rough hunting plaid, even the soft wool of his shirt, burned against his skin. He longed to tear the garments free and let the stiff breeze cool his body. But he dared not. Too many eyes were on him. He could bear their revulsion, but not their pity.

Hugh nodded to the clearing ahead. “Are ye comin’?”

Gilchrist closed his eyes and drew a breath. Rain. He could smell it in the air, cool and threatening. He almost smiled. Then a familiar, acrid scent yanked him back to reality. His eyes flew open.

There it was.

The charred remains of Braedûn Lodge, seat of Clan Davidson, the only home he remembered. ’Twas once a great house, full of laughter and hearty enterprise. How many times had he ridden up this very path, returned from hunting or a bit of wenching, to be greeted by his uncle at the door? He frowned and pushed the flood of memories from his mind.

“Well,” Hugh said, “are ye comin’ or no?”

It had been six months since the fire and in all that time Gilchrist hadn’t returned to the spot. He’d skirted the clearing on a few occasions and once he’d even approached—but the smell, the stench of charred oak and other things he was loath to remember kept him away. Even now his gut roiled.

“Nay,” he said, “I canna.”

Hugh set his jaw. “’Tis just a pile o’ burnt wood, nothing more.” The dozen or so warriors who accompanied them rode past and into the clearing. Hugh’s expression softened. “What demons remain, ye carry with ye, Gilchrist.”

He met his friend’s steady gaze. “Mayhap.”

“Ye are laird,” Hugh said. “Snap out of it, man. There’s work to be done and the clan needs a leader, no a—”

“A what?” Slowly, he drew his right hand from the folds of his plaid. “A cripple?” Clenching his teeth against the pain, he unfurled his burned fingers and willed them to grip Hugh’s bare forearm. “A monster?” Hugh neither flinched nor broke his gaze, and for that Gilchrist was grateful.

“Bah! ’Tis just a burn, and it’s no so bad.”

“No so bad?” Gilchrist released him. “Christ, I canna hold my own sword. A laird who canna protect his clan is no leader—he’s no even a man.”

They sat quiet for a moment, listening to the early morning larks and the creaking of branches in the rising wind. His hair whipped at his face. Absently he brushed it back with his good hand.

“Ye can learn to fight with your left,” Hugh said quietly. “There’s two or three clansmen wield a sword left-handed. One of them can show you.”

He shrugged, pushing the thought away.

“Ye must be fit for the spring gathering. Rumor has it the Macphearsons would join us this year. It’s been months since ye’ve met with them.”

Hugh’s point could not be argued. Gilchrist had seen no one outside the clan since the fire. More importantly, no one had seen him, and that suited him fine.

“Let Alex handle it.”

Hugh frowned. “Aye, I expect he’d jump at the chance to do that—and more.”

He raised a brow and shot his friend a cool look.

“There’s been talk,” Hugh said. “Among the elders—and the clan. Alex is well liked. Some say—”

“Where is Alex? He didna return from his hunt last night.”

Hugh shook his head. “There’s no telling. Busy with affairs of the clan, I suspect. Your affairs.”

He snorted.

“I’m lettin’ ye know is all. There’s been talk.”

“What talk? Why d’ye harbor this ill will toward him? Alex is a trusted friend.” The three of them had grown up together for God’s sake.

“Mayhap,” Hugh said. “But mark me—he fancies himself laird, and some say with good reason.”

’Twas a serious accusation, and one that made no sense.

Gilchrist let the stallion’s reins drop from his hand. He looked ahead into the clearing where a dozen warriors toiled at clearing away the burnt rubble of Braedûn Lodge. The girl, Arlys, who’d so innocently flirted with him earlier, watched them intently from her perch on a blackened log.

“Now there’s your answer,” Hugh said, nodding in the girl’s direction.

“What answer?”

“A bride—a Davidson bride.”