The Virgin Spring
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Debra Lee Brown
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Chapter One
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.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What are ye talking about?”
“That’s it!” A grin broke across Hugh’s rugged face. “Ye shall wed and produce a son.” Hugh slapped him across the back, taking care, Gilchrist noticed, to avoid his injured right side.
“You’re daft.”
“Think about it. Arlys is a good choice.”
“She’s a silly chit.”
“Nay,” Hugh said. “She’s well liked and the right age. ’Twould cinch the clan’s affection—and please the elders.” Hugh nudged his mount closer and forced Gilchrist to meet his gaze. “And…’twould keep others in their place.”
“Alex, ye mean.” Gilchrist shook his head, again dismissing Hugh’s allegation. “Nay, I willna wed.”
“Och, come now. She’s bonny, is she no?” Hugh nodded at her and grinned. “And she fancies you, canna ye tell?”
Arlys smiled and waved at the two of them.
Gilchrist looked away, embarrassed, and slipped his burned hand back into the folds of his plaid. “I hadna noticed.”
“No so long ago ye would have had her wedded and bedded in a fortnight. Or at least bedded, and that within the week.”
He ignored Hugh’s well-meant, but stinging comment. Aye, he’d had a way with women—once. Before the fire. Before his betrothed left him for another man—a whole man. Gritting his teeth, he flexed his burned hand inside his plaid.
Undaunted, Hugh continued his argument for a swift marriage. After a few minutes Gilchrist began to listen, then nudged his mount forward a step and shot the girl a sideways glance. Mayhap Hugh was right. Taking Arlys to wife would solve his problem with the clan. After all, she was a Davidson.
“She’d be loyal and true,” Hugh said. “No like—”
“Say her name, and crippled or nay I’ll knock ye off that mare.”
“Forgive me, Laird, I—”
Hoofbeats sounded on the path behind them, and their conversation was forgotten.
Instinctively, Gilchrist reached for the broadsword strapped across his back and grimaced as the familiar, brilliant pain ravaged his torso and arm.
Hugh drew his weapon. Before he could position himself on the path in front of Gilchrist, the rider appeared.
“Alex!” they cried in unison.
Gilchrist relaxed and allowed himself a rare smile as the warrior approached. His steed was near spent, and Alex himself appeared little better. His plaid was filthy and rumpled, as if he’d ridden all night.
“We expected ye last eve,” Hugh said.
“Aye,” Alex said. “I was…detained.”
Gilchrist noticed a bit of dried blood streaked across Alex’s face. “What happened?” He motioned to the faint scratch marks.
Alex brushed his cheek with a gauntleted hand. “’Tis naught. Just—” He looked ahead to the clearing and his gaze lit on the girl. “’Twas Arlys,” he said and shot them a thin smile.
Arlys? “Hmph.” Gilchrist leveled his gaze at Hugh. “Loyal and true, indeed.”
Hugh shrugged and looked away.
Alex was clearly puzzled by their exchange. He nudged his gelding forward, even with Gilchrist’s mount. “Ye should be resting, Laird,” he said. “I’ll take care of things here.”
Hugh sprang to life, cocked a brow and set his jaw in that I-told-ye-so manner Gilchrist hated.
Aye, all right—I get the bluidy point, he replied with his eyes.
“Will ye come then, Laird?” Hugh said.
He looked again to the burnt-out clearing and wondered why the devil he had come here at all. Mayhap to see if he could bear it. He could not. “Nay, I’ll leave ye both here. I’m off to the spring.”
“What, the virgin’s spring?” Alex asked.
“Aye, that’s the one.” He turned his mount and guided him off the path into the wood. “I find the waters soothing.” Hugh followed but Gilchrist waved him back. “Nay, I wish to be alone. Stay here and help Alex.”
Hugh muttered something obscene under his breath, and shot Alex a stony glance. “As ye wish.”
Ignoring him, Alex said, “Do ye know the story of the spring? The one the old woman used to tell when we were lads?”
“The healer?” Gilchrist said.
“Aye, the same.”
“Go on—tell it.”
Alex drew his mount closer. “Dinna ye remember? ’Tis said three outlanders wrecked and murdered a Scots maiden on the very spot. ’Twas brutally done, and all wept for the loss. And when the girl’s father lifted her body in his arms, a spring flowed from ’neath the soft pillow of heather where rested her head.”
Gilchrist had heard the tale, but not for many a year. “I remember this story.”
“And the rest of it?” Hugh quipped. “Some say the waters have the power to heal.”
Alex smirked. “I think not. Nonetheless, for years after, women who were ill used or who’d compromised their virtue bathed in the waters as a means to restore their purity. There’s many who still believe in it.”
Gilchrist snorted. “The virgin’s spring—nonsense.”
“Mayhap not,” Hugh said, then laughed. “Alex, ’tis said your mother frequented the place often before ye were born.”
Alex kicked his mount forward, his face contorting in rage. Hugh’s hand moved like lightning to the hilt of his dirk.
“Enough!” Gilchrist shouted. The two warriors froze. “Get to work—the both of you. I’ll return on the morrow.” Hugh’s behavior was fair testing his patience.
Alex and Hugh turned their steeds, gazes locked like two feral predators, and made their way stiffly along the path to the clearing. The girl, Arlys, scrambled down from the burnt stump and ran toward them, waving at Alex, her face alight with surprise and pleasure.
Hugh nodded at her, then called back over his shoulder, “Laird, will ye do it?”
“Do what?” Gilchrist shouted.
Hugh nodded again toward the girl. “Marry!”
Alex’s eyes widened. He looked from Gilchrist to Arlys, his expression unreadable.
“I’ll think on it,” Gilchrist said and spurred his mount up the hill into the wood.
Thunderheads massed, full to bursting, the air chill and heavy with the scent of rain. Lightning flashed in the distance against an ominous sky. Gilchrist reined his stallion to a halt and listened. Any moment now…
Ah, there it was—the low, crackling rumble. He looked skyward and breathed deep. Winter was not yet ready to relinquish her hold, and he was glad. He favored the cool, dreary days and long nights.
The first few drops took him by surprise. Before he could react, the clouds burst and he was caught in the downpour. “Ah, well, no matter.” He proceeded to strip to the waist. His movements were slow, methodical; he gritted his teeth against the inevitable pain. “Bluidy hell.”
He was saved a pummeling by the thick canopy of larch and laurel that choked this part of the Highland wood. All the same, the rain stung his newly healed skin. God’s truth, he welcomed it in some perverse way.
He’d grown used to the pain. ’Twas almost comforting now, in a way he couldn’t fathom. Constant, true, something he could count on. It was what it was, and never deceived.
His stomach soured at the memory of the pretty, lying eyes of the woman he once thought to wed.
He spurred the stallion up a steep embankment. The horse protested, his hooves sinking deep into the mud, but Gilchrist urged him on with firm commands. They topped a ridge and turned south. ’Twasn’t far now.
He looked forward to his visits to the spring. They afforded him time alone, time to think. Aye, he’d done a lot of that of late.
Hugh’s words gnawed at him. He was right—the clan needed a strong laird, especially now. Gilchrist flexed the muscles in his ravaged arm and slowly opened the claw-like hand. Once, there had been no question he was that man. And now?
After the fire, when he lay near death, Alex had stepped easily into the role of leader. He was a good man, well liked by the elders and the clan. Mayhap ’twas all for the best. ’Twould be easy for Gilchrist to step down and fade neatly into the background.
As for those who loved him…What would they think of such a thing? He barely remembered his father and those early years before his death. ’Twas his uncle, Alistair Davidson, who’d raised him, God rest his soul, and his own brother, Iain. What would they expect of him now?
What did he expect of himself?
Gilchrist knew the answer. He was laird and must protect his position, do what was right for the clan. He ran his good hand through his dripping hair, pushing it off his forehead. Water streamed down his face. He tipped his chin high and closed his eyes for a moment.
Aye, he’d do it.
He’d wed and be done with it. A Davidson, a Macphearson, mayhap, it didn’t matter who. Arlys was a good choice. He knew he could never love her, and that suited him fine. A marriage to appease the clan—but just that. Never again would he lose his heart to a woman. Never. He glanced at his burns. Besides, who could love him now…like this?
The stallion emerged from the cover of the trees as a bolt of lightning split the sky, startling and brilliant, above them. Thunder boomed in deafening response. The horse reared.
Gilchrist held fast and reined the beast into submission, soothing him with soft words. The air was thick with a sharp, metallic odor; all the hairs on his body stood on end.
“We must get to cover!”
He spurred his mount forward, toward the spring. A good-size cave where he’d spent many a night lay just beyond it. ’Twould serve to protect both him and the horse.
Halfway there lightning flashed again, this time closer. He slipped from the stallion’s back and threw his shirt over the beast’s head, covering his eyes. The rain whipped at him in stinging, horizontal sheets, the wind a maelstrom of some vengeful god.
Just a few more steps and—there it was! The virgin’s spring, near overflowing from the torrential rains. But what’s that, near the edge? A body?
He raced to the cave and tethered his stallion just inside the opening, then turned and wiped the water from his eyes. It was a body—a woman.
He stepped from the cave. Another flash lit up the roiling sky and he quickly stepped back again. “Well, ’tis a good thing she’s already dead. She’d no last another minute out there in this.”
He studied the prone figure from the safety of the cave while the storm raged outside. She was most certainly dead, sprawled at the edge of the spring, limbs splayed, as if she’d fallen from some height—from a horse, mayhap.
Even from this distance, he could see she was soaked to the skin. Water pooled fast around her. Hmph. What if she wasn’t dead? He stood for a moment, glancing from the body of the woman to the dry interior of the cave.
“Of all the bluidy nuisance—”
He waited for the next flash, then bolted toward her as a clap of thunder split the air. Reaching her in a half-dozen strides, he knelt beside her in the trampled heather.
She wore naught but a shift, thin and soaking, near translucent as it clung to her limp body. Her feet were bare. On impulse he reached out and touched one foot—cold as ice. Her hair was a raven-black mass plastered to her head. He could not see her face, and there was no time to check her for signs of life.
With his good arm he lifted her up and half dragged her, half carried her, back to the safety of the cave. In minutes he’d built a small fire—a task he loathed—and laid her carefully on the bed of dry furs he kept there for overnight stays. Gently he brushed the dripping, midnight tresses from off her face.
“Good God.”
Illuminated in the firelight, she was akin to some ghostly angel. Her lips were full and slightly parted, bluish at the edges, her skin a frigid white. But her cheeks had color, the blush of spring on an otherwise lifeless landscape.
She was lovely—and she was alive.
