The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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“Well, when I close my eyes,” Rachel began, “I see a place—a high place.”
“A high place,” Alex repeated.
“Aye, bleak and windswept, with a half circle of stones at its crest.”
Moira leaned closer. “Standing stones.”
“Aye, standing stones.”
Alex squeezed her hand tighter. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “This place,” he said, “d’ye know it?”
The both of them leaned closer still. Rachel felt warm all of a sudden, and uncomfortable under their scrutiny. “I…not so much know it, as feel drawn to it. It calls to me, in a way I can’t explain.” For a moment she thought the two of them would devour her, so near did they hover.
Then a smile graced Alex’s face; he abruptly let go her hand and stood tall, hands on hips. “’Tis nonsense,” he said. “Ye must put such thoughts out of your mind, lass. Your recovery depends upon it.”
Moira moved a wrinkled hand toward Rachel’s face and let her thin fingers come to rest in her hair. The old woman smiled. “My son is right. Forget this vision.”
Rachel felt oddly comforted by their response. She would like to forget about the high place. The image disturbed her, frightened her almost.
Moira ran her hand through Rachel’s hair. Her touch was cool, soothing. Rachel closed her eyes for a moment and felt the old woman fist a handful of hair at the nape of her neck.
“Lean forward, lass,” Moira whispered.
Not questioning why, Rachel complied. She felt Moira’s fingers rake her thick tresses. The dark fall of hair spilled forward onto her lap.
“Ahh, you were right, son,” Moira said. “You were right.” The door latch clunked heavily, as if someone who’d been holding it had just let it fall. Rachel looked up as Moira’s hand fell away. The old woman stifled a gasp.
Murdoch, one of the clan’s elders, stood in the doorway to the cottage, his eyes fixed on Moira’s startled face. Rachel wondered how long he’d stood there, unnoticed. Alex shot his mother a meaningful look, the significance of which Rachel had not a clue.
“Right about what?” Rachel asked, remembering Moira’s words. No one looked at her. “Right about what?”
“Alex,” Murdoch said, not sparing the warrior a glance. His gaze burned into Moira. “The laird wishes to see ye.”
Alex didn’t move, his eyes darting from Murdoch’s face to his mother’s. They all knew something she didn’t, but what?
Moira shook off her surprise and nodded to her son. “Go,” she said, “and take the lass with ye.”
Rachel stood as Alex beckoned her toward the door. Murdoch turned his attention to her at last, and his expression softened. “Aye, lass,” he said. “Go with Alex. Methinks Gilchrist would like to see ye, as well.”
Murdoch stepped aside and let them pass. Once outside, Rachel turned to speak to him, but he had already closed the door.
Gilchrist gripped the dirk in his left hand and lunged at his opponent.
Hugh leapt sideways as a flash of steel cut the air where he’d stood. “Christ, man! Are ye practicing or d’ye mean to skewer me?”
Gilchrist relaxed and lowered the dirk, breathless from Hugh’s surprise attack.
“I told ye so.” Hugh nodded and leaned against the stone wall of the keep.
He felt the weight of the dagger in his hand. ’Twas strange, but not so awkward as he’d thought ’twould be. “Hmm? What did you tell me?”
“That ye could learn to use your left if needs be.”
On impulse, he tossed the dirk into the air. Hugh flattened himself against the wall. Gilchrist watched as the dagger descended, end over end. At the last moment he reached in to grab it. “Damn!” The blade nicked his palm and thudded to the ground.
Hugh laughed as Gilchrist sucked at the cut. “Weel, it may take a while.”
Gilchrist was suddenly aware of the workmen in the bailey. They’d stopped their labors and were looking at him. Most stared blankly, but a few shot him looks of contempt. He grimaced as he stooped to retrieve the dirk. The quick movements of the past few minutes caused his side to burn with pain.
He motioned Hugh to follow him up the steps and into the castle. “They blame me still,” he muttered as the two of them strode into the newly finished hall.
“Blame ye for what?” Hugh asked.
“For their laird’s death.”
Hugh met his gaze. “You are their laird now.”
“Aye.” Gilchrist strode to the center of the empty hall, his footfalls echoing off the flagstones. Sunshine streamed into the room from the small, high windows, and riddled the stone floor with a tapestry of light. He tilted his face up and let the sun bathe him in its warmth. “If only I could have saved them,” he whispered.
Unbidden, memories of the fire came crashing in on him. The desperate cries of his uncle and aunt, the roar of the blaze, and the heat—the stifling, hellish heat. Gilchrist raised his hand instinctively to his brow as if to block the visions that raced through his mind.
“Ye did all any man could have done,” Hugh said.
“Did I?”
“Aye, ye did.” Hugh’s expression softened. “Ye did all but die with them. And who would that have served?”
The stony faces of his kinsmen swam before his eyes. “Mayhap everyone,” he whispered.
Footsteps sounded on the threshold. Gilchrist looked up to see the elders, all save Murdoch, enter the hall. He stood tall and quickly slipped his burned hand into the folds of his plaid.
“Thomas, Donald,” he said and strode toward the older men.
“Ah, there ye are,” Thomas said. “We’d have a word with ye.”
“Aye, we would,” Donald added.
Gilchrist joined them in the doorway and Hugh moved swiftly to his side. “So, what is it ye wish to discuss?”
The elders exchanged a brief look, then turned to him. “The Macphearson,” Thomas said.
“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