The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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raised his burned hand. To hell with the both of them. He was sick to death of concealing it.
“Think of it,” he said. “The Chattan, the four—Davidson, Mackintosh, Macgillivray, and MacBain. The alliance my father worked his whole life to see, and that my brother, Iain, at long last forged.” He paused to let his words sink in. “And now Macphearson. We could be five. Five Highland clans at peace instead of war.” Gilchrist nodded slowly and looked from Thomas to Donald, then let his gaze fall upon Hugh.
“Aye,” Hugh said, nodding agreement. “And Alex would destroy it before it’s e’er begun.”
The elders were quiet. Gilchrist leaned against the stone portal of the keep and looked out across the bailey which bustled with activity.
He caught sight of Rachel, arm in arm with Alex, making their way up the hill from the village. He didn’t like the way Alex was smiling at her, nor the way he occasionally patted her hand with his.
“And what about her?” Thomas asked, nodding in Rachel’s direction.
Gilchrist gritted his teeth. “What about her?”
Hugh shot him a cautionary look, which he immediately ignored.
“What will ye do with her?” Thomas asked.
“Aye, what will ye do, Laird?” Donald repeated, much to his annoyance.
God’s truth, he had not a clue. His gaze fixed on Rachel, he answered in slow, carefully chosen words. “I promised to keep her safe, and that I intend to do.” He glanced briefly at all three men. “D’ye have a problem with that?”
A shout went up among the workmen.
Gilchrist shot from the doorway and stood on the top step of the keep, scanning the bailey for the source of the commotion.
“There,” Hugh said and pointed east, past the village.
A small group of Davidson warriors rode up the hill toward the keep. Nothing unusual about that. As they passed the village, one by one, they turned off toward their cottages. Only one man remained. He rode his own mount, a horse Gilchrist recognized, but led another—a white mare. ’Twas small and did not bear the Davidson livery.
“Look!” Hugh cried and pointed toward the village.
Gilchrist froze.
Rachel was trying to free herself from Alex’s grasp. She wrestled in his embrace and shouted something Gilchrist could not make out.
“Bluidy hell,” he breathed and started down the steps toward her.
“Wait!” Hugh said. “Look.”
The warrior led the white mare past the struggling couple. He appeared only mildly interested in their quarrel.
Rachel suddenly lurched forward and shot from Alex’s grip. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened as Alex lunged for her, then missed. She raced up the hill, after the warrior and the strange mare. Alex followed.
Gilchrist sprang from the steps with Hugh in his wake. He snaked his way through the knot of workmen and clan folk choking the bailey, and met them at the opening in the curtain wall.
He stopped short when he saw Rachel, her gray-green gaze fixed on the white mare.
“My horse!” she cried, eyes glazed and wide. “My horse!”
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