The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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Two men sat atop it, dressed in little better than rags.
Tinkers.
Gilchrist relaxed. He realized he was still holding the woman’s hand. He frowned and let it go, then guided the stallion out onto the path before them. The men saw him and their hands flew to their weapons.
“I mean ye no harm,” he called out to them.
The two men exchanged glances, then narrowed their eyes at him. One of them, a big, dirty-looking lout with stringy hair and bad teeth, rose from his seat. “Who are ye?” he shouted. “And what’s that ye got sittin’ behind ye?” The man tilted his head and eyed the woman.
Gilchrist nudged his mount closer, his left hand moving to the hilt of his dirk. “Who am I? I am Gilchrist of Clan Davidson and this is my land. Who are ye and what is your business here?”
The smaller man’s gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s disfigured hand. He tucked it quickly back into the folds of his plaid. “I have heard of ye,” the man said. “Ye are The Davidson, are ye no?”
“I am.”
“We are tinkers,” he said, “on our way north to Inverness.”
The big man continued to eye the woman. “And that one…who is she?”
“I dinna know,” he said. “She doesna speak.” He urged the stallion closer to the cart so the two men could get a better look at her. “Do ye know her? Have ye seen her before?”
The woman clung to him tighter as the two tinkers looked her over.
The big, dirty one grinned. “Nay, but I’d like to see more o’ her.”
The woman tensed.
The smaller man elbowed his sidekick in the ribs, then turned his attention to Gilchrist. “We’d gladly take her off yer hands. Perhaps ye’d like to trade?” He nodded to the cart full of goods.
The woman’s grasp was like steel now. If she squeezed him much harder he wouldn’t be able to breathe. He sighed. He had more important matters to tend to than the fate of a mute, half-clothed woman. He should unload her now and be done with it. He drew his mount alongside the cart.
“Go on then,” he said to the big man, “take her.”
The man grinned, showing a mouthful of rotten teeth. He reached out and grabbed the woman around the waist and tried to pull her from the saddle. She screamed, startling them all, and held fast to Gilchrist’s waist, struggling against the tinker’s grip.
“Oh, so ye can talk, can ye?” the man said and grinned wider.
Gilchrist could smell him now—he stank of wine and sweat. No matter. His decision was made. He swore and ripped the woman’s hands from his waist.
The tinker pulled her awkwardly onto his lap. Something about the way he looked at her made Gilchrist bristle. She fought wildly, but the tinker gripped her around the waist and clamped his other hand roughly over her mouth.
Gilchrist turned his mount abruptly and looked away. What difference did it make what happened to her? She was nothing to him. He nudged the stallion forward, down the path, but could still hear her struggles and the tinker’s low laughter. His gut roiled as he fought the ridiculous wave of emotion that threatened to overcome his better judgment.
“Ah, now here’s a pretty piece.” ’Twas the small man’s voice. “She won’t be needin’ this.”
Gilchrist turned in his saddle in time to see the man rip the plaid from the woman’s body. He swore silently to himself and spurred the stallion back to the cart. “You there, stop it!” he commanded. “Give it back to her—now.” He nodded at the plaid.
The big man smirked and tightened his grip on the woman’s mouth. Gilchrist willed himself not to look at her. “Me friend is right,” the tinker said. “She willna need it.” He moved his hand from her waist, slowly upward over the thin fabric of her shift, and cupped her breast.
Gilchrist came unglued.
Before he knew what he was doing, his broadsword was in his hand—his left hand—and pointed at the tinker’s throat. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said through gritted teeth. “I want her back.”
The tinker’s eyes widened. His friend reached for his dirk and Gilchrist shot him a feral look. “Dinna even think it.” He was almost sorry when the small man backed off and the tinker released his grip. The woman scrambled from the cart then backed toward the cover of the trees.
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.
Chapter Three
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