The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown
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not to offer some piece of advice. Not that Gilchrist needed it. He promised the woman he’d protect her, and he would. At least until he discovered more about her.
The low murmurs and snickers of his kinsmen grew louder. A warrior in the back shouted an obscenity, unmistakably directed at Rachel. Gilchrist shot him a murderous glare and the warrior promptly shut his mouth.
A second later, the door of the cottage in front of them creaked open and Murdoch, one of the elders, stepped out. Now there’d be trouble. The crowd parted to let him approach. Murdoch studied Rachel, his expression blank, then nodded at him. “What’s all this?” Gilchrist explained how he’d found her at the spring, and the old man cocked a wiry, white brow.
“She’s English,” Hugh said flatly.
Murdoch frowned.
“She’s a whore!” Arlys shouted. “And no fit to wear our plaid!” Before Gilchrist could stop her, Arlys reached out and ripped the dark hunting plaid from Rachel’s body.
All hell broke loose.
Instead of cowering, as he expected, Rachel lunged at Arlys, and the two women crashed backward into the wall of bodies that surrounded them. The crowd went wild.
He reached for Rachel at the same time Hugh stepped toward Arlys. Too late. The two women went down—a spitting, hair-tearing, roil of limbs. He and Hugh collided with a collective grunt.
“Bluidy hell!” He pushed backward, fighting to stay on his feet.
The crowd pressed closer, cheering Arlys on. He, Hugh and Murdoch elbowed them back and formed a tight circle around the combatants, trying to shield them from further harm.
Gilchrist had had enough. He leveled his gaze at Hugh, and his friend nodded. In one swift motion the two of them reached into the tangle of arms, legs, raven and gold hair, and pulled the women apart.
Arlys and Rachel came up snarling, gazes locked.
“Whore!”
“Bitch!”
“Enough!” Gilchrist shouted. “Both of you!”
He pulled Rachel backward against his chest, his good arm tight around her rib cage. His right side screamed in pain. He could feel her heart pound and the soft heaving of her breasts with each labored breath she drew. ’Twas absurd—all of it. He had no time for such foolishness.
“Peg!” he shouted into the crowd. The girl had noticed Rachel’s ring. She was smart and trustworthy.
Peg’s head popped through a muddle of elbows beside him. “Aye, Laird,” she said, breathless and uncommonly cheerful.
“Here,” he said, nodding down at Rachel. “Take her and find her a bed.” He thrust Rachel toward her, then caught the eye of a warrior he trusted. “And ye, go with them—and see to it no harm comes to her.” He glared hard at the warrior. “D’ye understand?”
“Aye, Laird,” the warrior said and moved to take Rachel’s arm. Peg rushed to help him. The two of them guided her through the crowd, which began to disperse now the commotion was ended.
Men and women alike shot Gilchrist disapproving glances and whispered among themselves as they returned to their duties. Hugh was right. His position as laird was tenuous, at best. He ignored them and watched as Rachel was led away.
Just before the trio disappeared behind a row of cottages, Rachel turned and cast one long look back at him. He met her gaze and his gut tightened. She smiled suddenly, and by sheer will he did not return the gesture. The warrior tugged on her arm, and she was gone.
He turned away, in time to catch Hugh lecturing Arlys, whispering something about unladylike behavior. “Silly chit,” he muttered. He watched, shaking his head, as Hugh sent her off home.
’Twas then he noticed Murdoch leaning casually against the cottage doorway stroking his beard, taking it all in. The elder cast him a blank but pointed look and after a moment went inside and closed the door.
Gilchrist swore under his breath and turned to leave. Out of nowhere Alex appeared, between two of the cottages that lined the perimeter of the newly constructed curtain wall.
“Alex!” he called. “Where did ye run off to, man?”
Alex strode toward him, his expression unusually serious.
Hugh joined them. “Aye, ye missed all the excitement.”
“That woman,” Alex said. “What will ye do with her?”
He hesitated. “I know not.” He eyed Hugh’s dour expression. “I care not.”
“Good,” Hugh said. “Ye have more important matters to attend.”
Alex narrowed his eyes. “What matters?”
“The laird will take a bride—Arlys,” Hugh said, a smug expression creasing his face.
“But—”
“I didna say I would do it,” Gilchrist snapped. “Only that I would think on it.” He glowered at Hugh.
“But, Laird,” Alex said. “Why would ye marry now? There’s plenty of time.” Alex nodded to Gilchrist’s injured arm. “Ye are no full healed yet.”
“He’s fit enough,” Hugh said.
Gilchrist considered all he’d seen and heard yesterday at the clearing. “Ye fancy Arlys for yourself, Alex, don’t ye? I’ve seen how she looks at you.”
“Nay, I—’Tis just I think ye are being hasty.” Alex nodded to the workers on the hill who were busy moving stones. “Dinna ye think ye should first finish the castle?”
Alex had a point. Perhaps he should wait. Besides, he wasn’t ready to choose a bride—not yet. Arlys had seemed a good enough choice yesterday, but today, well, he wasn’t so sure.
“To hell with the castle,” Hugh said and glared openly at Alex. “He should wed, and soon.”
Gilchrist had the distinct impression he was the only one here without an agenda. “I said I will think on it. Now that’s enough.” He shot them both a look that precluded response, then turned and walked away.
“Laird,” Hugh called out. “If ye dinna mind me saying, ye should keep away from that English who—that woman, until we know more about her.”
Gilchrist spun on his heel. “I do mind ye saying, and who are ye to tell me what to do?”
Hugh immediately shrank back.
“Gilchrist.” Alex took a step toward him. “Laird, on this point I agree with Hugh. Let me deal with the woman. ’Twill be better that way, seeing as how the clan disapproves of her.” He smiled. “And truly, ye canna blame them.”
He glared at the both of them and ground his teeth. They were right, damn them. Why, then, did he have the feeling he was making a mistake? “All right,” he said sharply. “Deal with her, then. I care not.”
He waved them away and turned toward the castle. His arm ached and his skin itched. His burned fingers raged as he unfurled them inside his plaid and tried to spread them wide.
He looked up at the stark battlement, gritting his teeth. ’Twas not the familiar pain that plagued him, but another—one that had naught to do with his burns.
He recalled the fire in Rachel’s eyes when he’d pulled her from the brawl, the blush of her cheek, the soft weight of her breast against his forearm. If he closed his eyes he knew he could conjure the beating of her heart against his palm.
He did care.
“Well, if I’m no the bluidy fool,” he muttered and strode up the hill to the keep.
Peg pushed open the door of the stone-and-timber cottage. “It’s no much, but ’tis dry and warm.” She crossed the threshold