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“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.
Chapter Two
She was exactly what he didn’t need.
It had been months since Gilchrist had been this close to a woman—and he didn’t like it. Women were unpredictable, shallow. A faithless lot. He’d revive this one and send her on her way.
He lifted her hand in his and shook it. No response. Her fingers were stiff and icy, and the fire seemed to do little to warm her skin. In truth, he was half frozen himself, soaked as he was. He needed dry garments and so did she.
He rummaged in a corner of the cave for some extra plaids and shook one out. ’Twould have to do. He spread it over her and tucked the bottom edge under her feet. There. She’d be fine in no time. He paced the earthen floor, occasionally glancing at her still form.
“Ah, Christ.” He ripped the plaid away again and took a deep breath. It had to be done—and he had to do it. If he didn’t, she might die. Fine. It wasn’t as if he’d never handled a naked woman before. He’d handled plenty—more than he cared to remember.
So why did he hesitate?
He swore under his breath and picked at the tie that gathered her shift about her shoulders. ’Twas impossible with one hand. With no small effort he flexed the fingers of his burned hand and attacked the tie again. There, he’d done it. Now to get the bloody thing off her.
He lifted her with his good arm and tugged at the shift. His injured fingers screamed, but he gritted his teeth and continued. He managed to bare her to the waist, then laid her gently back upon the furs.
“Good God.”
She was beautiful.
Gilchrist swallowed hard and let his gaze rove over her. For the barest moment he watched her pink-tipped breasts rise and fall with each shallow breath.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught the hideous juxtaposition of his fire-scarred hand against her milky flesh. ’Twas revolting. Thank God she was unconscious.
He pushed the roil of emotions from his mind and finished the job. In a matter of minutes he had her wrapped in the dry plaid and hung her shift to dry on a tree root that breached the craggy wall of the cave.
As an afterthought he lifted her head and shoved a rolled-up fur under her neck for support. When he drew his hand away he saw the blood.
“What’s this?” He ran his fingers gingerly over her scalp until he found the spot, swelled big as a wren’s egg. She’d hit her head. He dabbed at the spot. The bleeding was slight, naught to fear. But the injury itself…
There was no telling when she would wake—if she woke at all.
Something smelled good—delectable, in fact.
She was hungry. Nay, she was starving. She took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Someone had forgotten to shade the window. She squinted and rolled toward the brilliant morning sunlight.
Then she saw him.
God’s blood! She shot from the crude pallet of furs into a crouch, her heart hammering, her head throbbing. The plaid that covered her slipped to the ground. She felt gooseflesh rise on her naked skin. Quickly, she snatched up the garment and wrapped it around herself, then skidded backward away from the entrance to the—why, ’twas a cave!
What on earth had happened?
She flattened herself against the uneven rock wall and scanned the interior, eyes darting over every shadow. She was alone, except for the hare roasting on a spit over the small fire—that’s what had smelled so good—and except for…
Him.
She crouched lower and crept forward, stopping just short of the blinding sunshine that lit the cave’s irregular entrance. She caught a whiff of something else here—horse, though she did not see one.
Once her eyes adjusted to the intensity of the light, she could see the man clearly. He was big, well made—and had not a stitch on! Under normal circumstances she would have averted her eyes. But the circumstances, from what she could tell, were far from normal.
He was bathing, in what appeared to be a good-size spring. ’Twas a pretty place, alive with greenery and shoots of new heather and—What was she thinking? She was in danger. She must get away. She must get to—to where?
Her head pounded and a brief bout of dizziness threatened to knock her off her feet. She pushed back against the cool wall and took a few deep breaths. There, ’twas better now.
Splashing sounds drew her attention back to the spring. The man was pulling himself up onto the bank, but ever so slowly. He turned, awkwardly, in an attempt to seat himself on the bed of new grass that graced the water’s edge.
Then she saw what her barely focused eyes had missed the first time—he’d been burned, and badly. Mother of God. She let her gaze trace the angry red path the flames had blazed across his body.
