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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 and beckoned her to follow.
Rachel glanced briefly at the warrior. He nodded once, then turned and stood, feet apart and arms crossed over his chest. ’Twas plain he did not intend to leave.
What could she do? She sighed and ducked under the low doorway. All at once, a bouquet of familiar scents invaded her senses. She closed her eyes for a moment and breathed deep. Rosemary, laurel, and mint—nay, something else.
Just as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Peg pulled back the furs that covered the one window. Sunlight drenched the room. The cottage was new. Small, but well kept.
A hearth, laid with peat and twigs, commanded most of the wall opposite the entry. Peg knelt before it and rummaged through the few cooking items stacked neatly on the flagstones.
A plaid-covered pallet which served as a bed rested against the wall to Rachel’s left. She looked longingly at the plump straw mattress. She was exhausted.
The center of the room was dominated by a simple wooden table, flanked by benches. An old, thick book rested upon it. How unusual. She let her hand light on the stained, frayed cover. Something else caught her eye—a deep, wooden bowl and well-used pestle. Someone had been grinding herbs and nuts. An odd feeling of familiarity washed over her.
She inhaled again. Her nose drew her to the low wall to her right, which was fitted with sturdy shelves from floor to rafters. Every inch of space was crammed with—
She whirled just as Peg rose from the hearth. “Is this your cottage, Peg? Are these your things?” Her heart beat faster as she grasped at the veiled memory.
The girl smiled thinly. “Nay, well, I suppose they are my things now.” She moved to the table and ran her hand almost reverently over the battered book. “This is the cottage where the old woman worked. She’s gone now. Dead nigh on two moon ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. You were close to her?”
Peg looked up with huge, liquid eyes. Rachel realized the girl was barely grown—fifteen at most. She had pale-brown hair that fell in wisps around her face. A spray of freckles dotted her impish nose.
“Aye, she was…everything to me. Ye see, I have no kin. My own parents died when I was just a bairn. The old woman raised me in the cottage next door and taught me things.”
Rachel let her gaze roam over the wall of containers. Slowly she reached out and let her hand come to rest on the book, next to Peg’s small fist. The girl met her gaze.
“She was a healer,” Rachel said, overcome by the strong impression. “The old woman.”
“Aye.”
Her head throbbed again. She unconsciously moved her hand to the tender spot.
Peg’s face immediately brightened. “Ah, your head. I’d forgotten.” She pulled out one of the benches and gestured for Rachel to sit. “Here, let me look at it. Mayhap there is something I might do to ease your pain.”
She smiled, still rubbing the good-size lump. “So, you are a healer, too, then?”
Peg blushed and fisted her hands at her sides. “Well, sort of. The old woman had just begun to teach me in earnest when…when she passed.” She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. “But I’m all the clan has now. So, aye, I’m the healer.”
Apparently, ’twas important to the girl to be so viewed. She suppressed another smile and sat down on the bench. “Well then, healer, do something about this blasted throbbing.” She caught Peg’s expression of delight as she bent her head forward for examination.
Peg tentatively moved her hands over her scalp. She poked and prodded for a minute then stepped back, brow furrowed, and proceeded to chew on her lower lip. “Hmmm, I—I’m no so sure.”
Rachel looked at her through the midnight fall of her hair, then straightened up. “I’ve heard it said that a leaf or two of feverfew infused in boiling water does much to ease a headache.”
Peg’s eyes lit up. “You’re right!” She turned and quickly scanned the apothecary against the wall.
“If you haven’t any,” she said, “valerian and skullcap, infused together, would work as well.”
Peg stood on tiptoe and reached for a clay jar on the top shelf. “Nay, the old woman kept feverfew—here, here it is.” She removed the lid and handed the open container to her. “This is it, is it no?”
She quickly inspected the contents. Peg stood stock-still, eyes wide, looking at her with all the expectation of an apprentice who’d just completed her first assignment. Rachel smiled. “Aye, this is it.” She drew a small handful of the dried leaves from the jar and placed them in the wooden mortar. “If you’ll draw some water, I’ll start the fire.”
Peg grinned from ear to ear. “I’ll be back straightaway!” She bolted from the cottage, leaving the door wide-open.
Rachel glanced out at the warrior whom Gilchrist had assigned to protect her. He spared her not a look. She rose and shut the door, then leaned back against the rough timbers.
A healer.
She was a healer.
That much she remembered. But where was her horse, and where had she been going when Gilchrist found her, half-clothed and unconscious? On the walk to the cottage, Peg had recounted the tale of the virgin’s spring. Rachel shuddered.
What if Arlys was right?
Chapter Four
Arlys was wrong.
Gilchrist felt the truth of it in a way he couldn’t explain. He sat atop the newly constructed battlement of Monadhliath Castle and gazed down into the bailey at Rachel and Alex.
She blushed as Alex unexpectedly took her arm and guided her through the maze of hewn stone and sweating workmen. Gilchrist’s stomach tightened.
“Let it go,” Hugh said. “Ye’ve other matters to attend to.”
“What d’ye mean?”
“The Englishwoman. Rachel.”
He snapped to attention and leveled his gaze at Hugh. “What about her?”
Hugh smirked and raised both tawny brows.
“Well, what about her?” He was losing patience. Hugh had been acting strangely the past day, ever since he’d returned from the spring with the woman.
“It’s just that…” Hugh paused and nodded below into the bailey. “At first I didna like it, ye being so smitten with her and all. But then—”
“What?” He leapt to his feet. “I’m no smitten. What are ye think—”
“Och, man, ’tis plain as the nose on yer face.” Hugh pointed a finger at his chest. “But she’s English. Ye must no forget that.”
“Are ye daft? I told ye, I’m no—”
“’Tis a miracle, really,” Hugh said, “the way she’s rallied yer spirit.” He nodded appreciatively in Rachel’s direction.
“But—”
“Just dinna think on her too seriously. Ye’ve other—”
Gilchrist reached out and gripped Hugh’s shoulder, stopping him in midsentence. “That’s enough.”
Hugh’s eyes widened. “I…excuse me, Laird.” He quickly lowered his gaze and Gilchrist released him.
“Ye’ve been my friend long years, Hugh, but dinna think to tell me my business.”
He fisted his hands at his sides. Hugh nodded once in compliance, then strode to the steps leading below. Gilchrist almost called him back, then changed his mind, swearing silently under his breath.
He turned toward the battlement and peered over the edge, looking for Rachel. Ah, there she was, inspecting the masonry of the steps leading to the keep.
Peg had loaned her a gown. ’Twas no much—a thin garment of pale-green wool. He noticed how it gently skimmed her body and pulled slightly at her breasts and hips as she moved. She wore her dark hair loose—a midnight tumble of silk that reached nearly to her waist.
All at once, he recalled her scent and the feel of her in his arms as they rode astride his mount. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, but continued to watch her.
The workers paid her no mind and the few women in the bailey turned from her and pulled their children away when Alex led her toward them. No one would speak to her, save Peg and Alex. It had been like that since she’d arrived.
Rachel tipped her chin high and fisted her hands at her sides, not breaking her stride. Her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink, but she did not avert her eyes from the small knot of clan folk who whispered as she walked past, nor did she respond to the occasional insult tossed in her direction.
Gilchrist knew the feeling well.
“Brave lass,” he whispered, and absently flexed the muscles in his burned arm.
He watched her. Every move.
She could feel Gilchrist’s eyes upon her as Alex led her down the path and away from the castle. Gilchrist had not come near her since he’d sent her away with Peg, and yet everywhere she looked he was there, watching her from a distance.
On impulse she looked back. There he was, leaning against the battlement, his gaze fixed on her. A small thrill coursed through her. He fascinated her—there was no other word for it. He looked almost made of stone, himself—a citadel within the citadel, alone by design.
“Did ye no hear me?” Alex said.
Rachel shook off the strange emotion and turned her attention back to Alex. “I—I’m sorry, what did you say?”
The warrior smiled, his dark eyes studying her face. “I said, can ye no remember anything more?”
Alex had prodded her with the same questions, over and over, for the last hour. “Nay, I’ve told you,” she said, trying to conceal her irritation. “I remember naught before I awoke in the cave. Neither name, nor family, nor what led me to the spring.”
She met his inquisitive gaze and pursed her lips. Alex’s rigid posture relaxed and a warm smile broke across his face. Finally, he believed her.
“Well, ’tis a shame, but dinna worry. We shall take care of you.” Alex took her hand in his and gently moved his thumb over her palm.
She resisted the urge to pull away. Her pulse quickened as she met his gaze. He’d been overfriendly and protective of her all morning. She supposed she should be grateful, but something about him unsettled her.
He was fair handsome, his brown eyes penetrating, his voice rich and soothing. Still, an uneasiness washed over her as he continued to so boldly caress her hand.
“I shall take care of you,” he whispered.
She did pull away then, her thoughts racing. There was something about his voice…his words. What was it? Rachel stopped and massaged her brow for a moment.
“Are you unwell?” Alex asked.
“Nay, I—”
“She looks fit enough to me.”
Rachel whirled toward the feminine voice. Arlys leaned against the doorway of one of the cottages that lined the castle’s curtain wall, her arms folded across her chest, one hip thrust forward.
“Arlys,” Alex said as he moved toward the woman. “D’ye no have chores to do?”
