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“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!”
Chapter Five
Amethyst waves of heather shifted in the breeze. The stones rose up, gray sentinels against a flawless, cerulean sky. ’Twas bitter cold. She pulled the edges of the plaid close about her, conserving her warmth, mustering her strength.
A great bear of a man appeared on the ridge top, in the center of the stone circle, shading his eyes, scanning the horizon. She waved to him but he did not see her. She waved again and called his name. Why didn’t he see her?
She must reach him—make him see.
Why didn’t he see her?
Rachel’s eyes flew open.
“That’s it!” she cried and bolted upright. “I must go there! I must find him!” She struggled against the firm hands that pushed her back on the pallet. Her vision was blurred and she fought to clear her mind.
“Hush now, ye must rest.” The girl’s soothing voice was familiar…Peg. “Ye’ve had a shock, ’tis all.”
Rachel blinked a few times, then focused her gaze on the concerned face hovering above her. “Peg,” she said. “Peg!” She struggled to sit up again.
“Nay, ye mustn’t—”
Rachel grabbed the girl’s shoulders. “I must go there! I must find him! Don’t you see?”
“Go where? Find whom?” The voice was Gilchrist’s, and before Rachel could respond, he’d motioned Peg out of the way and sat gently on the pallet beside her. “Here,” he said, offering her a cup. “Drink this.”
Rachel met his gaze briefly, then lowered her eyes to the cup. “What is it?”
“’Tis a libation I make myself. Here.” He pushed the cup into her hand. “Drink it. ’Twill soothe your nerves.”
She accepted the cup and put it to her lips. Before she drank, she looked up at him. His expression was different, softer. She’d not seen him look so before.
“Drink it,” he whispered.
She obeyed. The warm liquid blazed a path of fire down her throat. She felt her eyes widen and she began to cough and sputter. Gilchrist grinned. He put a hand to her back and rubbed in small circles as she caught her breath. “Better?” he asked.
She looked at him and then the cup in wonder. “Aye,” she rasped. “Better.”
He laughed. “’Tis my own concoction. Some like it, some dinna.”
“’Tis powerful.”
“Aye, ’tis.”
Rachel drew a few deep breaths and began to feel better. She was suddenly aware of her surroundings and the small crowd gathered around her.
She was inside the keep in a small, starkly furnished chamber—Gilchrist’s chamber, she surmised. Alex stood against the far wall, his dark gaze fixed on her, his expression blank. Murdoch and two older clansmen whom Alex had called the elders, hovered behind Gilchrist. Peg knelt beside him, her face a mask of concern.
She tried to get up but Gilchrist placed a hand firmly on her shoulder and would not allow it. “What happened?” she asked.
“Ye saw the horse—the white mare—and fainted dead away.”
Her horse! She tried to sit up again, and again he pushed her back. “But, my horse—I must see her. I must—”
“Your horse is being well cared for at the stable,” Gilchrist said. “Later, after ye’ve rested, I’ll take ye there to see her.”
His voice was calm, reassuring, but everything in Gilchrist’s demeanor told her he would not allow her to move from the pallet until he was certain she was well.
“All right,” she conceded and let her head fall back on the pillow. “But I must have my horse. I must leave soon.”
Gilchrist frowned. “And where would ye go?”
“To the high place. I must find it. ’Tis most urgent.” She implored him with her eyes. “Don’t you see?”
“What high place, lass?” Murdoch knelt beside the pallet and furrowed his great gray brows.
Rachel closed her eyes and conjured the vision.
“The name of this place, what is it?” Gilchrist whispered.
“’Tis all too much for the lass. Ye should let her rest now.” The voice was Alex’s. ’Twas soothing and moved closer as he continued to speak. “She’s had a shock. Let her be.”
Rachel ignored them all and concentrated on the image that burned in her mind. “Craigh…Mur,” she said, and opened her eyes. “That’s the place. Craigh Mur.”
A tiny smile tugged at the edges of Gilchrist’s mouth. The elders exchanged wide-eyed looks. Alex opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing.
“Craigh Mur,” Murdoch repeated.
“Aye,” she said.
“’Tis on Macphearson land, is it no?” Peg, who’d been quiet all this time, asked suddenly.
Gilchrist nodded his head, his gaze fixed on Rachel. “It is.”
The feeling that she must go there, and quickly, overwhelmed her. But the image of the man atop the ridge continued to nag at her. Who was he? They did not question her further, and she decided not to mention it again until she better understood its meaning.
All she knew was that she must go to Craigh Mur. Whatever it was, wherever it was, the place held the key to her identity, of that she was certain.
“Will you take me there?” she asked, returning Gilchrist’s steady gaze.
Hugh appeared in the doorway just as Alex began to voice a protest. Gilchrist beckoned Hugh closer, and the elders moved aside to let him pass into the small chamber.
Hugh glanced briefly at her, then nodded to Gilchrist. “’Tis an English horse, but the livery has no markings. The saddlebags carry a bit of spoiled food and a few garments, that is all.”
“An English horse,” Murdoch repeated.
“A lady’s horse.” Hugh caught Gilchrist’s eye. “For certain.”
Gilchrist pushed the trencher of food away, untouched, and studied the faces of the elders who shared his table for the midday meal.
Hugh sat across from him on a wooden bench, and ate in silence, while Alex fidgeted in his customary place at Gilchrist’s right. Like him, the dark warrior seemed to have lost his appetite.
“Ye’ve ordered me to deal with her,” Alex said abruptly, “now let me do it.”
Hugh looked up from his food long enough to cock a tawny brow.
“Ye are laird,” Alex continued. “Surely ye have no interest in what becomes of some lying English whore.” He paused. “Do ye?”
Gilchrist bristled at his friend’s words. His unguarded reaction was not lost on the elders. Murdoch sat quietly, taking it all in, as was his wont. They waited for Gilchrist to respond.
Hugh suddenly put down his dirk, which had been poised to deliver a chunk of roasted venison into his still-open mouth. “Whores dinna own horses, be they English or Scots.”
“The lad has a point,” Thomas said, nodding at Hugh.
“Aye, he does,” Donald agreed. “A point.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Gilchrist watched Alex’s expression darken.
“Well,” Alex said, “be she whore or nay, surely ye dinna mean to deliver her to Craigh Mur?” He glanced briefly at each of the elders, then turned to Gilchrist. “At least no yourself?”
“And why shouldn’t I?” Gilchrist asked.
“Ye are no fit, for one thing,” Alex said and gestured to Gilchrist’s uncovered right hand.
He fisted it tight on the surface of the table, betraying not a hint of the pain it caused him. Blisters had risen yet again on his skin. ’Twas a condition he knew not how to prevent, and one which had plagued him continuously since the fire.
“And besides,” Alex continued, his gaze fixed on Gilchrist’s burns, “ye wouldna wish the Macphearsons to see ye so, would ye now?”
Thomas and Donald nodded their heads in agreement. Murdoch merely arched a snowy brow. Gilchrist wavered, his gaze drawn to his disfigured hand. How easily Alex’s words could unman him. Mayhap he was right.
“Och, what are ye talkin’ about?” Hugh said. “He’s fair fit.” Hugh pushed back from the table and rose. “And did ye think to take her to Craigh Mur yourself, Alex?”
“Aye,” Alex said. “I did.”
“And pay a no-so-friendly surprise visit to the Macphearsons, as long as ye were in the vicinity?”
Alex sprang to his feet, nearly toppling the bench and Gilchrist to the floor.
“All right!” Gilchrist slammed his good fist on the table. “That’s enough, both of you.” Hugh and Alex stood rigid, nodding slowly, each at the other, as if some silent challenge had again been leveled. “No one is going to Craigh Mur,” Gilchrist said. He glanced at Murdoch’s ever calm expression. “The woman stays here—for a time, at least.”
Before any of them could respond, Gilchrist rose from the table and left the cottage, pulling the door closed behind him. He leaned against the timbers of the door frame and inhaled deeply.
Damn this all-consuming interest in her! What had come over him? He’d not felt this way about a woman since…
“Bah!” Gilchrist fisted his hands at his sides. ’Twas dangerous, this interest. He could not afford to compromise his position as laird. That was the most important thing, was it not? The reason he must stay away from her.
At least that’s what he told himself. And stay away from her he would.
Hugh had been right all along. He should put away such nonsense and take a Davidson bride. Secure his place as leader. Gain his clan’s respect.
Gilchrist looked up to see Arlys standing not ten paces from him, a covered basket in her hand. How long had she watched him? “What d’ye want?” he asked.
She moved closer. “Alex. He is in the cottage?”
“He is.”
