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.”
She smiled at him suddenly. “I have brought him some fresh honey cakes.”
Gilchrist stepped aside to let her pass, when his eye caught a whip of dark hair and a pale-green gown.
Rachel.
Peg was leading her down the hill from the castle, toward the row of cottages where they stood. Arlys frowned as she followed Gilchrist’s gaze, which was now fixed on the Englishwoman.
Rachel appeared full recovered from her faint. She walked briskly, without assistance. In fact, Peg had to run to keep up with her. She was heading straight for them.
“Christ,” he muttered under his breath. He glanced quickly at Arlys. “Those honey cakes, ye wouldna rather share them with me?”
She tore her murderous gaze away from Rachel and let her blue eyes light on him. His words surprised her, he could tell. She recovered herself quickly and smiled. “Aye,” she said.
Her voice was breathy, her demeanor suddenly flirtatious. Gilchrist willed himself to hold her gaze even as he heard Rachel’s footfalls approach, then stop abruptly before them.
Aye, ’twas time he lay this dangerous interest in the Englishwoman to rest. Without another thought, he grabbed Arlys around the waist with his good arm and pulled her into an embrace. She dropped the basket as he kissed her hard on the mouth. He was vaguely aware of the broken honey cakes lying ruined at their feet.
The eager girl responded with well-practiced skill. But ’twas not her lips he tasted, nor the fragrance of her hair that permeated his senses. His all-consuming awareness was for another.
Out of slitted eyes he watched Rachel’s response. Shock, and something more. Pain. He read it in her face. He felt it as much as saw it, and the knowledge caused his heart to pound, his head to spin.
Damn her! And damn himself for caring.
Rachel closed the door of the cottage and pressed her forehead against its cool timbers. She drew a deep breath and tried to get a grip on her shifting emotions.
“Are ye truly an English lady?” Peg asked. “Or, or are ye a whore, d’ye think?”
She whirled on the girl and Peg jumped backward like a startled kitten.
“I—I didna mean to offend ye.” Peg’s wide, doe eyes and naive concern softened Rachel’s anger. “I’m just curious is all.”
“I know you didn’t, Peg.” She gestured for the girl to sit at the table, then joined her.
“Ye truly dinna remember, do ye?”
She smiled. “Nay, I do not.”
“Some of the women say ye could be both—a fine lady and a whore. But Moira says ’tis nonsense and we must no speak such things.”
Both. Could such a thing be true?
She closed her eyes and let her mind wander. As always, the image of