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The Virgin Spring. Debra Brown Lee
Читать онлайн.Название The Virgin Spring
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Автор произведения Debra Brown Lee
Издательство HarperCollins
“Ye make me dare to hope I could be again the man I was.”
“Nay, Gilchrist, never again will you be that man. And I am glad of it,” Rachel whispered, leaning closer. “For this is the man I love.”
“But you see with your own eyes what I am.” He spread wide the fingers of his fire-ravaged hand.
“And you know in your heart what I am.”
“Aye,” he breathed against her hair. “Ye are like the spring after winter’s darkness, a rare elixir, everything virtuous and good. Aye, that and more.” He brushed his lips lightly across her temple. “Which is why I must go….”
Dear Reader,
In The Bonny Bride by award-winning author Deborah Hale, a poor young woman sets sail for Nova Scotia from England as a mail-order bride to a wealthy man, yet meets her true soul mate on board the ship. Will she choose love or money? Margaret Moore, who also writes mainstream historicals for Avon Books, returns with A Warrior’s Kiss, a passionate marriage-of-convenience story and the next in her ongoing medieval WARRIOR series. Theresa Michaels’s new Western, Once a Hero, is a gripping and emotion-filled story about a cowboy who rescues a female fugitive and unexpectedly falls in love with her as they go in search of a lost treasure. For readers who enjoy discovering new writers, The Virgin Spring by Golden Heart winner Debra Lee Brown is for you. Here, a Scottish laird finds an amnesiac woman beside a spring and must resist his desire for her, as he believes she is forbidden to him.
Whatever your tastes in reading, you’ll be sure to find a romantic journey back to the past between the covers of a Harlequin Historicals novel. We hope you’ll join us next month, too!
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell,
Senior Editor
The Virgin Spring
Debra Lee Brown
For Jeannie
Contents
Chapter One
The Highlands of Scotland, 1208
The girl batted gold-tipped lashes in Gilchrist’s direction then spurred her mount ahead into the forest.
“Harlot,” he muttered under his breath.
Hugh snorted. “Christ, man! If ye willna be friendly to the lass, at the least ye can be civil.”
“And why must I be civil?” Gilchrist snapped.
“Because ye are laird, and can no afford this ill temper ye bear our women.”
“Hmph.” He ducked to avoid a low hanging branch as his steed quickened his pace. “Aye, I am laird—so the elders say. But I am a Mackintosh—the clan will never accept me.”
Hugh nudged his mount closer and cocked a tawny brow. “Ye are a Davidson, too. Your mother was born and bred on this land, and ’tis here ye were raised.”
He turned in the saddle and glanced back at the Davidson warriors who rode in a tight formation behind them. A few met his gaze, but most looked away or pretended to check their weapons.
Davidson. Mackintosh. What was he now?
The pain was worse today. The rough hunting plaid, even the soft wool of his shirt, burned against his skin. He longed to tear the garments free and let the stiff breeze cool his body. But he dared not. Too many eyes were on him. He could bear their revulsion, but not their pity.
Hugh nodded to the clearing ahead. “Are ye comin’?”
Gilchrist closed his eyes and drew a breath. Rain. He could smell it in the air, cool and threatening. He almost smiled. Then a familiar, acrid scent yanked him back to reality. His eyes flew open.
There it was.
The charred remains of Braedûn Lodge, seat of Clan Davidson, the only home he remembered. ’Twas once a great house, full of laughter and hearty enterprise. How many times had he ridden up this very path, returned from hunting or a bit of wenching, to be greeted by his uncle at the door? He frowned and pushed the flood of memories from his mind.
“Well,” Hugh said, “are ye comin’ or no?”
It had been six months since the fire and in all that time Gilchrist hadn’t returned to the spot. He’d skirted the clearing on a few occasions and once he’d even approached—but the smell, the stench of charred oak and other things he was loath to remember kept him away. Even now his gut roiled.
“Nay,” he said, “I canna.”
Hugh set his jaw. “’Tis just a pile o’ burnt wood, nothing more.” The dozen or so warriors who accompanied them rode past and into the clearing. Hugh’s expression softened. “What demons remain, ye carry with ye, Gilchrist.”
He met his friend’s steady gaze. “Mayhap.”
“Ye are laird,” Hugh said. “Snap out of it, man. There’s work to be done and the clan needs a leader, no a—”
“A