The Virgin Spring. Debra Lee Brown

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      ’Twas only on the one side, the right, that he’d been hurt, from upper thigh, across the hip and up the length of his torso. His face had been spared, but his arm and hand had seen the worst of it.

      She watched him as he slowly unfurled his fingers, flexed them, then made a crude fist. He did this several times, grimacing against the pain she knew must be unbearable. ’Twas a miracle he lived at all, really. Someone had healed him—someone highly skilled.

      He braced himself with his good hand, then leaned back a little and tilted his face to the sun, eyes closed. She crept forward a few steps more to study him closer.

      He was handsome, almost strikingly so. His face was clean-shaven; for some reason that seemed odd to her. ’Twas strong, angular, and framed by a mass of long, fair hair. She narrowed her eyes and—aye, she was right. He had thin braids, one at each temple. Never had she seen them on a man.

      She let her gaze roam over the well-muscled expanse of his chest. ’Twas lightly furred with darker hair that tapered lower. Her cheeks grew hot and her pulse quickened as she took in the rest of him.

      God’s blood, what am I doing? I’ve got to get away—

      He opened his eyes.

      She gasped and flattened herself against the wall of the cave. Too late—he’d seen her. Oh God, what now?

      He sprang to his feet and grabbed the pile of garments lying next to him. She must flee—now! But where were her clothes? There wasn’t time to find them. She pulled the plaid tighter around herself and shot from the cave. In two strides he cut her off. She whirled in the other direction then stopped short. Before her rose a sheer rock wall, impossible to scale.

      She was trapped.

      Eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps, she backed into the sanctuary of the cave, pulling the plaid tighter around her body. She mustn’t panic. She mustn’t! She must find a weapon, something with which to defend herself.

      She turned and ran toward the fur-covered pallet and the small fire that blazed near it. She kicked up the bed-covers and rummaged through a pile of food and cooking gear—nothing! Something moved behind her. She whirled.

      There he was, clothed now in a dark hunting plaid, coarse shirt and boots. A dirk was belted at his waist and she could see the hilt of his sword peeking up over his shoulder. He looked every bit a warrior. His expression was hard, unreadable, and whatever he intended she couldn’t fathom from the cool blue eyes that now studied her.

      He took a step toward her and her eyes widened. He read her fear. She could see it in his face, in the way he tilted his head and arched a brow. Another step, then another.

      She scanned her immediate surroundings, looking for something, anything—there! She crouched and with the back of her hand sent the spitted hare flying from its position over the coals. She seized a brand from the fire—one that glowed red-hot at its tip—and rose to meet her assailant. She brandished it before her, her gaze locked on his.

      He stopped. Dead in his tracks. He looked from her to the brand and narrowed his eyes. “Put it down.”

      She frowned. His voice—Something was not right. She backed up a step, and he took another toward her.

      “Woman, I said put it down.” His face was rigid, his jaw set, yet tiny clues belied his confidence. She watched the lump in his throat move up and down as he swallowed hard. A fine sheen of perspiration broke across his brow.

      The brand. Why, he was afraid of it! The realization sparked her courage. She lurched forward and thrust the fiery end of her weapon at him. ’Twas a mistake. He grabbed her wrist and yanked her toward him.

      Jesu! Her feet flew out from under her but he held fast, his hand a steel trap. She scrambled to regain her balance, then found herself looking up into his cool eyes.

      “Let go,” he said and proceeded to squeeze her wrist.

      He hurt her, the brute. She felt the sting of tears glass her eyes, but she did not look away. Instead, she pursed her lips and shot him her most defiant expression.

      A corner of his mouth turned up at the edge, ever so slightly. What, did he think this amusing? His eyes warmed then, and he loosened his grip. “I willna hurt ye, woman. Ye have my word.”

      His speech was strange—that’s what had bothered her. She understood him but something was not right. What was it?

      “Now drop your weapon.” He nodded at the brand, which now seemed small and useless in light of his size and superior strength.

      She let go, and it fell to the earthen floor. He kicked it neatly back into the fire. Only then did he let go her wrist. Shrinking backward, she pulled the edges of the plaid tighter around herself. Surprisingly, he turned and strode from the cave.

      Where was he going? Before she had time to consider her options he was back. In his hand was a balled-up garment. Her shift! He tossed it to her and she caught it with one hand.

      “Dress yourself,” he said.

      She swallowed hard and examined the thin, white garment. ’Twas clean and dry. She started to slip the plaid from her shoulders then stopped. Her eyes met his. Oh, no.

      “Hmph,” he grunted, and to her surprise he turned his back on her.

      In seconds she was dressed. Well, half-dressed. A shift and a coarse, woolen plaid. Not exactly proper attire.

      He turned to face her. “Now sit,” he commanded and nodded to the pallet of furs.

      Her eyes widened and she took a step back. He didn’t move. It occurred to her if he meant to—to harm her, he wouldn’t have allowed her to dress. She obeyed.

      He knelt in front of her and his expression softened. He was almost handsome without that scowl. “What in God’s name are ye doing here—a woman alone, and in naught but a shift?”

      What was she doing here? The image of a high place, desolate and windswept, flashed СКАЧАТЬ