Seduced by the Highlander (11 page)

Lachlan hurried to catch up. He walked briskly beside her. “Raonaid…”

She continued to ignore him.

“Are you dreaming?” He studied her profile in the bluish light from the moon. “You need to wake up. You’re walking in your sleep.”

He hurried a few steps ahead of her, then turned to walk backwards in front, keeping a steady pace.

Though her eyes were open, she did not see him. There was a strange barrenness in those bottomless pupils. It was as if she were not even present in her body. He waved a hand in front of her face. She showed no awareness of him.

Curious as to where they were heading, he followed until she began to run. He stopped for a moment and spotted the striking silhouette of a single standing stone at the crest of a hill, with the full moon behind it.

Raonaid ran faster, as if drawn to it by some invisible force. When she reached it, she fell to her knees and sat back on her heels.

Lachlan was out of breath when he caught up. He bent forward and rested his hands on his knees, watching her. He glanced at the stone, then sat down in the grass beside it.

Raonaid stared blankly at the standing stone for a full hour. Soon it became increasingly difficult for Lachlan to keep his eyes open. He wanted to sleep, his lids felt heavy, but he could not rest. Not yet.

At last, she reached out and touched the rough gray ridges of the rock, running her fingertips lightly across the surface, picking at the grooves with her thumbnail.

Sitting forward, Lachlan studied her vacant eyes more closely, then turned to the stone. Was she trying to spell a word?

She began to slap her open palm against it, as if it were a locked door and she needed to escape through it, but no one would come and open it. She smacked it hard with all her might, over and over, then sat back on her heels again and stared at it, frozen in silence like a statue, for another hour.

Lachlan did not wake her.

When the first light of dawn brightened the sky, she gathered her skirts and stood up, then made her way back to the camp. Without uttering a word, he walked beside her and stood over her as she climbed back into her bedroll and calmly went back to sleep.

*   *   *

Catherine woke to the smell of salt pork sizzling in a frying pan.

Groggily she sat up, and within seconds became aware of a terrible stinging sensation on the palm of her hand. She held it up in front of her face and frowned when she noticed that it was chafed and red. “Did I burn myself?”

Lachlan set the frying pan down on a rock. Without answering right away, he picked up the coffeepot and poured her a cup, walked around the fire, and handed it to her.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked, squinting up at him in the bright morning sunshine. She tossed the blanket aside and accepted the hot coffee, careful not to wrap her sore hand around it. “Now you’re scaring me.”

“Well, you deserve it, lass. You gave me a bit of a scare last night.”

“How?”

He returned to the other side of the fire, but remained standing. “Do you not remember anything?”

She looked down at the coffee and searched her memory, which was usually a futile exercise. This morning, unfortunately, was no different.

“No,” she replied, “but I hope you will be able to tell me something. I cannot cope with any more mysteries about my actions or whereabouts.”

He poured a cup of coffee for himself. “You walked in your sleep. I couldn’t wake you, so I just followed you.”

A slow surge of apprehension made its way through all her nerve endings. “What did I do?”

“You walked to a standing stone on that hill”—he pointed—“and sat in front of it, staring at it for most of the night. You scratched at it with your fingers and smacked it with your whole hand, which is why you’re sore this morning.”

She stared up at him in disbelief. “That is very disturbing.” Her stomach began to roll with nausea. “To think that I was out there, wandering around in the dark, pounding on a stone…”

He grimly shook his head. “You weren’t just wandering. You knew exactly where you were going. You were drawn to that stone.”

Catherine frowned. “But how? Why?”

He looked at her squarely. “I cannot answer that. It’s not something I ever understood, but I can tell you this: Raonaid always had her most powerful visions at the stone circle at Callanais. Angus said she was drawn to it, and he would follow her there. That’s where she saw his triumph at Kinloch, and sure enough, he later reclaimed his castle from the enemy invaders who took it from his clan.”

“What are you saying? That I was having some sort of vision? But I don’t remember anything. I didn’t see the future.…”

“Nay, I don’t think you did,” he agreed. “It’s why you were pounding on it. You seemed frustrated.”

Catherine stared at him mutely. “So this is proof … that I really am her.”

She should have felt some relief to know the truth at last, but all she could feel was a wretched loneliness and a terrible grief, as if someone had died.

“You look disappointed,” Lachlan said.

“I suppose I am. Perhaps I have been holding on to some sliver of hope that I was not that vengeful person who put curses on people, and that my family truly was my family, and they were not using me for their own unscrupulous gain.” She looked across him. “I didn’t want to be her,” she admitted. “I wanted to be Catherine.”

There was a spark of some indefinable emotion in Lachlan’s eyes as he regarded her in the morning light. “I’m sorry.”

Catherine lowered her gaze and finished her coffee.

“What will happen when we meet Angus?” she asked. “He will identify me, that is certain now, but will he ever forgive me for all the things I did to him?”

“I cannot answer that, either.”

“Maybe we should turn around,” she said, looking up hastily. “I’m not sure it’s in my best interest to go there.”

Lachlan drained his coffee cup and shook the last few drops into the fire. When he spoke, there was a resurgence of hostility in his voice, and his eyes clouded over with something almost threatening. “You’ll not change your mind now, Raonaid. You gave me your word, and you must get your memories back.”

“So that I can lift the curse.”

“Aye.”

Of course, that was why he had come to Drumloch in the first place. It was why he had taken her with him. He wasn’t here to
rescue
her. Like the Montgomerys, he wanted something from her.

Either way, she still needed her memories back, and for some reason she could not explain, she was certain she would find them at Kinloch. Or at least find something …

“I cannot deny that you have helped me,” she confessed, remembering also the promise that she had made. “You’ve solved one mystery at least. I now know that I must be the oracle. So I suppose I owe you this in return: I will do my best to find a way to lift the curse.”

There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach while his steady gaze bored into her with scorching, impatient resolve.

“Pack up,” he said. “It’s time to leave.”

Chapter Eleven

If Catherine thought the first two days of their journey into the Highlands were an impossible trial of physical endurance on horseback, the days following proved to be a cruel test of human fortitude, deserving of a shiny gold medal.

They woke early each morning, ate quickly, packed up the saddlebags, and rode into parts unknown with a relentless fury, as if the devil himself were hunting them down with his pointy pitchfork and burning flames of wrath.

The horses could not keep up a constant frenzied pace, so they spent much of the time plodding through forests and glens, galloping sporadically, stopping often to eat and drink. In the end, all the hours of the journey seemed to merge together into a single, endless dash toward the absolute outer edges of the world.

On the fifth day, as they trotted through a lush green glen with a river snaking through the center, Catherine looked up at the cloudy sky and tried to shift in the saddle to sit more comfortably, but her legs were as stiff as logs. Her skin felt grubby, and when she looked down at herself she realized that her fine silk and velvet gown had lost all its richness and shimmer beneath a nasty film of grime. She might as well be wearing a homespun rag.

And her lustrous red hair felt like a dirty haystack hanging down her back.

As they crossed the river, the horses fought the current in an onerous struggle to reach the other side. Catherine’s skirts floated on the surface. The icy water reached up to her knees—and she began to wonder if her memories were worth all this effort and turmoil.

Quite a distance ahead of her now, Lachlan climbed the steep side of a ridge, reached the crest, and reined in his spirited mount. The wind gusted through Lachlan’s thick dark hair, and the circular shield at his back bounced upon his broad shoulder blades. His tartan fluttered wildly in the breeze.

He was her only anchor in this storm, she supposed, as she kicked in her heels to join him at the top. He was the only thing keeping her from drifting away into that strange, mysterious dreamworld of stones and spirits.

A moment later, she caught up with him and took in the vast panorama before them—a vista of Highland hills and forests, lakes and streams.

“There it is,” he said, pointing to the distant foothills, their peaks shrouded in a heavy mist that shifted and rolled across the landscape. “Kinloch is there. Do you see it?”

Catherine squinted and picked out an impressive stone bastion of massive proportions, with four corner towers and battlements all around. To the east there was a village with a market square. All of it was difficult to make out, however, on account of the mist.

“I do.” Sitting back in the saddle, she experienced a tremor of apprehension. They had come a long way, and she was about to meet the man who might know all the answers to her past.

Her former lover. A man she had betrayed.

“How long a ride?” she asked, her own horse lathered and winded.

“We’ll be there in time for supper if we keep up this pace. Are you able to continue?”

She patted Theodore’s neck and nodded gamely, though she could barely comprehend the notion of what might transpire when they rode through the castle gates. How would she feel when, God willing, she finally remembered all the details of her life as a witch?

Lachlan said the oracle had been jealous and spiteful. Surely the Lion’s wife would not welcome her. The woman might want to scratch Catherine’s eyes out.

“Will the Mistress of Kinloch allow me to enter?” she asked. “You said I called her a manipulative slut. Did I say that to her … directly?”

“Aye, you did,” Lachlan said with a wry chuckle, “just before you shoved her out of your guest chamber and slammed the door in her face.”

Catherine gazed across the distance at the mist-shrouded castle. “Good gracious, what was I thinking? She was my hostess.”

His smile faded, and he frowned. “I am beginning to think I kidnapped the wrong woman.”

“First of all,” she said with a defiant toss of her head, “you did
not
kidnap me. If anything, I commandeered
you.
But why would you say such a thing? I must know.”

“Because Raonaid would never care about such rules of etiquette.”

She regarded him warily.

He clicked his tongue and walked his horse down the other side of the ridge.

Catherine watched him for a moment, then followed carefully, wondering again with despair if she should ever have embarked upon this grueling journey. Perhaps it had been a terrible mistake. From everything Lachlan had told her, the oracle was not the least bit likable.

It was a disturbing thought indeed, to realize you could not possibly like yourself. It was equally disturbing to feel utterly disconnected from your own soul.

*   *   *

Horns blared from the tower battlements the instant Lachlan walked his horse out of the forest. He was not surprised to hear them. He knew the protocol. He had written most of it himself three years ago, after he and Angus stormed these gates with an army of MacDonald warriors and reclaimed the castle from an enemy clan.

In the months following, Lachlan had devoted his life to the defense of these walls, in anticipation of a retaliatory attack. Then the worst occurred. Their enemies found a way back in—no thanks to Raonaid.

Angus the Lion had triumphed in the end, and Lachlan had celebrated at his side. But that was a long time ago. Everything had changed since the curse. Lachlan had not fulfilled his duties as Laird of War. He had abandoned his cousin and his post in search of the oracle, and at the present moment, he was not entirely sure he would not be shot upon arrival.

Raonaid trotted up beside him. “The horns are intimidating, I must say. How soon before they recognize us?”

He darted an uneasy gaze from one corner tower to the other and took note of a panicked sentry dashing back and forth, calling out orders. “I think they already have, lass, and it might be a problem. You’re at the top of their list of mortal enemies. At least you were when I left here a year ago.”

“Wonderful,” she said. “They’re not going to shoot me, are they?”

“I sure-as-Jesus hope not. You’ll not be much good to me six feet under.”

As they crossed the damp field and approached the bridge, the iron portcullis began to lift. The sound of the pulley and chains rattling through the wheel relieved some of Lachlan’s trepidation, for someone had at least given the order to permit them to enter.

What would transpire on the other side of the gate, however, he did not yet know, for he had not spoken to Angus in over a year. They had not parted on good terms.

The wide oaken doors swung open for them, and they passed under the shaded arched gateway to the open square bailey beyond.

There was a frenzy of activity—grooms rushing up to them, servant women stopping to stare and gossip. Three armed guards dashed forward and aimed muskets at them. The sound of the hammers cocking made Lachlan’s blood run cold, for he was an enemy of Kinloch now.