Seduced by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  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.

  Dropping the reins, he slowly raised his hands into the air.

  “Put your hands up,” he said to Raonaid.

  “But I thought this was your home,” she replied as she obeyed his grave command, “and that Angus was your cousin. Is this how he treats family?”

  “I used to live here,” Lachlan clarified. “And aye, Angus is my cousin, but the last time we saw each other I nearly killed him in a sword fight.”

  She shot a look at Lachlan. “And you neglected to tell me this?”

  “I forgot.”

  “How could you forget about almost killing your chief?”

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I was drunk at the time. And you’re a fine one to point fingers, lass. You can’t even remember your own name.”

  * * *

  “Lachlan MacDonald, is that you?”

  Catherine’s eyes lifted at the sound of a woman’s voice, deep and confident, echoing across the bailey from the battlements above.

  “Aye, my lady!” he called out with his hands still in the air. “Will you be so kind as to call off your guards? I come ready to eat humble pie—if you’ll let me live long enough to reach the feasting hall!”

  Catherine observed the woman on the rooftop above. She was dressed in a simple blue-and-white-striped skirt with pale yellow stays laced over a loose white shift. Her wavy jet-black hair was swept up at the sides, but fell down her back in loose, flowing locks. She was beautiful and charismatic—the Lioness of Kinloch, no doubt. Their hostess. The one Raonaid had once called a slut.

  Gwendolen MacDonald waved a hand at the guards, and they lowered their weapons. Catherine exhaled with relief.

  Lachlan leaned forward on the pommel and spoke casually to the young clansman standing in front of his horse. “It’s good to see you, Andrew. You’ve grown a beard, I see. Looks good on you.”

  “Do you really think so, sir?” Andrew replied, stroking his bearded chin. “The wife says it makes me look like her father, and she doesn’t like it much.”

  Lachlan chuckled and leaned even closer, over the horse’s mane. “Then you ought to shave it off. You must keep your priorities straight, lad, and a wife’s pleasure should be at the top of
your list, always.”

  The young clansman smiled. “I always imagined you would say that, and if there’s any Highlander a man should listen to when it comes to a lassie’s pleasures, it’s got to be you, sir.”

  The other guards murmured in agreement as they lowered their weapons to their sides.

  Lachlan leaned back. “Well, it’s too bad I cannot practice what I preach.”

  An uncomfortable silence ensued while the others glared up at Catherine with looks of bitter malice. She was tempted to explain herself and say that the curse wasn’t really her fault, but decided it would be best not to enter into a debate about a life she could not remember.

  Gwendolen, the Mistress of Kinloch, emerged from the tower staircase. She crossed the bailey toward them.

  Lachlan dismounted and walked to meet her. They embraced with affection while Catherine waited uneasily on her horse.

  Despite the earlier orders, one of the guards raised his musket again and aimed it at her head, as if he expected her to try to murder his chief’s wife in the next few seconds.

  Clearly Catherine was not going to be forgiven quite so easily as Lachlan.

  “I wasn’t sure we would ever see you again,” Gwendolen said as she withdrew from the embrace. She looked up at his face, and her eyes pooled with tears. “I’ve missed you, and you know I never blamed you for what happened. It was an accident. We all survived it.”

  Catherine assumed she was referring to the sword fight.

  “Thank God for that,” Lachlan said. “But what of Angus? You are by nature a forgiving creature, Gwendolen, but the Lion’s emotions are often forged of steel. Has he forgiven me?”

  She inclined her head apologetically. “I think you should speak to him about that, not me. He’s in the village, but I suspect he heard the horns, and will be back at any moment.” She squeezed Lachlan’s arm. “But I will say this at least—what stands between you is not the fact that you nearly killed him in a contest of skills. It is the fact that you left without a word, and we have not heard from you in over a year.”

  Lachlan was quiet for a long moment. “I have much to apologize for.” He looked up at the sentries on the rooftop. “Has he replaced me with another?”

  “Another Laird of War?” she blurted out. “Good heavens, no. There was never anyone he trusted enough, or respected more than you. He is his own laird when it comes to the defense of these walls.”

  “At least it has been a time of peace,” Lachlan mentioned, “more or less, since I left.”

  Gwendolen shook her head. “I’m afraid not. There have been some developments lately. Speaking of which…”

  Gwendolen’s piercing brown eyes lifted to lock on Catherine’s, whose skin prickled with unease. She felt trapped in the woman’s inquisitive stare.

  Angus the Lion might be away from the castle at present, but clearly his wife was more than competent to assume command.

  “I see you brought someone with you,” she said. “Is she here as a friend, Lachlan, or as your prisoner?”

  Lachlan gazed up at Catherine as well. She felt like a squirming insect in a glass case.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call her my prisoner,” he replied, “for she came with me willingly. But she’s not my friend, either.”

  Catherine’s stomach knotted at the unexpected venom in his tone. When they entered the bailey, she had felt secure in the knowledge that he was her escort and protector, but the look in his eye now crushed that sense of security.

  But it was more than just that. Over the past five days, they had become partners in this journey. He had been surprisingly kind to her at times, especially after the nightmares and sleepwalking. But now suddenly he was regarding her with derision, and everything seemed different. She was no longer the lost Drumloch heiress. She was the spiteful witch, Raonaid—and she felt a deep ache in her chest at the notion that she must take on this dark identity.

  “I should think not,” Gwendolen said. “Otherwise I would be inclined to suspect that she put another spell on you.”

  The Lion’s wife strolled closer to Catherine’s horse. She stroked Theodore’s nose while keeping her shrewd brown eyes fixed on Catherine’s.

  “I have allowed you to pass through these gates,” Gwendolen said, “only because you are with this man, and he means a great deal to me. But know this, Raonaid: if you say or do one thing that displeases me, you will soon find yourself banished beyond these walls. Do you understand me?”

  Catherine bristled at the chill in the woman’s tone, but spoke with an equal measure of authority. “Mistress MacDonald, I understand you have reason to mistrust me, but I request an opportunity to explain myself, if you will be so kind as to hear my plea.”

  “Explain yourself?” Gwendolen scoffed. “Three years ago, you tried to steal my husband by luring him to your bed, then you colluded with his enemy and tried to have him killed. Nothing you say or do will ever change how I feel about you, Raonaid. Nor will it earn my trust. Ever.”

  Catherine squared her shoulders. “Regardless, I wish to explain myself. Whether you believe me or decide to pitch me over the castle walls is entirely up to you.”

  While Gwendolen stroked Theodore’s forelock she looked up at Catherine for a tense moment.

  Gwendolen turned to address Lachlan. “What do you say, Lachlan? Is it worth my time to hear the tale she wishes to spin?”

  He strode closer. “I believe so, Gwendolen, but whether you believe her or not will depend on how open-minded you are.”

  Gwendolen backed away from Theodore and signaled to a groom to approach. “You both look weary,” she said to Lachlan. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

  “If it’s a kitchen-cooked meal you’re speaking of,” Lachlan replied, “it’s been too long. We’ve been eating out of our packs for five days.”

  “Then come with me, the both of you. I’ll take you to the day parlor and have something sent up straightaway, while rooms are prepared.”

  Catherine dismounted, and the groom led Theodore to the stable.

  Gwendolen looked her up and down from head to foot, taking note of her soiled hemline and tattered bodice. “Is that all you have to wear?”

  “Yes,” Catherine replied. “I apologize for my appearance, madam. I realize it’s hardly an appropriate traveling costume, but we left Drumloch Manor in such a hurry, shortly after dinner. There wasn’t time to change, or even pack a brush.”

  Gwendolen regarded Lachlan with bewilderment. “Drumloch Manor?”

  “It’s a long story,” he said, “and a strange one. Can we eat first?”

  She glanced back and forth between the two of them, then nodded and led them to the Great Hall.

  Chapter Twelve

  After enjoying a hearty plate of boiled vegetables and roast mutton, drowning in a thick, spicy gravy, along with a large goblet of wine and fresh warm bread, Lachlan was summoned to the solar to speak to Angus, who had come galloping into the bailey a short time after he and Raonaid arrived.

  Lachlan had not seen his cousin in over a year, and the last time they spoke, Angus was down on one knee, bleeding from the stomach and accusing Lachlan of being a miserable drunkard who couldn’t hold a sword.

  Angus was right. Lachlan had been stewed to the gills that morning, and most other days, too. The second year of the curse had been the worst. It sent him into a downward spiral of bitterness and rage. He had seen no way out of it, other than to leave Kinloch and hunt down his enemy. The person who had cursed him to a future that would continually repeat the past—for if he ever loved a woman, he would be forced to listen to her screams on the birthing bed, as he had with Glenna, and when he buried her, he would know that he had killed her. Her death would be his fault.

  And so Lachlan had left his post as Kinloch’s Laird of War and gone off in pursuit of the witch who had cursed him to this particular dimension of hell, reliving his wife’s death every time he so much as smiled at a woman.

  He reached the
solar and stood outside the door in the vaulted stone passageway, wondering if his cousin would ever forgive him. Angus had almost died from his wounds that fateful morning. Lachlan had waited only long enough to learn that Angus would survive; then he’d walked out of his chamber, saddled a horse, and simply galloped away.

  He paused a moment under the archway, then breathed deeply and entered the room.

  The great Lion of Kinloch was seated on a stool, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, his head bowed down. When he heard Lachlan enter, he looked up. Lachlan froze on the spot.

  Very little about his cousin had changed. He still had the same thick, tawny mane of hair; his pale blue eyes were as icy and forbidding as ever. Apparently, even the joys of fatherhood had not softened the steel in his eyes. It was part of who he was, Lachlan supposed, and his lioness would never try to change him. It was part of his allure, as far as she was concerned. She had always admired his ferocity.

  “I didn’t believe it when they said it was you,” Angus said, rising to his full, towering height. “I heard the horns blaring from the village and thought we were under attack. Maybe we are, for all I know. They say you brought Raonaid and that she is here now, in my home, eating my food, drinking my wine. I am half-tempted to call for my guards and lock you up as a traitor.”

  “I do not deny it,” Lachlan replied. “I have brought her here, but not to cause trouble. She is here to lift the curse.”

  A dark shadow of condemnation passed across Angus’s golden features. “She convinced you that the only way to lift it was for you to bring her here? And you believed her? She is a cunning witch who conspired to have me hanged, Lachlan. What were you thinking?”

  Lachlan strode forward. “That’s not how it was. I practically had to kidnap her to get her here, and you have not given me a chance to explain.”