Seduced by the Highlander

by Julianne MacLean

  Lachlan shut his eyes and listened to the ominous sound of the heavy prison coach rumbling to a slow halt outside. The horses nickered and shook in their harness while Lachlan made one last attempt to fight against his bonds.

  It was hopeless, however. He could not escape.

  “This isn’t over,” he growled at Raonaid as the magistrate and four Lowlanders armed with swords and muskets filed quickly through the door.

  Chapter Three

  Catherine sat before her looking glass, watching with impatience as her maid brushed and styled her hair for dinner.

  It was difficult to relax. Four hours ago, the magistrate had untied the Highlander and bashed him over the head, then clamped iron shackles onto his wrists, and dragged him away. All this occurred before she could fully comprehend the ramifications of the situation.

  She should never have accepted her cousin’s decision to call for the authorities. Instead, she should have insisted on keeping the Highlander here until he could answer more questions—she had so many of them—but everything had spun out of control so quickly.

  He was now locked up in the village prison, and she was here, dressing for dinner, still reeling from the memory of his hands on her body and his kiss upon her lips, and feeling even more separated from her sense of identity—which had been shaky and unstable to begin with.

  She was supposed to be a lady of noble breeding. How was she ever to manage the disturbing prospect that she was a witch?

  Before today, she had been drifting along in some kind of dull, invisible existence, believing anyone who suggested anything about the person she once was. She accepted all explanations and felt no passion for anything, no desire to change or seek something more. She knew nothing of what existed beyond this place. Her world was empty, and everything they told her made her feel like a ghost. Her soul seemed lost to her, as if it were floating around in the air somewhere over her head, just out of reach.

  Something was missing.

  Herself, perhaps. Her memories. Her life. That would make sense.

  Or perhaps she yearned for the lover who had taken her innocence. Was he the man called Angus? The Scottish chief who, according to the Highlander, had shared her bed for a year?

  If she was, in fact, this oracle called Raonaid … She was not yet convinced.

  Reaching for the pearl and emerald earrings, she took one last look in the mirror. Tonight she wore a formal gown of dark purple silk over a wide hooped petticoat, with richly embroidered cuffs of velvet, and a fine brocade, linen-lined stomacher. At her neck she wore a pearl and emerald choker, and her hair was swept into an elegant powdered coiffure with jeweled combs.

  No, she thought with absolute certainty—she could not possibly be that mad witch from the Hebrides, who put hexes on people. She was the daughter of an earl, and she looked the part. Despite everything, she felt the part. Perhaps the Highlander was the one who was mad. Or simply mistaken.

  Catherine dismissed her maid, left her private bedchamber, and ventured into the corridor, which was brightly lit by flickering candles in wall sconces, spaced closely together and illuminating a long row of ancestral portraits.

  None of whom she recognized.

  She reached the stairs, laid her hand on the rail, and decided that she would speak to John privately that evening and arrange for some sort of meeting with the Highlander as soon as possible. She needed to know more about the clan chief who had shared his bed with “Raonaid” in the Hebrides, the man called Angus. Perhaps if she met him, she would feel more confident about her past and have a better sense of what was real. She would either recognize him as her former lover—and he in turn would recognize her—or know, without a doubt, that she was not the oracle, and never had been.

  Surely a woman would recognize her first lover.…

  When she entered the drawing room a moment later, a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth and John was standing before it, sipping from a crystal glass of claret. He wore a royal blue dinner jacket with a heavy brocade waistcoat, dark knee breeches, and ivory stockings. A cumbersome French wig with a lengthy mass of brown curls framed his face.

  He glanced up at the sound of her approach and gave her an apologetic smile. “My dear Catherine…”

  She held up a hand. “Please, John, that is not necessary. I require no sympathy. The Highlander caused no permanent damage.”

  But the heat of his kiss was still burning in her mind.

  “In that case, you look well,” John said, setting his own glass down and pouring a drink for her. She accepted it and drew in a small sip. Her cousin picked up his glass again. “It was a terrible ordeal, to be sure,” he said. “I am relieved it is over.”

  “As am I,” she replied, “but I wish to see the Highlander again. If you could please arrange it.”

  John faced her with concern. “See him, Catherine? But why?”

  She had expected some opposition from her cousin. He was, after all, her guardian and protector, and the Highlander had attempted to harm her in the worst possible way.

  “Surely you are as curious as I,” she explained, “about what he claims to know of me. Perhaps he can unlock the mystery of my whereabouts for the past five years. Or offer some insight about my true identity.”

  John moved closer. “There is no insight required—and certainly not from a man like him. You are my cousin—a Montgomery!—and those are the facts. Grandmother knows it with every breath in her soul, and you know how much you mean to her. She would never make a mistake about her own flesh and blood.”

  Catherine swallowed over all the doubts that continued to poke at her. “Yes, I do believe she is certain that I am Catherine. But the fact remains that we do not know why I went missing five years ago, or what happened to me during that time. Do you not wish to ask the Highlander more questions? Are you not curious as to how I ended up in Italy? Perhaps he knows something that can help us fit the pieces together.”

  John gulped down the remaining contents of his glass and moved to sit on the sofa. “Dr. Williams would not approve. He said you must avoid situations that cause you undue stress.”

  She quirked a brow, and John’s expression warmed.

  “If it means that much to you,” he conceded, “I could speak to the magistrate in the morning. We could go together.”

  “That would be wonderful. Thank you, John.”

  “But I won’t let you be alone with him.”

  “Of course not.” She quickly dropped her gaze to her lap. “Nor should I wish to be.”

  “And you shouldn’t mention it to your grandmother.”

  A few moments later, Eleanor, the dowager countess, entered the drawing room. She was a short, stout woman with gray hair and spectacles, who did not often smile or show emotion—though she had wept uncontrollably when she found Catherine in the convent, alive and recuperating.

  Catherine faced her.

  “What are you speaking of?” Eleanor brusquely asked.

  “Nothing, Grandmother.”

  Catherine immediately changed the subject, for earlier in the day—after learning of the attack—Eleanor had insisted they never mention the Highlander again.

  * * *

  They dined that evening on oyster soup, followed by a main course of roast pheasant with cranberry sauce and herbed carrots, and succulent raspberry custard tarts for dessert.

  Aside from the occasional light clink of silverware against china plates, it was a quiet meal. Catherine hardly minded, for she was able to consider all the questions she would ask the Highlander in the morning, most notably the name and location of his clan chief. She hoped he would disclose that information, for he had been uncooperative when John asked him his name in the stable that afternoon. She wondered if the magistrate had fared any better.

  After dinner, they returned to the drawing room for coffee and cards, though Catherine had little interest in table games. She simply could not stop thinking about the Highlander.

  She remembered the w
ords he had spoken, just before he took the pistol ball in the arm: Look what you’ve done to me. The pain in his eyes had been unmistakable. She never imagined anyone could look so tormented.

  She was still thinking about that when John dealt her a rather lucky hand. Soon they began to engage in some serious play, but after a time Catherine’s interest in the game waned.

  “It’s been an exhausting day,” she said, laying her cards down, “so I shall bid you both good night.”

  “Good night,” her grandmother replied.

  John pushed his chair back, stood, and bowed to Catherine. She rose to her feet.

  Deciding that a book might be a welcome distraction, she picked up a candelabra on her way out to light her way to the library.

  Gingerly, she passed through the dark corridors of the manor, often glancing over her shoulder, checking every alcove along the way. Since she’d arrived at Drumloch, she often felt as if there was a presence nearby, a curious ghost perhaps, following her. It happened at all hours of the day, but was especially disconcerting at night. She had not yet told her doctor about it.

  A slight chill blew through the corridor, causing her to pause while the candle flames danced. Perhaps there was an open window somewhere. She hoped there was.

  At last, she reached the library and pushed the heavy oak door open. It creaked on its iron hinges. The light from her candles swung through the gloom and cast moving shadows across the bookcases. She felt the air stir against her cheek, and stopped abruptly on the carpet in the center of the room. A flash of apprehension shot up her spine.

  Holding the candles high above her head, she called out shakily, “Hello? Is anyone here?”

  The heavy drapes on both windows billowed softly and quietly.

  She half-expected to hear the echo of her own voice, but there was no chance of that, not with so many musty books lining the walls. They were piled everywhere, on the tables and desktops, and they filled the room with the heavy scent of dust and knowledge.

  She was acting a fool, she decided, as she strode to the bookcase and ran a finger along all the spines.

  Finally, after a time, Catherine selected something. She set the candles down on the desk and opened the book to read the first few lines, but felt another breeze across her face. The drapes were floating on the drafts again.

  She moved to check the window, but it was closed. Outside, the moon had risen high and full against a clear, starlit sky. She cupped her hands to the glass to look out at the gardens below, in full autumn bloom, then gazed farther across to the horizon, past rolling green hills and dark forests, silhouetted against the night sky. It was a beautiful night, and her senses quivered and hummed.

  Again, the velvet curtain swelled beside her. She pulled the fabric aside.

  There he was. The Highlander.

  Her belly exploded in shock. How long had he been there? He had recovered his sword belt, pistol, and powder horn from the stable, but how had he gotten past the servants and found his way to this room? Was he the ghost in the corridor?

  The fire in his eyes held her frozen in place, rigid with terror.

  He raised a finger to his lips. “Shhh.…”

  Catherine fought to suppress any sudden movement. Although she should have screamed. What was wrong with her? She was not without panic.

  Suddenly she noticed the front of his shirt, stained with blood. Was it his own? One eye was black-and-blue. Had he been stabbed, or shot again?

  “What happened to you?” she asked. “And how did you get here?”

  He gave no answer. He simply pushed the curtain aside, whipped her around, and pressed a knife to her throat.

  Chapter Four

  Catherine fought against the Highlander’s steely grip. She squirmed and twisted, kicked his shin with her heel, but to no avail. He was like a brick wall behind her, all rigid muscle and incredible brawn.

  “It’s your fault I’m cursed,” he snarled, “and after getting shackled and dragged off to prison, I’m not taking any more chances with you. You’ll not trick me this time.”

  She felt the sharp point of the knife at the base of her throat, and clutched at his muscled forearm. “My cousin was right. You are a brute.”

  “I’m only trying to survive.” His breath was hot and moist in her ear. “Now stop squirming, promise you won’t scream, and I’ll let you go.”

  “I promise.”

  With that, he released her. Catherine swung around to face him in the eerie candlelight. Rubbing a hand over her neck, she fought to catch her breath and calm the frantic beating of her heart.

  “That was unnecessary,” she said. “And why on earth did you come back here? If my cousin sees you, he will shoot you dead on the spot.”

  The Highlander sheathed his knife in his belt. “I’ve been hunting you down for three years, Raonaid. I’ll not give up now.”

  “You are still certain that I am her.”

  “Aye. Whether or not you’re telling the truth about your lost memories I don’t know, but one way or another, you’re going to remember the night you cursed me. I’ll find a way to make it so.”

  She swallowed uneasily. “How do you plan to do that? The doctor has been thoroughly unsuccessful in helping me to remember.”

  “Your doctor doesn’t know how to apply pressure like I do.”

  She mulled over his meaning and spoke with seething hostility. “You’re going to threaten me again with ravishment, and try to frighten the truth out of me. Is that it?”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  She wanted to know the truth herself, desperately so, but she would not stand for abuse.

  Taking a closer look at his black eye and the blood seeping through the front of his shirt, she asked, “How did you escape the prison coach?”

  He put his finger to his lips again, as if he’d heard something. With light, swift movements, he crossed the library and peered out into the corridor. Reassuring himself that no one was about, he answered the question. “They tried to kill me on the way to the village.”

  “Who did?”

  “The magistrate and his thugs. He said they were to make it look like they were just doing their jobs, so they let me out of the coach, loaded their pistols, and told me to run.”

  “And that’s what you did?”

  “Nay, I didn’t run,” he practically spat. “I kicked the weapons out of their hands and used my fists.”

  She glanced down at his big hands and saw that his knuckles were nicked and bloody. “But there were four of them,” she said with disbelief, not wanting to admit to herself—or to him—that she was impressed by such a feat.

  “Aye,” he said. “Although there might not be quite so many of them now.” He peered out the door again to make sure no one was coming. “I might have killed one or two. Inadvertently.”

  She pointed at the wound on his stomach. “What happened there?”

  He glanced down and seemed to notice for the first time that his shirt was soaked with blood. “Ah, ballocks. One of them knifed me, but it’s just a scratch. I’ll live.”

  They stood for a moment, staring at each other in the tense, heart-pounding silence, until he cocked his head at her shrewdly.

  “If you’re thinking about screaming and turning me in,” he warned, “you ought to think again. Something’s not right here, witch. I believe they’re using you as much as you are using them.”

  His eyes dipped lower, and he seemed to take in all the swells and curves of her body, awarding special attention to her neckline and breasts.

  For a shaky moment she didn’t hear a single word he said, for she was growing weak in the knees under the stormy heat of his gaze. Everything about him was darkly sexual, burning with angry need, and she couldn’t deny that although he frightened her and made her fear for her safety, on some basic level, he fascinated her.

  Catherine shook herself out of that treacherous fog, and worked to sort out what he was trying to say to her.

  “I t
old you before,” she replied, “I am not using them.” She paused and shifted her weight from one foot to the other and recalled her constant suspicion that her grandmother was hiding something from her. “But what makes you think that?”

  “You’re worth a lot of money, are you not? Or at least, Catherine was. Everyone in Scotland knows she’s about to receive a considerable inheritance, and from what I’ve heard, if she’s not alive to collect it, it will be forfeited to the Jacobite cause.”

  She nodded her head. “Yes, but I am alive, and it’s my money. At least it will be in six weeks’ time, when I turn five-and-twenty. You think they are using me to gain access to it? To keep it from landing in the hands of the Jacobites?”

  “Someone ordered me dead today,” he said, “because I know who you are. I wouldn’t want the same thing to happen to you, lass. Not before you lift that curse.”

  “But I can’t lift it,” she insisted.

  He stalked forward and caught her by the arm. His scorching gaze dropped to her parted lips. His face was only inches away; she could feel his breath beating against her cheeks. She sucked in a quivering breath.

  “You’re lying.”

  This time she did not argue. She could not even speak.

  “I’ll use force if I have to,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “One way or another, you’re going to give me what I want.”

  Her flesh sizzled where he touched her. She understood that it was part fear, part irrational excitement. He was stunningly handsome, bold and robust, and when she thought of how he had fought off all those armed guards, single-handedly, her body went weak all over again.

  God, why did he have to be so potent and alive? She didn’t want to feel any of the things she was feeling, but something about him awakened her spirit, and she was beginning to feel that he was the key to her past—that he would awaken her memories as well. Make them positively explode out of that tight, locked box.

  “I told you,” she replied nevertheless, lifting her chin and breathing in his musky scent while reminding herself not to become too swept up in his vigor, for he might be handsome, but he was also dangerous and volatile. “I don’t know how to help you.”