Angus made a visible effort to calm himself by resting his hand on the hilt of his sword and crossing to the other side of the solar. “Go ahead then. Explain.”
Lachlan worked to gather his thoughts, to put them together into some form that made sense.
“You have not yet seen her,” he said, “but I am almost certain that the woman who rode through the gates with me today is Raonaid.”
Angus faced him with a grimace. “Almost certain? What are you telling me? That she denies being the oracle? That she claims to be someone else?”
“I know it sounds ridiculous, but aye, she has been deemed the lost Drumloch heiress. Do you know of whom I speak?”
“Of course I know,” Angus replied, striding forward. “Before she went missing she was to become one of the wealthiest women in Scotland. Her father was a great war hero. He died at Sherrifmuir.”
“Aye, that’s correct, and she has been missing for five years. But last spring, she finally reappeared in a farmer’s stable in Italy, and was taken to a convent, where it was discovered that she had no memory of her former life. Her grandmother, the dowager countess, insisted that she was Catherine Montgomery, and I heard tales of her discovery. From the descriptions and rumors about her being an imposter, I had to see for myself that she was in fact the true heiress.”
Angus moved closer, both curious and suspicious. “You believed that she was Raonaid, masquerading as Catherine Montgomery, in order to steal the inheritance?”
Angus had always been swift to put two and two together. “That’s right. At first, I believed it was a clever ruse. If anyone could pull off such a deception, it would be Raonaid. But after spending time with her since leaving Drumloch Manor, I’ve had my doubts. Now I don’t know what to believe. She’s had visions, you see. I witnessed one myself. But she is not the venomous, conniving creature I remember, and I think she may be telling the truth about having lost all memory of her former life. Which is part of my problem, for she does not remember anything about the curse.”
Angus began to pace back and forth across the brightly lit room. Then he paused and regarded Lachlan with curiosity. “Gwendolen said you thought Scotland was at peace.”
Lachlan shifted uneasily. He was Angus’s former Laird of War and had always kept abreast of political developments, but over the past year he had become so absorbed in his own personal affairs, he had ignored the rest of the world and its politics.
“Are we not at peace?” he asked, feeling rather ridiculous to be so completely uninformed.
Angus went to the sideboard and poured two glasses of whisky. “There have been rumors of another rebellion, which is why your story seems like a bit of a lark.”
“What sort of rumors? And what do they have to do with my situation?” Lachlan accepted the glass his cousin held out.
“According to my spies, and confirmed by my friend Duncan MacLean, there is another Jacobite uprising in the works. Plans have been afoot all summer long.”
“Who is behind it?” Lachlan asked, feeling a surge of annoyance, for his countrymen had fought too many deadly battles, all to restore the Stuart King to the throne of England. Too much blood had been spilled. He was sick of it, and like Angus, he wanted peace.
“My mortal enemy and brother-in-law,” Angus replied, “Murdoch MacEwen—with his lover at his side.” Angus swallowed his whisky in a single gulp, then bared his teeth at the fire blazing down his gullet.
“Who is his lover?” Lachlan asked as a dark tremor of apprehension moved through him.
“I have been told he has become enraptured by a beautiful mystic who is encouraging him to raise his sword again for Scotland, and fight for the old king. She is promising him that by doing so, he will gain great power and fortune.”
Lachlan frowned. “And you believe this beautiful mystic is Raonaid?”
“Who else could it be?” Angus replied. “They know each other. She gave him what he needed to enter my castle three years ago and put a noose around my neck—all in the name of the Stuart cause.”
“But are they together?” Lachlan asked, feeling the fires of his passion rising explosively. “Sharing a bed, I mean?”
The image of it plowed straight through his tremulous self-control. Raonaid and Murdoch? Lovers? He clenched his teeth together and fought to keep his breathing under control. Bloody hell! It could not be true.
“I do not know,” Angus replied. “Raonaid does not move in polite society. She has always been an outcast, and is rather like a night creature in that way. Difficult to find.”
“It is quite possible then,” Lachlan was forced to accept, “that she could have been living at Drumloch Manor, masquerading as the heiress, then traveling here with me to get back inside these castle walls, while secretly planning an uprising with Murdoch? As his lover?”
Ah, Christ.… A blinding rage was searing through his brain. He wanted to hit something.
Angus locked eyes with him. “There is only one way to find out. Bring her to me now. I lived with her for a year. I bedded her countless times. I will know straightaway if she is Raonaid. And I will also be able to tell whether or not she is lying about her lost memories.”
Lachlan downed the rest of his drink and set it on the sideboard. “Wait here.” He stormed out of the room, determined to unearth the truth about the woman who had completely bewitched him. “I will be back at once.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Do you believe any of what I have told you?”
Catherine had just relayed to her hostess the entire story of her five-year disappearance and memory loss—along with how Lachlan had attacked her at Drumloch Manor and brought her here to lift the curse.
Gwendolen’s eyes darkened with suspicion, and she rose from her chair to pace about the room.
“It’s quite a tale,” she said, “but I’m afraid it will take far more than your word to make me believe it. I look at you, and all I see is the woman who was once my husband’s lover. There is no doubt in my mind that you are the one who entered my home and poisoned my husband’s mind against me. You were a jealous, conniving vixen then, and I see nothing different about you now. You can pretend to be a tragic heiress until you draw your last breath, but I will believe none of it. So do not look to me for friendship or support. I will not be your ally. If anything, I will talk sense into Lachlan. You have done him enough harm. I will not stand by to see him hurt again.”
Catherine stood up. “I have no intention of hurting Lachlan, so you needn’t bother yourself.” She knew in her mind that Gwendolen had every right to be mistrustful of her, but her words were difficult to accept, for Catherine did not remember doing any of the things that aroused such hatred in the Lioness. “I am disappointed that you cannot forgive me for past wrongs,” she continued. “But I also understand my actions were deplorable. I will therefore leave Kinloch Castle as soon as possible. I have no wish to remain where I am not welcome.”
Lachlan entered the room just then, and they both said his name at once.
“Lachlan…”
He halted in the doorway. “What’s going on here? I see cheeks flushed with anger. Both of you.”
“We were just catching up,” Gwendolen told him with an obvious stroke of anger.
“She does not believe a single word of my story,” Catherine explained.
He approached and gave her a vicious look. “We’ll find out soon enough. Come with me now. Angus is waiting to see you.”
Her heart turned a somersault inside her chest. It was what she wanted of course. She had come here to meet her former lover, in the hopes that her memories would materialize and she would remember her old life.
Her hostess approached her. “What’s wrong, Raonaid? You look pale. Are you worried that my husband will confirm that you are attempting to deceive us all, and that he might confine you to the dungeon?”
Catherine felt sick to her stomach. “I am, in fact. And if that is his decision, I will accept my fate, but I will no
t rest until you at least believe that I am repentant.”
A look of surprise flashed across Gwendolen’s face, and she turned her eyes to Lachlan, who frowned and said, “Do you see my dilemma? She is not the same.”
With that, he gestured for Catherine to follow him out of the day parlor. When they reached the curved staircase at the end of the corridor, Gwendolen came running.
“I am coming with you,” she said, moving past them and leading the way up the stairs. “I must bear witness to this.”
* * *
“Did he forgive you for what happened a year ago?” Catherine whispered to Lachlan as they approached the solar, where Angus was waiting for them. She was seeking to calm her anxieties and wished to know if the great Laird of Kinloch was capable of forgiveness.
“We did not speak of that,” Lachlan replied.
“But you were gone for quite some time. What did you talk about?”
“You.”
That did not help the rickety state of her nerves, for she knew all the terrible things Raonaid had done. If Angus confirmed her as his enemy, the next few minutes could prove perilous—for according to Lachlan, she had tried to have Angus killed.
Oh, God, she should never have come here. It had been a terrible mistake.
As they rounded the corner and walked into the bright, sunlit solar, Catherine looked around at the bank of windows on the opposite wall. There were only two wooden chairs by the door, a sideboard with a decanter and glasses, and a stool in the center of the room. A single tapestry adorned the east wall, but other than that, it was a bare room, and Angus the Lion was nowhere in sight.
Lachlan turned to her. “I’ve done what you asked. I brought you to Kinloch to see my chief. You’d better be true to your word and lift this blasted curse, or I am sure I can convince him to hang you from the gallows.”
Her stomach careened. Where was the generous warrior who had held her after her nightmares? He was looking at her now with malice and accusation …
Footsteps entered the solar. They all turned toward the door.
Catherine knew instantly that the Highlander before her was the great Lion, Angus MacDonald, Laird of Kinloch. There could be no mistaking his imposing presence or the cold expression of command in those ice blue eyes.
He was a tall, flaxen-haired warrior who wore the MacDonald tartan with pride. His hair was long, golden, and loose upon his broad shoulders, his face handsome in the blinding light beaming in through the leaded windows. He unnerved her immediately and caused the hairs on the back of her neck to stand on end.
Was this man her former lover? Had he touched her body in intimate ways and taken her innocence?
She faced him directly, determined to show herself, to let him see her and recognize her. Though part of her did not want him to. This man terrified her. How could she survive even the memory of being deflowered by him?
“It’s you,” he said in a quiet, ominous voice, laced with malice. “What game are you playing now?” he growled, crossing toward her with murderous intent.
Catherine sucked in a breath and took a step backwards. Her heel kicked the stool, and she stumbled. It all seemed to happen in a strange suspension of time and existence. Then she felt herself falling.…
Fear burned through her body, and she experienced a flash memory of tumbling backwards into an open grave. Just like in the dream.
“No, stop!” she blurted out.
The whole world went black.
When she opened her eyes a second later—or perhaps it was a number of moments?—she was lying on her back, blinking up at Lachlan, Gwendolen, and Angus.
She realized that Lachlan had been lightly slapping her cheek.
“You hit your head,” he told her. “You’ve been unconscious.”
“For how long?”
“Just a minute or two.”
Angus glowered down at her with a passionate loathing, then rose to his feet and offered his hand.
Reluctantly, she accepted his assistance and stood.
“Well?” she boldly asked. “What is your conclusion? Am I the witch? And if I am, what will you do with me? Burn me at the stake? If so, be done with it, sir, for I have had enough of this intolerable treatment.”
She was angry now, and uncontrollably so.
Angus’s gaze burned into hers; then he quickly shook his head. “Something’s not right.”
Her knees began to tremble, and her breath came short.
Lachlan grabbed hold of Angus’s arm and spoke insistently. “What are you saying?”
The Lion’s eyes searched her face, her hair, her breasts, and traveled up and down the length of her body. He circled around behind her. “I need to see the back of your neck.”
Catherine was about to protest, but thought better of it. Angus stepped close to her—terrifyingly close—and swiped a big, battle-scarred hand up under her hair. He twirled her locks in his big fist and lifted them up over her head. Her skin erupted in gooseflesh as he put his nose to her neck and smelled her.
“What are you doing?” Lachlan demanded.
“She’s different,” Angus said. “She looks the same, but something is not right. Raonaid had a birthmark on her neck…”
She felt his fingers at her nape, pushing the fallen strands of hair out of the way. His hands were warm as they slid close to her scalp and combed through her hair, moving it this way and that, while he bent at the knees and tilted his head, searching for the mark.…
At last, he let her hair fall from his grasp and stepped back. She spun around to face him.
Where his eyes had been cold and steely before, they were now flashing with agitation. “God help us all if this is some kind of sorcery,” he said.
“What are you saying?” Lachlan asked. “That she is not Raonaid?”
Eyes narrowing, Angus continued to stare at her; then he nodded. “The resemblance is uncanny,” he said. “Everything is the same, and yet it is not, which leaves only one explanation.”
Catherine turned to Lachlan and somehow managed to remain on her feet, when it felt as if the floor were giving way beneath her. “I am Raonaid’s twin.”
Confused and bewildered, she could barely breathe.
“What?” Lachlan grimaced and shook his head, seeming unable to accept it.
But neither could she. “A twin?”
She looked down at the floor and realized in a rush of anguish that her dreams of a ghost, her awareness of some other spirit self, had stemmed from some intrinsic knowledge of this lost sibling—a soul who had shared the womb with her. It had always been beneath the surface of her perception.
“This changes everything,” Lachlan said.
Catherine knew exactly what he was thinking. How could she not? It was written all over his face. “Yes, it does,” she replied. “I am not Raonaid; therefore I will not be able to lift your precious curse.”
He frowned at her. “Precious curse? Are you mad? And why did you make that promise to me at Drumloch? You said you would lift it if I brought you here, yet you were not in a position to barter.”
“What did you expect me to do!” she argued. “I told you a dozen times that I did not know how to help you, but you were going to force yourself upon me! I did what I had to do, to ensure my safety!”
He winced at the words. A muscle flicked at his jaw. “I didn’t know who you were,” he ground out. “I thought you were her.”
“Oh!” Her temper exploded like a powder keg. “So it would have been perfectly all right for you to rape my sister?”
His expression grew tight with strain. “I should never have brought you here.” Turning toward Gwendolen, he said, “Will you see that she is looked after?”
“Of course,” the Lioness replied, looking startled and ashen faced.
With that, he left Catherine in the solar, as though he had no more use for her, as though she existed only to serve his need to rid himself of the curse.
It was quite some time before she was ab
le to bring her anger under control. Then at last, she found the strength to turn and face her hosts.
As Lady Catherine Montgomery, heiress of Drumloch.
* * *
Lachlan burst through the solar doors and raked both hands through his hair, clenching his teeth in a frenzy of disbelief as he stormed through the winding corridors of the castle. He didn’t know where he was going. He only needed to exert himself, to use his body to relieve some of the tension that was turning him into a raving madman.
He could not believe it. And yet he could. He’d known from the first moment that there was something wrong about her, that the lass was different from the witch he remembered and reviled, even though she looked the same.
He thought of his immediate attraction to her, how he had become so aroused when he touched her in the stone circle, and was strangely relieved that he had not fallen under some other kind of spell. What he’d felt for her was natural and explicable, for the woman was innocent. Pure of heart. And oh, so incredibly beautiful.
He stopped and laid a hand on the wall to steady himself. He pounded a fist up against it. Bloody hell! What had he just done? She was not Raonaid! She was Lady Catherine Montgomery, and she had learned for the first time today that she had a twin sister, and he had been unthinkably cruel. He had thought only of himself and how he could never have her.
Especially not now.
He grabbed his hair in both fists and pressed his back to the wall, then slid down to sit on the cold stone floor. He realized in that moment that the only thing that had kept him sane over the past five days was the underlying belief that he despised her. All the desires he felt and fought against … He’d convinced himself they were some form of sexual madness because of the curse.
But none of that was true. He could no longer depend on his hatred to prevent him from surrendering to his desire.
She was not Raonaid.
She was an innocent, forlorn heiress, who needed help and protection. And what had he done in her worst hour of need? He had let her down.
Because he wanted her so badly, he could not bear to be near her.
Seduced by the Highlander Page 10
