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. Hasheforgiven 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.
