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 withthisman, 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 doyousay, 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.
