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.…
