“Is that your intention?” Lachlan asked, half-expecting his cousin to answer in the affirmative—in which case he would be forced to ride out of Kinloch as quickly as possible, leaving Catherine behind, of course.
She would be better off, without a doubt.
Angus approached him. “No, I will not turn you over. You are my cousin, and despite a few recent errors in judgment, you have, for most of your life, been a loyal member of this clan. God knows I have made my own share of mistakes in the past, but I have been blessed with forgiving friends. For that reason, I cannot hold a grudge against you. I owe you that.”
In the long pause that followed, Lachlan counted his own blessings—and felt quite undeserving. “In that case, I will say what I’ve wanted to say to you for the past year.”
Angus waited patiently while Lachlan labored to collect his thoughts and find the right words to convey his true feelings.
“I’m glad I didn’t kill you,” he said at last.
Angus’s eyes narrowed coolly. “As am I.”
The great Lion did not often smile, and today was no different from any other. He acknowledged Lachlan’s apology with a mere nod, then headed for the door.
“Go and get some rest,” he commanded, “and for pity’s sake, Lachlan, take a bath. You reek like the arse end of a bull. We’ll dine at eight.”
Lachlan followed him out, but when they were about to part ways in opposite directions, he stopped. “Angus…”
His cousin halted in the torchlit passageway, waiting for him to speak.
“What chamber is she in?”
“The heiress?” By the knowing look in Angus’s eye, it was more than apparent that he recognized Lachlan’s burning need to see her.
“Green one,” he said. “South Tower. You owe her an apology, Lachlan, but you’d better not try anything else with her. You’ve done enough damage as it is. I’ve forgiven you once, but I will not clean up any more of your messes.” He turned and disappeared down the twisting staircase.
Lachlan did not go to Catherine’s chamber straightaway, however, for Angus was right, about one thing at least.
Lachlan needed to bathe. And he hoped—somewhere beneath all this dirt and grime—there might exist a small kernel of the charmer he had once been. For that was the man he wanted to be, when he asked for the lady’s forgiveness.
Chapter Fifteen
An army of chambermaids arrived at Catherine’s door within minutes to fill her bath, followed by an experienced lady’s maid who brought her a clean white shift to sleep in and a gown to wear for dinner. The woman was a MacEwen, and after the bath she explained to Catherine, while she brushed out her long curling hair, that the MacEwens had once ruled at Kinloch. Angus MacDonald had stormed the gates, however, and taken command, which was how he and Gwendolen became husband and wife. Gwendolen was the daughter of the former MacEwen chief.
“So they were enemies once?” Catherine asked with some surprise. “I would never have known. They seem very well suited.”
“Aye, Lady Catherine. That’s because they fell in love.”
“Well,” she cynically replied, “I suppose that means there is hope for anyone.” Though she did not truly believe it, not when she thought of Lachlan and how coldheartedly he had behaved when he learned she was not Raonaid.
Later she slipped into the bed, fluffed up the feather pillows, and dismissed the maid, who indicated that she would return in time to assist her in dressing for dinner.
The door closed with a gentle click, and the room fell silent. Catherine gazed up at the green canopy above and thought of her twin.
Over the past six months, since Catherine’s return to Drumloch Manor, she had assumed that the emptiness she felt stemmed from the fact that she had no memories of her loved ones and was therefore—in her own mind at least—alone in the world.
Now it seemed that in infancy she had suffered a terrible loss—that of a sister who had shared the womb with her. A sibling who was severed from Catherine’s life the same day they lost their mother. It was a double tragedy, an inconceivable loss. How grief-stricken she must have been. And though Raonaid was a stranger to her, and quite likely a villain, she felt a deep and agonizing grief for her as well.
Her sadness quickly turned to anger.
Who had done it? Who had cast out her infant sister? Was it her father? Or her grandmother? Or someone else Catherine had yet to meet?
A light knock sounded at the door just then. She rose up on her elbows, but it opened before she had a chance to respond.
In walked Lachlan.
He wore a fresh kilt and a clean, loose-fitting white linen shirt. The brooch at his shoulder was polished to a fine sheen, and he was without his usual weaponry. His hair was wet, sticking damply to his muscular shoulders in shiny disarray.
