Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Their breaths puffed into the air, for it was cold inside the tent. Catherine hugged her arms around herself and shivered.
In the next instant, Lachlan was gathering her into his arms and holding her against the solid warmth of his body. His breath was hot and moist against her neck. “Let’s get you warm.”
He led her back to the bed of fur and knelt down on one knee, but her arms tightened around his neck. She gathered the wool of his tartan in one fist, his linen shirt in another, and pulled him closer to prevent him from drawing away.
“Please stay.”
Still down on one knee, leaning above her, he glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t want the others to know I’m here.”
“Tell them I had a nightmare, that I was frightened to be alone. It’s the truth.”
He hesitated and cupped his forehead in a hand. “It’s not really their opinions I worry about, lass. It’s what might happen between us.”
She moved to make room for him on the makeshift bed. “I trust you.”
At last, he stretched out beside her. He wrapped an arm around her, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“There is something you should know about that dream,” he whispered as he nuzzled his lips across her ear. “It might be disturbing for you to learn of this, but I cannot keep it from you, for you need to know what is happening in the world. If there is some connection between your dreams and these events, it might help to restore your memories.”
She leaned up on one elbow. “What events?”
His eyes focused closely on hers. “Before we left the castle, Angus told me something about your sister, Raonaid. She has formed an attachment to his enemy, Murdoch MacEwen, Gwendolen’s own brother, who was responsible for the siege on Kinloch three years ago. Murdoch was a passionate Jacobite then, but something has happened that has reignited his ambitions to reclaim the throne for the Stuarts.”
Catherine took a breath and braced herself. “Tell me what it is.”
“Are you aware that King James’s wife gave birth to a son last December? They called him Charles.”
“Yes, I know of it.”
“He is the heir to the Stuart dynasty,” Lachlan continued. “But not long after his birth, there was a plot to murder him in his cradle—obviously to thwart any future threat to the Hanover throne.”
Catherine frowned. “What are you suggesting?”
His hand cupped her cheek. “The child was born in Rome, where the Royal Family is in exile. That is where the plot was hatched and discovered.”
“They never found the culprit?”
“No.”
“And I was found in Italy, not far outside of Rome.” She pressed her hands to his chest and looked him in the eye. “You think I was involved in the plot to kill the prince?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you are thinking it, as I am. What if it is true? What if I was a spy using my father’s reputation and friendship with King James in order to gain entrance to his court and kill his son?” She sat up abruptly. “It cannot be true. I would never try to kill a child, and surely my grandmother would have known if I was a member of the Jacobite court abroad, yet she claims to know nothing of my whereabouts over the past five years.”
“Are you sure she can be trusted? She did not tell you about Raonaid.”
Catherine considered it. “Perhaps she never knew about her.”
Lachlan sat up. “What about your cousin, John? He is a staunch Hanoverian.”
“Yes, but he has never shared his political ideas with me. Since my return, he has always been careful to avoid the issue of the succession, and I assumed it was because he did not wish to enter into a heated debate with me, for I was a passionate Jacobite in the past. At least, that is what they tell me. But what Jacobite would ever want to kill the Stuart heir?”
A gust of wind swept across the roof of the tent, and the canvas whipped noisily. Lachlan reached for the heavy woolen blanket she had kicked off during her sleep. It was balled up at her feet. He shook it out and wrapped it around her shoulders.
“Is that better?” he asked, sitting up beside her, rubbing her cold hands between his and blowing into them.
“Yes.”
