He turned toward the loch and took off in a purposeful jog.
Chapter Twenty-four
Edinburgh
Raonaid raised the hood of her cloak over her head as she stepped out of Murdoch’s coach and collided with a rainy, blustery wind. The gusts whipped through her skirts and tugged at the empty basket she carried. Usually the streets of Edinburgh were bustling with activity at this time of day, but the foul weather had kept most sensible folk indoors by their fires.
Raonaid, however, wanted something, and when she wanted a particular thing there was little anyone could do to stop her. This morning, she desired cod from the fishermen’s market and sugar for the cake she intended to serve the men that night, for Murdoch was planning a private gathering at the manor house, for a few select men of influence.
The mist and rain swept fast across the cobblestone street. Raonaid leaned into it as she walked, uttering an oath of pain when a wooden pail rolled into her path, clattering noisily across the stones and hitting her in the anklebone.
Suddenly it became tangled in her skirts. The ground flew up to meet her. Her front teeth went through her bottom lip and pain shot down to her toes.
Struggling to recover, she rose up on all fours and looked down at the cobblestones, glistening with wetness. The wind and rain pummeled her face. She touched a finger to her bloodied lip, then watched the blood drip onto the street.
Immediately the stones began to move like waves in the ocean, and a dizzying sensation swirled through her brain.
Familiar with the experience—though she had never had it with cobblestones before—she focused her eyes and blinked repeatedly, willing the vision to grow clearer, while she watched the movement of her blood mixing with the shiny water, trailing jaggedly through the grooves and deep spaces between the stones.
Shadows came to life, and the cobbles twisted and swirled. What she saw held her captive, fixed to the ground, while the vision played out in front of her eyes.
Then it was gone, as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into the street.
She glanced up. Murdoch was standing over her. He pulled her roughly to her feet. “You saw something, didn’t you? What was it? Tell me. Will the Stuarts rule again? Will I be a part of it? How soon?Tell me!”
She staggered sideways, feeling nauseous and weak. “That’s not what I saw.”
Murdoch shook her hard, then paused a moment, his eyes flashing with impatience, before he pulled her into his arms. “Take your time, darling,” he said. “Then tell me everything you remember.”
Squeezing her eyes shut against the driving wind and rain, Raonaid rested her head on his shoulder.
A sense of calm came over her, and she stepped back. Murdoch regarded her peevishly.
“I saw Lachlan MacDonald,” she told him at last, still astonished by the clarity of the vision.
He frowned. “Angus MacDonald’s cousin? The Laird of War at Kinloch? The one you cursed at Kilmartin Glen?”
She nodded. “Aye, but I cannot tell you what I saw.”
Turning away from him, she pulled the hood of her cloak tighter around her face, shielding her eyes from the storm.
“Why not?” he asked, following her across the street.
Wet and shivering, disturbed by the vision, she ran faster toward the coach. “It does not concern you, Murdoch! Leave me be, or I swear, by all that is holy, I will curse you, too!”
She reached the coach at last and pounded her fist on the door. Murdoch came up behind her and tore it open. It swung on its hinges and banged against the outside wall.
Raonaid tossed her empty basket into the coach, grabbed hold of the rail, and hoisted herself into the dry interior, sheltered at last from the wind. She sat down and wiped the water from her cheeks while Murdoch climbed in and sat across from her.
They stared at each other tensely. His dark eyes studied her with displeasure, but she would not tell him of her vision. He could never know the truth—that what she had seen was Lachlan MacDonald, his enemy as well as her own, making love to her while she cried out with boundless rapture.
***
Catherine woke to the sound of water dripping with heavy wet plops onto the roof of the tent. Drawing the woolen blanket over her shoulders, she rose and padded to the flap to look outside, hoping that the weather would not slow their journey, for she was impatient to reach Edinburgh and meet her sister.
She untied the ribbons of the tent flap and scrutinized the morning rain. A light mist rolled smoothly along the mossy floor of the glade. Everything was shiny and dripping wet, but at least it was not a torrential downpour. Not yet, at any rate. It was a soft, gentle rain—not nearly enough to deter Catherine from venturing onward.
Voices and footsteps interrupted the tranquility. It was Lachlan and the cook, Gawyn, their tartans pulled over their heads to keep dry.
