Chapter Eleven
If Catherine thought the first two days of their journey into the Highlands were an impossible trial of physical endurance on horseback, the days following proved to be a cruel test of human fortitude, deserving of a shiny gold medal.
They woke early each morning, ate quickly, packed up the saddlebags, and rode into parts unknown with a relentless fury, as if the devil himself were hunting them down with his pointy pitchfork and burning flames of wrath.
The horses could not keep up a constant frenzied pace, so they spent much of the time plodding through forests and glens, galloping sporadically, stopping often to eat and drink.
In the end, all the hours of the journey seemed to merge together into a single, endless dash toward the absolute outer edges of the world.
On the fifth day, as they trotted through a lush green glen with a river snaking through the center, Catherine looked up at the cloudy sky and tried to shift in the saddle to sit more comfortably, but her legs were as stiff as logs.
Her skin felt grubby, and when she looked down at herself she realized that her fine silk and velvet gown had lost all its richness and shimmer beneath a nasty film of grime.
She might as well be wearing a homespun rag.
And her lustrous red hair felt like a dirty haystack hanging down her back.
As they crossed the river, the horses fought the current in an onerous struggle to reach the other side. Catherine’s skirts floated on the surface. The icy water reached up to her knees—and she began to wonder if her memories were worth all this effort and turmoil.
Quite a distance ahead of her now, Lachlan climbed the steep side of a ridge, reached the crest, and reined in his spirited mount.
The wind gusted through Lachlan’s thick dark hair, and the circular shield at his back bounced upon his broad shoulder blades.
His tartan fluttered wildly in the breeze.
He was her only anchor in this storm, she supposed, as she kicked in her heels to join him at the top. He was the only thing keeping her from drifting away into that strange, mysterious dreamworld of stones and spirits.
A moment later, she caught up with him and took in the vast panorama before them—a vista of Highland hills and forests, lakes and streams.
“There it is,” he said, pointing to the distant foothills, their peaks shrouded in a heavy mist that shifted and rolled across the landscape. “Kinloch is there. Do you see it?”
Catherine squinted and picked out an impressive stone bastion of massive proportions, with four corner towers and battlements all around. To the east there was a village with a market square. All of it was difficult to make out, however, on account of the mist.
“I do.” Sitting back in the saddle, she experienced a tremor of apprehension. They had come a long way, and she was about to meet the man who might know all the answers to her past.
Her former lover. A man she had betrayed.
“How long a ride?” she asked, her own horse lathered and winded.
“We’ll be there in time for supper if we keep up this pace. Are you able to continue?”
She patted Theodore’s neck and nodded gamely, though she could barely comprehend the notion of what might transpire when they rode through the castle gates. How would she feel when, God willing, she finally remembered all the details of her life as a witch?
Lachlan said the oracle had been jealous and spiteful. Surely the Lion’s wife would not welcome her. The woman might want to scratch Catherine’s eyes out.
“Will the Mistress of Kinloch allow me to enter?” she asked. “You said I called her a manipulative slut. Did I say that to her … directly?”
“Aye, you did,” Lachlan said with a wry chuckle, “just before you shoved her out of your guest chamber and slammed the door in her face.”
Catherine gazed across the distance at the mist-shrouded castle. “Good gracious, what was I thinking? She was my hostess.”
His smile faded, and he frowned. “I am beginning to think I kidnapped the wrong woman.”
“First of all,” she said with a defiant toss of her head, “you did not kidnap me. If anything, I commandeered you. But why would you say such a thing? I must know.”
“Because Raonaid would never care about such rules of etiquette.”
She regarded him warily.
He clicked his tongue and walked his horse down the other side of the ridge.
Catherine watched him for a moment, then followed carefully, wondering again with despair if she should ever have embarked upon this grueling journey. Perhaps it had been a terrible mistake. From everything Lachlan had told her, the oracle was not the least bit likable.
It was a disturbing thought indeed, to realize you could not possibly like yourself. It was equally disturbing to feel utterly disconnected from your own soul.
* * *
Horns blared from the tower battlements the instant Lachlan walked his horse out of the forest. He was not surprised to hear them.
He knew the protocol. He had written most of it himself three years ago, after he and Angus stormed these gates with an army of MacDonald warriors and reclaimed the castle from an enemy clan.
In the months following, Lachlan had devoted his life to the defense of these walls, in anticipation of a retaliatory attack. Then the worst occurred. Their enemies found a way back in—no thanks to Raonaid.
Angus the Lion had triumphed in the end, and Lachlan had celebrated at his side.
But that was a long time ago. Everything had changed since the curse.
Lachlan had not fulfilled his duties as Laird of War.
He had abandoned his cousin and his post in search of the oracle, and at the present moment, he was not entirely sure he would not be shot upon arrival.
Raonaid trotted up beside him. “The horns are intimidating, I must say. How soon before they recognize us?”
He darted an uneasy gaze from one corner tower to the other and took note of a panicked sentry dashing back and forth, calling out orders. “I think they already have, lass, and it might be a problem. You’re at the top of their list of mortal enemies. At least you were when I left here a year ago.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “They’re not going to shoot me, are they?”
“I sure-as-Jesus hope not. You’ll not be much good to me six feet under.”
As they crossed the damp field and approached the bridge, the iron portcullis began to lift. The sound of the pulley and chains rattling through the wheel relieved some of Lachlan’s trepidation, for someone had at least given the order to permit them to enter.
What would transpire on the other side of the gate, however, he did not yet know, for he had not spoken to Angus in over a year. They had not parted on good terms.
The wide oaken doors swung open for them, and they passed under the shaded arched gateway to the open square bailey beyond.
There was a frenzy of activity—grooms rushing up to them, servant women stopping to stare and gossip. Three armed guards dashed forward and aimed muskets at them. The sound of the hammers cocking made Lachlan’s blood run cold, for he was an enemy of Kinloch now.
Dropping the reins, he slowly raised his hands into the air.
“Put your hands up,” he said to Raonaid.
“But I thought this was your home,” she replied as she obeyed his grave command, “and that Angus was your cousin. Is this how he treats family?”
“I used to live here,” Lachlan clarified. “And aye, Angus is my cousin, but the last time we saw each other I nearly killed him in a sword fight.”
She shot a look at Lachlan. “And you neglected to tell me this?”
“I forgot.”
“How could you forget about almost killing your chief?”
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I was drunk at the time. And you’re a fine one to point fingers, lass. You can’t even remember your own name.”
* * *
“Lachlan MacDonald, is that you?”
Catherine’s eyes lifted at the sound of a woman’s voice, deep and confident, echoing across the bailey from the battlements above.
“Aye, my lady!” he called out with his hands still in the air. “Will you be so kind as to call off your guards? I come ready to eat humble pie—if you’ll let me live long enough to reach the feasting hall!”
Catherine observed the woman on the rooftop above.
She was dressed in a simple blue-and-white-striped skirt with pale yellow stays laced over a loose white shift.
Her wavy jet-black hair was swept up at the sides, but fell down her back in loose, flowing locks.
She was beautiful and charismatic—the Lioness of Kinloch, no doubt.
Their hostess. The one Raonaid had once called a slut.
Gwendolen MacDonald waved a hand at the guards, and they lowered their weapons. Catherine exhaled with relief.
Lachlan leaned forward on the pommel and spoke casually to the young clansman standing in front of his horse. “It’s good to see you, Andrew. You’ve grown a beard, I see. Looks good on you.”
“Do you really think so, sir?” Andrew replied, stroking his bearded chin. “The wife says it makes me look like her father, and she doesn’t like it much.”
Lachlan chuckled and leaned even closer, over the horse’s mane. “Then you ought to shave it off. You must keep your priorities straight, lad, and a wife’s pleasure should be at the top of your list, always.”
The young clansman smiled. “I always imagined you would say that, and if there’s any Highlander a man should listen to when it comes to a lassie’s pleasures, it’s got to be you, sir.”
The other guards murmured in agreement as they lowered their weapons to their sides.
Lachlan leaned back. “Well, it’s too bad I cannot practice what I preach.”
An uncomfortable silence ensued while the others glared up at Catherine with looks of bitter malice. She was tempted to explain herself and say that the curse wasn’t really her fault, but decided it would be best not to enter into a debate about a life she could not remember.
Gwendolen, the Mistress of Kinloch, emerged from the tower staircase. She crossed the bailey toward them.