Chapter Eleven #2
Lachlan dismounted and walked to meet her. They embraced with affection while Catherine waited uneasily on her horse.
Despite the earlier orders, one of the guards raised his musket again and aimed it at her head, as if he expected her to try to murder his chief’s wife in the next few seconds.
Clearly Catherine was not going to be forgiven quite so easily as Lachlan.
“I wasn’t sure we would ever see you again,” Gwendolen said as she withdrew from the embrace. She looked up at his face, and her eyes pooled with tears. “I’ve missed you, and you know I never blamed you for what happened. It was an accident. We all survived it.”
Catherine assumed she was referring to the sword fight.
“Thank God for that,” Lachlan said. “But what of Angus? You are by nature a forgiving creature, Gwendolen, but the Lion’s emotions are often forged of steel. Has he forgiven me?”
She inclined her head apologetically. “I think you should speak to him about that, not me. He’s in the village, but I suspect he heard the horns, and will be back at any moment.
” She squeezed Lachlan’s arm. “But I will say this at least—what stands between you is not the fact that you nearly killed him in a contest of skills. It is the fact that you left without a word, and we have not heard from you in over a year.”
Lachlan was quiet for a long moment. “I have much to apologize for.” He looked up at the sentries on the rooftop. “Has he replaced me with another?”
“Another Laird of War?” she blurted out. “Good heavens, no. There was never anyone he trusted enough, or respected more than you. He is his own laird when it comes to the defense of these walls.”
“At least it has been a time of peace,” Lachlan mentioned, “more or less, since I left.”
Gwendolen shook her head. “I’m afraid not. There have been some developments lately. Speaking of which…”
Gwendolen’s piercing brown eyes lifted to lock on Catherine’s, whose skin prickled with unease. She felt trapped in the woman’s inquisitive stare.
Angus the Lion might be away from the castle at present, but clearly his wife was more than competent to assume command.
“I see you brought someone with you,” she said. “Is she here as a friend, Lachlan, or as your prisoner?”
Lachlan gazed up at Catherine as well. She felt like a squirming insect in a glass case.
“I wouldn’t exactly call her my prisoner,” he replied, “for she came with me willingly. But she’s not my friend, either.”
Catherine’s stomach knotted at the unexpected venom in his tone. When they entered the bailey, she had felt secure in the knowledge that he was her escort and protector, but the look in his eye now crushed that sense of security.
But it was more than just that. Over the past five days, they had become partners in this journey.
He had been surprisingly kind to her at times, especially after the nightmares and sleepwalking.
But now suddenly he was regarding her with derision, and everything seemed different.
She was no longer the lost Drumloch heiress.
She was the spiteful witch, Raonaid—and she felt a deep ache in her chest at the notion that she must take on this dark identity.
“I should think not,” Gwendolen said. “Otherwise I would be inclined to suspect that she put another spell on you.”
The Lion’s wife strolled closer to Catherine’s horse. She stroked Theodore’s nose while keeping her shrewd brown eyes fixed on Catherine’s.
“I have allowed you to pass through these gates,” Gwendolen said, “only because you are with this man, and he means a great deal to me. But know this, Raonaid: if you say or do one thing that displeases me, you will soon find yourself banished beyond these walls. Do you understand me?”
Catherine bristled at the chill in the woman’s tone, but spoke with an equal measure of authority. “Mistress MacDonald, I understand you have reason to mistrust me, but I request an opportunity to explain myself, if you will be so kind as to hear my plea.”
“Explain yourself?” Gwendolen scoffed. “Three years ago, you tried to steal my husband by luring him to your bed, then you colluded with his enemy and tried to have him killed. Nothing you say or do will ever change how I feel about you, Raonaid. Nor will it earn my trust. Ever.”
Catherine squared her shoulders. “Regardless, I wish to explain myself. Whether you believe me or decide to pitch me over the castle walls is entirely up to you.”
While Gwendolen stroked Theodore’s forelock she looked up at Catherine for a tense moment.
Gwendolen turned to address Lachlan. “What do you say, Lachlan? Is it worth my time to hear the tale she wishes to spin?”
He strode closer. “I believe so, Gwendolen, but whether you believe her or not will depend on how open-minded you are.”
Gwendolen backed away from Theodore and signaled to a groom to approach. “You both look weary,” she said to Lachlan. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”
“If it’s a kitchen-cooked meal you’re speaking of,” Lachlan replied, “it’s been too long. We’ve been eating out of our packs for five days.”
“Then come with me, the both of you. I’ll take you to the day parlor and have something sent up straightaway, while rooms are prepared.”
Catherine dismounted, and the groom led Theodore to the stable.
Gwendolen looked her up and down from head to foot, taking note of her soiled hemline and tattered bodice. “Is that all you have to wear?”
“Yes,” Catherine replied. “I apologize for my appearance, madam. I realize it’s hardly an appropriate traveling costume, but we left Drumloch Manor in such a hurry, shortly after dinner. There wasn’t time to change, or even pack a brush.”
Gwendolen regarded Lachlan with bewilderment. “Drumloch Manor?”
“It’s a long story,” he said, “and a strange one. Can we eat first?”
She glanced back and forth between the two of them, then nodded and led them to the Great Hall.