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.
“Ah, look,” Gawyn said cheerfully. “Her Ladyship has awakened. Did you sleep well enough?”
She and Lachlan shared no more than a passing glance as he led her horse closer to the tent and tethered him to a nearby branch. In that brief moment, however, she saw in Lachlan’s eyes a secret desire and her heart fluttered with anticipation.
“Will we travel regardless of the rain?” she asked, making a deliberate effort to speak with casual indifference while hiding her impetuous urge to pull Lachlan back into the tent and repeat every delicious intimacy they had shared the night before.
“Aye,” Lachlan replied, without looking at her. “So you best get yourself up and ready, my lady, or you’ll soon feel the poles of that tent coming down on your head.”
Gawyn’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. “He’s just havin’ you on, Lady Catherine. He wouldn’t really do it, would you, Lachlan?”
He shrugged, as if to say, Why not?
Taking him quite seriously, Catherine retreated into her temporary abode and dressed for the day ahead.
Within the hour, they were trotting away from the beach and riding through the forest, where the tall evergreens provided at least some shelter from the rain. Lachlan and Roderick rode out front to lead the way while Gawyn, Rodney, and Alex followed behind Catherine in a single column.
They rode in silence for most of the morning, plodding along at a slow and easy pace, until the wind picked up and Catherine began to feel a wet chill seeping through the heavy wool of her cloak.
Soon Alex trotted up beside her. “Are you warm enough, Lady Catherine?” His expression was creased with concern.
The wind howled through the treetops and blew the bottom of her cloak across her lap. “I am well enough, Alex. Do not suggest we stop on my account, for I am eager to reach the village and enjoy a hot meal and warm bed tonight. It will be a welcome luxury, to be sure.”
An awkward silence ensued while he glanced over his shoulder at the others.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
His cheeks flushed bright red, but not from the cold. “I fear it is not my place to speak of such things, my lady—but I hold you in the highest regard, and for that reason, I cannot hold my tongue.”
“What is it you speak of, Alex?”
He hesitated, then cleared his throat. “I know that Lachlan was with you last night, Lady Catherine. I saw him leave your tent before dawn.”
Catherine worked hard to control her anger. “You are correct in one regard, Alex. It is not your place to speak of such things.”
His cheeks drained of all color. “I apologize, my lady. I did not mean to offend, but you asked me to speak freely.”
She regarded him carefully for a moment, scrutinizing the purpose of his intentions. “I did,” she admitted. “Was there anything else you saw? Or perhaps heard?”
Alex flushed anew. “I heard him say that he would visit you in your chamber again tonight, when we reach the inn. I heard him say he’d scale the walls.”
Catherine fought to hold on to her composure while another part of her railed with indignation. “I must repeat myself, Alex. This is none of your business. It is a private matter between Lachlan and me.”
“I understand that, my lady,” he argued, “and I am deeply sorry, but I must speak my mind. I do not mean to intrude upon your private affairs, but I feel it is my duty to inform you that Lachlan MacDonald is not to be trusted with your heart. He has a reputation for seducing young lassies just like yourself. He makes them behave in irrational ways, and there’s a curse upon him. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
Catherine squeezed the leather reins in her gloved hands. “I am not one of those foolish young girls.”
But did she truly believe that? What she felt for Lachlan was anything but rational. Whenever he touched her, she became blind to every sensible thought and precaution, and last night she would have done anything to make him stay with her. Anything.
“I appreciate your concern,” she said nonetheless, “but I assure you I can take care of myself. Please do not speak of this again.”
She kicked in her heels and galloped off to ride ahead.