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
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
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