The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

John Higgins was the only doctor for miles around, and he spent much of his time riding his rawboned roan mare to isolated settlements up and down the coast and deep into the hills.

“Aye. I was lucky, too. Barring some emergency that finds me here now, I’m only a short ride from my own hearth.”

Diarmid smiled. He’d always liked the spare young doctor with his wise eyes and generous heart. Passing across a glass of Bruce Mackenzie’s finest whisky, he gestured Higgins toward a leather armchair. “I willnae hold ye up long. You deserve your rest.”

Higgins sat and took a sip. A long sigh of pleasure escaped him, as he stretched his long legs across the Turkey carpet.

“Och, that’s a bonny drop.” He shot Diarmid a sharp glance, as the other man sank into the nearest chair. “I suppose you want to know about my patient upstairs.”

“Aye.” Diarmid sampled his own whisky. Bruce Mackenzie ran an illegal still on his friend Fergus Mackinnon’s estate. Diarmid was among the lucky few away from Achnasheen who received the benefit of the crofter’s illicit activities. “Is she injured?”

“No, not seriously. Plenty of scrapes and bruises after being tossed around in the wreck, but she’s come through remarkably well.” Higgins paused. “Apart from not remembering anything, of course.”

“Aye, so she says.”

Higgins’s eyes remained unwavering on Diarmid’s face. “You don’t believe her?”

“Have ye ever seen such a thing, a woman forgetting all her past, including her name?”

“I haven’t seen it.” Higgins frowned thoughtfully down into his drink. “Although I’ve seen men lose a few days of memory after a head injury.”

“This is more than that.”

“I’ve heard of such cases.”

Diarmid negated that with a gesture. “Aye, so have I. In a novel or on the stage. It always seems too convenient to be true, even in a story.”

Higgins shrugged. “I can’t tell if she’s pretending or not. What makes you so sure she is?”

Diarmid frowned, as he struggled to put into words something that was more instinct than knowledge. “When she told me she couldnae remember anything, she wasnae frightened enough of what was happening inside her head. A past that’s nothing but blankness should scare the living daylights out of her.”

“Forgetting her name mightn’t have her in a panic, but I get the feeling she’s frightened of

something. She’s as nervous as a cat in a kennel.”

“Ye picked that up, too?”

“It’s hard to miss.”

“So ye think she’s a sham?”

Higgins considered his answer before he spoke. “I can’t say for certain. Head injuries are mysterious beasties, Diarmid. What purpose lying to us, when surely she must want to return to her friends and family?”

Diarmid’s jaw tightened. “That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Higgins resumed watching him. “She’s a bonny wee thing.”

“Aye, even when she was as wet as a herring, that was clear.” Diarmid heard the betraying flatness of his tone.

Higgins’s crooked smile wasn’t devoid of compassion. “Not every beautiful woman is a liar, my friend.”

Diarmid gave a grunt of acknowledgment. John Higgins had lived at Invertavey for five years. He was party to all the glen’s secrets. Not that the late Lady Invertavey’s many infidelities and scandalous and tragic death had ever been any great secret.

“In my experience, the prettier the face, the more deceitful the tongue.”

“She’s not your mother.”

“No,” he said grimly. “But I’d still wager she’s got a lying tongue.”