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

“I’m starting to agree with Diarmid. We need to do something to locate your family. This is the third day after the wreck. They must be frantic for news of you.”

“No…” She raised horrified eyes to meet the doctor’s kind but perceptive gaze. She gulped in some air and struggled to steady her voice, although she feared he’d recognized her panic. “I’m sure in time my memory will come back. I don’t want to put you or Mr. Mactavish to any inconvenience.”

As if he spoke the words, she saw the thought run through the doctor’s mind that she could hardly disrupt Mr. Mactavish’s household more than she did right now. But he was too polite to point that out, even if they both knew it was true.

Staring out at the small village, she swallowed to shift the bitter taste of all her lies. Invertavey was neat and prosperous and well managed. The laird was a good master. Compared to rough, rundown Bancavan, Invertavey was Eden.

She hadn’t paid attention to the scenery on the way to the church. When Mr. Mactavish was with her, she never noticed much else. Dr. Higgins was more restful company, or at least he had been until he mentioned taking measures to discover her identity.

As they trundled along the cobbled street, people turned to watch her. She supposed her dramatic arrival set tongues wagging, especially as she’d taken up residence in the manor with a bachelor. Another reason for going sooner rather than later. Mr. Mactavish didn’t deserve to be the target of gossip as repayment for his generosity. A woman in dire straits could spend a couple of days under his roof without raising too many eyebrows. But if that turned into an extended convalescence, questions would be asked.

Nor would her presence remain a secret outside Invertavey if she lingered. News had a way of spreading like rings of water in a pond after someone threw in a stone. She couldn’t take the risk of word reaching the Grants that an unknown woman had washed up miles down the coast from Bancavan.

“Miss Nita?”

How she hated that stupid name, too. Every time she heard it, it reminded her that she was a foul liar.

“Yes, Dr. Higgins?” She didn’t look away from the road. They’d turned onto the long drive leading up to the house.

“Diarmid Mactavish is the finest man I know. There’s no better friend in adversity. If you’re in trouble, tell him. You can trust him.”

Dr. Higgins’s quiet, sincere words had tears pricking at her eyes, tears too revealing to shed. How she wished she could ask for her host’s help, but she couldn’t take the risk that he might decide to tell the Grants where she was.

Fiona wasn’t lost to the irony of her situation. All her life, she’d been taught to loathe the Mactavish name, yet now the only man she came close to trusting was a Mactavish.

Blinking away her tears, she braced to tell more lies. She sucked in an unsteady breath and faced the doctor, seeing his concern and his integrity, and knowing she could rely on neither. She even managed to muster a brief smile.

“Once my memory comes back, I’ll be able to answer all your questions. Right now, that’s my only trouble—and regaining my strength. Mr. Mactavish has been so good to me, and so have you, Doctor. Whatever happens, I’ll always cherish the welcome I received at Invertavey. No lady in distress could have found a better sanctuary.”

That at least was true, although it didn’t ease the doctor’s frown as he studied her. Mr. Mactavish had never believed that she’d lost her memory. She had a sinking feeling that Dr. Higgins became more skeptical by the hour.

It was time she went, before these kind people realized they’d sheltered a deceiver. One more night at Invertavey to gather her strength, one more day. Tomorrow night, once the household was abed, she’d brave the open hills and make her way to her daughter.

Chapter 7

Shielding her candle with one hand, Fiona crept down the imposing oak staircase to Invertavey House’s ground floor. Her other hand clung to the carved banister, with its fanciful dolphins and mermaids and tritons, more reminders that the house was beside the sea, if the view out the window wasn’t enough to convince a visitor.

She’d returned from Colin’s funeral exhausted and heartsick, not just with grief for the loss of a good man. Her quest had forced her to make some hard decisions, and none harder than this. What she intended to do now broke every law of hospitality and was a betrayal of all the generosity she’d received here.

After the funeral, she’d slept for hours and managed a good dinner. This was the first time since the shipwreck that she started to feel more like herself. For days, she’d felt like she was made of wet string, scarcely able to stand on her own two feet. Now her legs hardly trembled as she inched her way downstairs.

This morning on the way out, she’d caught a quick glimpse of the rooms leading off the hall. She made for the one that seemed to be a study or library. What she wanted might be there. If not, she’d search for an office, or down in the kitchens.

At the doorway, she paused, loathing what necessity made of her. Then as so often before, she set aside her qualms and stepped into the dark room, quietly closing the door behind her.

Nothing mattered beyond Christina’s safety.

In grim, loveless Bancavan, everything was locked away, including the women. So when she put her candle on the large leather-topped desk before a tall window, Fiona expected what she wanted to be out of immediate reach.

Picking simple locks was a skill she’d learned over the last wretched years. But when she tried the top drawer, it opened at her first touch. A sigh of relief escaped her. Here in happy, well-managed Invertavey, the laird didn’t secure his valuables. He trusted the people around him. Shame tasted rusty in her mouth as she realized she was about to prove him wrong.

Flickering candlelight revealed a jumble of bits and pieces. A silver com

pass. A gold watch on a chain. Pens. Pencils. Notebooks. Bent nails. Bird feathers. Seashells. And a scatter of what she sought—cold, hard cash.

Instead of reaching for the money, Fiona paused to fight a wave of poignant tenderness. She couldn’t afford to give in to weakness, but the mess in the drawer was so unexpected. She’d imagined Diarmid Mactavish would be orderly in his habits. He always seemed so in command of himself.

This untidy drawer revealed a boyish tendency to collect odds and ends and pile them together in a chaotic heap. Her powerful response to this surprising side to her host’s character took her unawares. Somewhere in the last days, she’d developed a genuine respect and liking for the master here.