Page 14 of Echoes of a Forgotten Warrior (A Highland Ruse of Love #2)

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“W hy did she leave me behind?” James—now Connor—asked again as he put down his spoon after finishing the delicious stew he had been eating. It was the first solid food he had partaken of for over a day, and although he was not feeling his best, he knew he had to eat, and once he began, he found that he could not stop.

“As I said,” Finian replied as he fetched a bottle of wine, “she feels that she can be of more use in Rosskern.”

“I am so confused,” Connor said, sighing. “She could just as easily have stayed here.” He did not voice the other possibility that had come into his mind. What if Blaire really thought he had committed the murder of which he had been accused?

“I encouraged her to go,” Finian told him. “The more she stayed, the more danger she might be in. Even though most of them are good people, there are always one or two who will act on their own convictions, whether they are right or not.”

Connor was silent for a moment, thinking. Perhaps she had left because she truly believed he was a murderer. He could not bear that thought. Dare he go after Blaire? No, after all that they had been through, Connor Lovatt’s name was tainted, and by association, so would hers be. This was his fault for losing his memory and becoming so confused, he felt he was losing his mind.

Presently, Finian poured him a glass of deep, ruby red wine. “Apparently this is one of Father’s best varietals,” he said wryly. “Between you and me, Connor, I cannot tell the difference between this and any other wine, unless it is by the colour. It’s either red or white.” He tapped his glass against Connor’s, and it made a sound like a little bell ringing.

Then Connor sipped the wine, and it flowed over his tongue; its deep fruity flavour tasted of plums and blackcurrant, with a slight alcoholic tang. It was delicious. “This is Cabernet Sauvignon,” he said at once, then stopped short, looking at the glass in disbelief. “My god, how did I know that?”

“Because Connor Lovatt could always tell good wine from bad,” Finian replied, laughing at his astonished face. “Mistress Donaldson said she could always rely on you to tell her when a wine was corked.”

Mistress Donaldson was the head cook who had been with the family for many years.

A memory suddenly came back to him of the first time he had tasted wine at the tender age of fourteen. He had thought it so vile that he had spat it out, but his father had forced him to drink it again and again, saying that it was necessary for a gentleman of good breeding to do so.

At first, he had resisted, but his father was a stubborn man and continued to compel him to drink it, and gradually he had acquired a taste for it, then actively began to like it—some of it. There were certain varietals he actively detested, but the staff soon learned what they were and gave them the ones he liked best.

All this went through Connor’s mind as he sat gazing at the glass in his hand, but suddenly, it was all too much to bear. Who was he? Connor Lovatt or the man who called himself James Smith? Just because he could discern one wine from another did not make him the son of a Laird, since there were many people who had that ability. It was quite an unusual skill, but it was by no means unique.

Finian gazed at Connor with pity, unable to imagine what it felt like to find yourself stranded in a strange place without any way of finding your way back home. It must be like getting lost in the wilderness without a map.

He wondered whether he should introduce Connor to his father, but quickly dismissed the idea. Errol Lovatt was a stern, cold man who would not understand what his son was going through. He was more likely to shut him in a room or banish him from the castle for tarnishing the family’s reputation than seek help for him. An introduction could wait for a while.

“It’s a fine day,” Finian said. “Come on, Connor. It’s time we had a real talk about where this whole war is going, and perhaps then we can sort everything out and talk peace with the Sutherlands.”

“They say it was Connor who did it,” he said, his voice infinitely weary. “So if I am Connor, then I am a murderer.”

Finian gazed at his sad face for a moment. “If you are a murderer, then so am I. It was I who should have gone there. If I had, none of this would have happened.”

“Then whoever killed Katrina might have killed you.” Connor sighed wearily. “Can you tell me what happened—exactly?”

At that moment, Finian wished he were anywhere else in the world, since talking about Katrina’s death was the last thing he wanted to do. The irony of the whole situation was that while he was trying to forget the incident, Connor was trying to remember it. How had it come to this?

“To begin with, Father rushed our betrothal party,” he began. “One minute I was being ordered to marry Katrina Sutherland, and within a month Father had organised a celebration to mark our betrothal. He said we would conduct the wedding two weeks later.”

“Why the haste?” Connor asked, puzzled.

“I think he found out the truth about me and the woman I really love,” Finian replied. “I had to bow to Father’s will. That seems like an eternity ago. As I said, I had only ever known Katrina slightly, enough to greet her and make small talk about nothing really. I had never given her any thought at all, and marrying her had never even crossed my mind. When Father told me I had to wed her, I was devastated, then the accident happened.”

“When you realised Connor—I was sent to fetch her, what did you do?” Connor asked.

“I felt ashamed and afraid. All I wanted was to spend a little more time with Isla. I hoped my refusal to go to her that day would have provided me that precious time. But then you never made it back. We waited, and waited,” Finian answered.

He was twisting his hands in his lap and looked utterly distraught. “Eventually, Father sent out a search party. I was not in the group who found her, but they told me that Katrina was crushed under the carriage she was travelling in. She had obviously been attacked and robbed, since all her jewellery was gone, and so—” he hesitated, unsure of what to say next.

“And I was gone too.” Connor supplied bitterly. “So when I disappeared, everyone thought I had taken Katrina’s riches and ran away.”

“They thought that too,” Finian said, “but many people thought you had done it for me because everyone knew I didn’t want to marry her.” Then he leaned forward and grasped his brother’s hands. “But I didn’t believe it then, and I still don’t believe it, Connor. I know you. I have known you since you were a baby, and you are the most honourable person I know. You did not do this.”

His voice was emphatic, and as Connor looked into Finian’s eyes, which were a darker version of his own, he suddenly knew who he was because Finian Lovatt’s words were sincere, said with a conviction born of truth. And he knew that was because they were true, and his name was Connor Lovatt.

“I trust you,” he said in wonder, looking up at his brother. “At least, I feel I can.”

Finian leapt from his chair, rushed over to Connor and enveloped him in a mighty hug, laughing for sheer joy. “Welcome back, brother!” he cried. When they drew apart, they were smiling at each other, and Finian reached for the wine bottle again and poured a glass for each of them.

“Slàinte Mhath!” he cried as he bumped his glass against Connor’s.

Connor smiled slightly as he answered, “Slàinte Mhath!” He could hardly believe it, but as he looked at Finian, he wondered why he had not accepted the truth earlier.

They both sat down again and drank silently for a few moments. There were so many questions Finian wanted to ask, but he had no idea where to start. Eventually, he asked, “How do you feel now, Connor?”

“A bit better,” he replied. “It will take a while for everything to come back again, as Blaire said, but it is good I finally know who I am. Thank you, Finian.” He smiled at his brother and held up his wine glass again.

They drank another toast, but even though Connor was very happy to have discovered the truth at last, he was not happy to find out that he was a potential murderer. The Sutherlands wanted his head, and the only reason they did not have it already was that, ironically, he had lost his memory and had never known that he was suspected of any crime. Therefore, in a strange way, his plight had saved his life.

How had his life become this tangled mess? He still could not remember meeting Katrina, the carriage ride and whatever happened next, but due to all of it he had met Blaire, and she was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved her with his whole heart and soul, and had been ready to ask her to marry him, then all of it had been torn away in a matter of hours. Now she probably thought he was a traitor and a murderer, and he could not blame her for leaving him to fend for himself.

Connor could never expect her to come back to him because what woman in her right mind would return to a man who was a wanted criminal? In a way, he still yearned for his days as James to come back because at least he had Blaire, and she was all he wanted; he would endure any amount of hardship to be with her.

Finian, seeing his expression of sadness, put an arm around his shoulder and smiled at him. “You’re thinking of Blaire, are you not?” he asked. “Connor, you will see her again. The truth will come out, and you will be exonerated, then when it does, you will be able to marry her as you planned to.”

“I cannot bear thinking about her opinion of me at the moment, though.” He felt a physical ache in his chest at the mere notion of her probable disgust when his former name was mentioned.

Finian suddenly thought of a way to distract him. “Do you remember the time when I wanted to kiss that milkmaid?” Finian asked suddenly. “Her name was Alison, and she was sixteen at the time. She had blonde hair and deep brown eyes, as well as big—” He cupped his hands into the shape of her breasts, and his brother laughed.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I don’t remember.”

“No?” Finian laughed softly. “I was only fourteen at the time, and you were eleven, but she was gorgeous, and I could not stop thinking about her. I used to have a mare called Daisy in those days, and I made every excuse I could to go and see her because I had to walk past the dairy and buttery to get to the stables.

One day, it was absolutely pouring with rain and I ducked into the dairy to avoid it. Well, just after I went in, Alison came dashing in after me and bumped into me. Without thinking about it, I threw my arms around her and kissed her. Of course, I knew nothing about kissing in those days, and I don’t think Alison did either, but to my great surprise she did not push me away!”

“What did she do?”

“Told me she’d tell Father if I did it again,” he replied. “But the whole experience was a wee bit disappointing, so I never tried it again.”

Connor laughed heartily at that. “Tell me some more,” he said.

“I can tell you dozens of stories about you falling off of trees,” Finian said, “but not here. We can go to our favourite place.”

They began to mount the stairs to the top tier of the turrets and looked over the crenelations. The estate was built on top of a steep hill and looked as if it had grown out of the earth, which meant that it had a spectacular view of the landscape around it, and they could see for miles around.

In the summer, it was like a patchwork of bright greens, yellows and browns. In the autumn it was gold, red and brown, but now, in winter, it looked like a charcoal drawing, as if the cold had leached the colour out of everything. The trees were black skeletons, the burn was dark umber and the sky a sullen grey.

They leaned over the wall while Finian told Connor tales of their childhood and teenage years, and he laughed in all the right places, even though he could remember very little. The odd picture came into his mind, but it was usually only a flash and was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He might have retrieved his name, but it seemed he had not recovered much else.

They stood talking for a long time, but Connor was beginning to become bored with his brother’s endless chatter; his mind was wandering. He was grateful for Finian’s obvious concern for him, though; he was obviously a caring, thoughtful man. Connor suggested going back downstairs, and Finian, looking at his brother’s strained white face, agreed.

Connor went back to his room and threw himself on his bed. He thought about Blaire and despite his black mood, he smiled, seeing her bright, green eyes and full, soft lips in his mind’s eye. How he wished he could feel those lips on his again!

He wrapped his arms around a pillow and tried to pretend that it was her soft body, but when it proved impossible, he buried his face in it and wept bitterly.