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called Angus. Perhaps if she met him, she would feel more confident about her past and have a better sense of what was real. She would either recognize him as her former lover—and he in turn would recognize her—or know, without a doubt, that she was not the oracle, and never had been.
    Surely a woman would recognize her first lover.…
    When she entered the drawing room a moment later, a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth and John was standing before it, sipping from a crystal glass of claret. He wore a royal blue dinner jacket with a heavy brocade waistcoat, dark knee breeches, and ivory stockings. A cumbersome French wig with a lengthy mass of brown curls framed his face.
    He glanced up at the sound of her approach and gave her an apologetic smile. “My dear Catherine…”
    She held up a hand. “Please, John, that is not necessary. I require no sympathy. The Highlander caused no permanent damage.”
    But the heat of his kiss was still burning in her mind.
    “In that case, you look well,” John said, setting his own glass down and pouring a drink for her. She accepted it and drew in a small sip. Her cousin picked up his glass again. “It was a terrible ordeal, to be sure,” he said. “I am relieved it is over.”
    “As am I,” she replied, “but I wish to see the Highlander again. If you could please arrange it.”
    John faced her with concern. “ See him, Catherine? But why?”
    She had expected some opposition from her cousin. He was, after all, her guardian and protector, and the Highlander had attempted to harm her in the worst possible way.
    “Surely you are as curious as I,” she explained, “about what he claims to know of me. Perhaps he can unlock the mystery of my whereabouts for the past five years. Or offer some insight about my true identity.”
    John moved closer. “There is no insight required—and certainly not from a man like him. You are my cousin—a Montgomery!—and those are the facts. Grandmother knows it with every breath in her soul, and you know how much you mean to her. She would never make a mistake about her own flesh and blood.”
    Catherine swallowed over all the doubts that continued to poke at her. “Yes, I do believe she is certain that I am Catherine. But the fact remains that we do not know why I went missing five years ago, or what happened to me during that time. Do you not wish to ask the Highlander more questions? Are you not curious as to how I ended up in Italy? Perhaps he knows something that can help us fit the pieces together.”
    John gulped down the remaining contents of his glass and moved to sit on the sofa. “Dr. Williams would not approve. He said you must avoid situations that cause you undue stress.”
    She quirked a brow, and John’s expression warmed.
    “If it means that much to you,” he conceded, “I could speak to the magistrate in the morning. We could go together.”
    “That would be wonderful. Thank you, John.”
    “But I won’t let you be alone with him.”
    “Of course not.” She quickly dropped her gaze to her lap. “Nor should I wish to be.”
    “And you shouldn’t mention it to your grandmother.”
    A few moments later, Eleanor, the dowager countess, entered the drawing room. She was a short, stout woman with gray hair and spectacles, who did not often smile or show emotion—though she had wept uncontrollably when she found Catherine in the convent, alive and recuperating.
    Catherine faced her.
    “What are you speaking of?” Eleanor brusquely asked.
    “Nothing, Grandmother.”
    Catherine immediately changed the subject, for earlier in the day—after learning of the attack—Eleanor had insisted they never mention the Highlander again.
    *   *   *
     
    They dined that evening on oyster soup, followed by a main course of roast pheasant with cranberry sauce and herbed carrots, and succulent raspberry custard tarts for dessert.
    Aside from the occasional light clink of silverware against china plates, it was a quiet