Page 17 of How a Scot Surrenders to a Lady

The Scot swept his emerald gaze over her. “Ye did nae ever say, and ye ran off before I could find out.”

“Ye must kensomethingabout me?” she cried out. The room seemed to be spinning to her.

“All I ken about ye, lass,” he said slowly, softly, as if he sensed her growing fright, “is that ye were amongst a party of men who attacked my men as we were bringing the king’s mistress back to him.”

She felt the hard stare of all eyes in the room upon her, especially the Scot before her. He looked at her expectantly, as if he wanted her to explain her presence there, which angered her since she could not remember anything. “I dunnae ken why I was with those men since I dunnae remember anything! Where is the king’s mistress?” she gasped, her fear escalating. “Please,” she almost begged. “May I see her?”

“She’d dead,” the russet-haired woman replied flatly, watching her with obvious wariness.

Dear God above! Did they think she was a party to murder? She swept her gaze over the occupants of the room, coming back to the Scot before her. “Ye kinnae think I had something to do with it,” she bit out, but even as the words left her mouth, her lack of memories taunted her. Had she had something to do with it?

“We dunnae truly ken yer part, if any, yet, do we?” the dark-haired man replied.

Four

“Might I talk to ye alone?” Cameron demanded more than asked Iain. His brother’s jaw tensed. Cameron suspected Iain’s ire had more to do with worry for him should he not find Katherine’s killer than anger at the lass who shook like a leaf and who had fear swimming in the fathomless pools of her eyes.

“We can talk here, in front of—” Iain’s words faltered “—the nameless one,” he growled, locking his disbelieving glare on her.

A protective instinct flared within Cameron. “Dunnae call her that,” he ground out as he moved to shield the lass from Iain. Cameron had seen grown men piss themselves from the force of his brother’s glare, and he’d be damned if he was going to stand here and let Iain intimidate the lass.

His brother’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared. “What would ye have me call her, then, since she claims she dunnae ken her own name.”

“It’s likely true,” Marion inserted, putting her small hand on Iain’s arm and giving him a chiding look. Cameron knew well if anyone had the power to calm Iain and make him see reason, it was his gentle but stubborn wife. And sure enough, Iain relaxed his rigid stance a bit as he gave his wife a skeptical look and a hint of a smile.

“Ye’re too trusting, Wife,” he said.

A scowl crossed her face, and she set her hands to her hips. “I trust when my heart and head tell me to, as I once did for you when you asked me to do so. Were my instincts wrong, Husband?”

“Nay, but that was me.” He offered a cocky grin.

“And this is now,” Marion replied sternly. “Speak with your brother outside and let me examine…” Marion shot an apologetic glance toward the lass, who was looking back with a mixture of awe and skepticism. “I fear we will have to simply give you a name until we learn your true one.” Marion tilted her head. “How about Marna?”

“Nay,” Cameron blurted. The lass was definitely not a Marna.

Lachlan, Iain, and Lena all gave him incredulous looks. He was sure they were wondering why he even cared what they called her. He would have been wondering about it himself if not for Eolande’s prophecy. He knew why he cared, and he knew why he should force himself not to since she presented a danger to him, and yet this one thing seemed harmless yet important.

“What the devil do ye wish to call her, then?” Lena demanded, making him grimace with her snarly tone.

Cameron turned to look at theherin question. She shifted on the bed, slipped her feet to the ground, and slowly stood. She was a tall, graceful creature. At first glance, one would almost judge her fragile with such fine bones, yet she held her backbone straight with her shoulders squared and her chin tilted up. She had obviously taken control of the fear that had cloaked her moments before. Her thick, pale hair looked tousled, as if she had just enjoyed a good tumble in a bed, and her glittering eyes reminded him of the way the water in the loch looked when the sun hit it, like shiny bits of glass. She was so beautiful she looked like a princess or a queen.

“Serene,” he blurted, knowing the name to meanprincess.

Lena made a derisive noise, which he ignored.

Slowly, the lass nodded. “That seems acceptable. What do I call each of ye?”

Iain was the first to answer with one, gruff word. “Laird.”

After Iain’s reply, Marion, Lachlan, Broch and Ragnar offered their name. Lena’s lips pressed into a thin line, as if she would not give the lass her name, but when Marion nudged Lena in the side, she muttered her name. Cameron sighed inwardly at his sister’s unwelcoming behavior. He knew it stemmed from protectiveness of him.

Cameron was the last to speak. He met Serene’s questioning eyes. “I’m Cameron,” he said simply.

“Ye,” she said, coming toward him and stopping near, so near that he could once again feel the heat of her and smell her intoxicating scent. Slowly, she reached for his hands, and when he realized she intended to grasp them, he shifted away. He wanted too greatly to hold her close. His irrational desire for the woman was a thing to fear.

“I’ve a memory of ye,” she murmured, “that is like the mist. It’s swirling in my head, but it will nae form a picture.”

“In this memory,” Lachlan drawled, humor in his voice, “were ye flat on yer back in a bed or possibly upon hay with my brother hovering over ye?”

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