Page 38 of Bond of a Bewitched Highlander

"The crimson could be from madder root." Finnian frowned as if in deep thought. "It might be a witch's concoction."

"Oh, hell," Brodie growled. The witch?

"How did this get on her head?" Finnian asked.

"I have nay inkling. After I got her out of the ocean, we went into the cave. Plenty of bat dung in there. Pines grow on the island's cliffs. Ambergris could've washed up on shore. As for rosemary, nay. I've seen none on the island."

"'Tis bizarre." Finnian grabbed a cloth from his table and wiped the red substance from his hand and from the top of her hair. "Have the maids wash this out of her hair, but be careful of her wound."

"Very well. Has this injury caused her to become mute?" Brodie asked.

"I cannot say as of yet. Try to speak, lass," Finnian urged.

She opened her mouth and attempted to force out a word, but again she uttered no sound. Was she being genuine or acting?

I cannot, she mouthed.

Brodie was surprised he could read her lips. But doing so reminded him of something he did not wish to remember. Nay, he refused to think about her lips.

"Can you whisper?" Brodie asked.

She shook her head.

"What about writing?" Finnian asked her.

She nodded.

Finnian motioned her toward the desk, where she took a seat. He shuffled through his papers until he came up with a clean one and placed it on the blotter.

She took the quill and examined the point, then uncorked the ink and dipped the nib in.

What shall I write? She mouthed.

"Who caused your head injury?" Brodie asked.

She scribed: a man kicked me down on the galley.

"Who?" he demanded, wanting to kick the whoreson down himself.

Do not recall, she wrote.

Brodie blew out an exasperated breath. "Why were you on the galley?"

She pointed to the words do not recall.

"Damn it all." Brodie paced. "Has the head injury taken her memory as well, Finnian?"

"It appears to be so. Lass, write down the last thing you remember."

She thought for a long moment, then wrote: Da gave me a pendant on my eighteenth birthday.

"Eighteenth?" Brodie growled. Elsea was more than twenty-one summers now. They had not even met when she'd turned eighteen. And now, her da had been dead for two years. "Do you remember anything after that?" he asked.

She pressed her eyes closed as if straining to remember, then shook her head in frustration.

"In the cave, when I asked you if you remembered me, you nodded... right after you woke up... when I walked in from outside. Do you remember that?"

Looking him in the eye, she lowered her brows and shook her head slightly. She appeared to be telling the truth. Was she, or had she become a gifted liar?