Without saying a word, he remounted and rejoined the others. They, too, said nothing, simply continued on their way to Ogilvey's keep at Muirladen. He was grateful for their silence as he needed time to accept this new flooding of memory, time to calm himself and prepare himself for the confrontation to come.
Despite some rather bloodcurdling threats from Sigimor, Liam had refused to say any more, and Diarmot found that ominous enough to feel that his wits had to be very sharp before he met Lord Ogilvey.
It was tempting, however, to leave them and the trouble ahead and return to the copse where he had first made love to Ilsa. He wanted to savor that sense of joy he had found that day, the passion followed by a peace and happiness he had not known in far too long. It had swept over him along with the return of that memory. The words she had whispered while held fast in his arms had seemed to echo in the copse, sweet words that he had not heard since. Her voice alive with passion and joy, Ilsa had told him that she loved him. He knew now as he had known then that she spoke the truth.
He wanted that back. In some ways, it was his own fault it had slipped through his fingers. Diarmot knew he could not completely blame his memory loss for the way he had treated Ilsa. He also knew it would not help his cause to return with his restored memory and try to pull from her all he had pushed aside during these last weeks. It had been a mistake not to let her know when he had begun to change his opinion of her, when his feelings for her had begun to eat away at his mistrust. Doing so now was going to have Ilsa think it was only the return of his memory that drove him, that washed away the mistrust.
There was no time to fret about that now, he thought with an inner sigh, as they rode through the gates of Muirladen. As he and the Camerons dismounted, Diarmot looked around and suddenly knew he had been here before. At that time the laird had refused to see him and he had ridden away angry and swearing to return, only to be beaten that night and forget the man altogether. This time he would not be turned away.
Even as he came to that decision, Sigimor and Somerled began to remove the opposition. When the fact that Sigimor was a neighboring laird did not get him in the door, he simply picked up the guard and tossed him aside. Somerled did the same with the one standing in front of him. The other men standing around began to edge away. With Somerled and the rest of them watching his back, Sigimor strode into the great hall of Muirladen.
"Ye have to admit my cousin has a memorable way of introducing himself to the neighbors," murmured Liam as he stood next to Diarmot.
Diarmot shook his head. He was beginning to think that all the Camerons were just slightly mad. The way Lord Ogilvey was staring at the Cameron twins told Diarmot he was thinking the same. When Sigimor and Somerled sat down flanking the laird and helped themselves to some of the man's wine, Diarmot looked at Liam. That man just shrugged and moved to sit next to Somerled. With Tait at his heels, Diarmot moved to sit next to Sigimor; Tait sat down next to him.
"What are ye doing here?" demanded Lord Ogilvey.
"We came to ask ye a few questions about your wife," began Sigimor.
"Lorraine has been dead for eleven years."
"And the two girls who fostered with her at about that time."
Lord Ogilvey paled slightly. "I dinnae wish to talk about those spawn of the devil."
"I really dinnae care what ye want, m'laird," Sigimor drawled, his voice icy and hard. "Ye will tell me what I want to ken. Ye see, it may help me keep my wee sister alive. Since I am rather fond of my sister, she being the only one I have, I willnae be verra happy with anyone who doesnae help me protect her."
"I havenae e'en met your sister. I am nay doing anything to hurt her."
"I didnae accuse ye. What ye ken from years ago is what I seek, for I believe it will lead me to my sister's enemy. Do ye recognize this mon?" he asked Lord Ogilvey and nodded toward Diarmot.
"Nay," replied Lord Ogilvey. "Why should I?"
"Because I tried to speak to ye a year past," said Diarmot, and nodded in reply to the question in Sigimor's quick glance. "I remember coming here after leaving Dubheidland to go home, but this mon refused to speak to me."
"And that night he was beaten near to death in the village here," added Sigimor. "Are ye nay curious as to why he wanted to speak to ye or why someone would feel compelled to try and silence him?"
"Ye are nay going to go away, are ye?" Lord Ogilvey asked in a weary, defeated voice.
"Nay, m'laird, we arenae," replied Sigimor.
"I believe my late wife was one of the lasses who fostered with your wife, ten years ago or more," said Diarmot. "Anabelle." His eyes widened at the foulness of the curse Lord Ogilvey spit out.
"My poor Lorraine had no bairns," the laird said. "She thought it would be wondrous to have two girls here to teach and help raise. The woman had such plans, expected sweet lasses who would learn from her and bring her joy. Instead she got two demons from hell. Your Anabelle was fair on the outside, but black as night on the inside."