by Gayle Callen
She searched his face, looking for comfort, but finding none at all. He only shrugged and said nothing. She imagined that he would probably leave her in the nearest village—and she wouldn’t blame him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice sounding small and hesitant.
He looked at her again. “To my clan.”
For a moment, gratitude made her feel weak. “I—I don’t even know your name.”
“Duncan Carlyle.”
As he said his surname, he eyed her closely, obviously awaiting a response. But it meant nothing to her. The blankness inside her brain made her feel helpless and dependent, and she sensed that she wasn’t used to feeling that way.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Carlyle.”
She could not let her fears rule her. Her memory would return; she just needed to be patient.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she stifled them at the forbidding expression he wore. He was obviously not a man of idle chatter. If he was taking her to his clan, there would be plenty of people to question.
Gradually, she drifted into a doze, but twinges of pain kept her from deep unconsciousness. She must have truly slept, however, because the next thing she knew, she felt him lower her to the side and release her into other arms. She came awake with a gasp, but she couldn’t quite open her eyes. Another man spoke in an unfamiliar language, but she understood none of it.
“Let me go!” She felt panicky that Mr. Carlyle had changed his mind and meant to abandon her.
The man tightened his grip, and suddenly he was speaking English. “Eh, listen to that fine voice.”
It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Laird Carlyle, what are your orders for this Sassenach?”
Sassenach? She stiffened, knowing that word meant an Englishman. For some reason it offended her. She opened her eyes to face the man who would decide her future.
But it was Duncan Carlyle standing there, hands on his hips, eyeing her. He was so broad through the chest, as she well knew, his muscled arms evident in the form-fitting coat he wore over shirt, waistcoat, and plaid. Above his stockings, his knees were bare and powerful-looking. She didn’t think she was used to seeing a man’s naked legs.
“Do ye feel well enough to stand, mistress?” he asked.
“You’re Laird Carlyle?” she asked. “Why did you not say so?”
Laird Carlyle arched a dark brow. “I didn’t think it necessary.” He looked at the man who held her in a stiff, awkward grip. “Try setting the lass on her feet, Ivor. But hold tight. The head wound is serious.”
When her feet touched the ground, her legs felt shaky, and she kept her grip on the man’s coat. She turned her head, expecting to see a cottage or manor or something near the trees that now protected her from the rain. But instead, she saw an uneven wall of a rock, extending above her head and toward the sky. Directly in front of them was a dark opening that looked like a mouth into the side of the mountain. She didn’t know what to make of any of this. She glanced at Ivor, the bearded man who steadied her, his hair a dark blond and nearly touching his shoulders. No neat queue for him. But he wore the same black, red, and yellow plaid as Laird Carlyle did.
“This is Ivor, my war chief,” Laird Carlyle said.
Ivor winked at her. “And who might ye be, lass?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A name was the first thing you granted a stranger, and she had nothing to give.
“She’s taken a blow to the head,” Laird Carlyle said, “leaving her confused.”
Ivor’s bushy eyebrows lowered; he stared at her as if she were on display. All she could do was raise her chin and force a pleasant expression. But it was difficult. Now that she was standing, the mild ache in her head was beginning to throb again. Ivor tightened his hold on her arm just as she realized she’d begun to sway.
And then her world spun again as Laird Carlyle swept her into his arms. She didn’t protest—after all, his embrace was the only safety she had known in this world that seemed so new to her. He walked directly to the hole in the cliff and went inside. She gave a little gasp, expecting complete darkness, but to her surprise, the cave opened up, with a ceiling she couldn’t even see. Torches lined the rough walls, illuminating a little community of people. There were several small fires, with roasting spits or cauldrons suspended over them. Rough wooden tables were encircled by flat tree stumps in place of chairs. To the right, pallets and blankets were stacked, in the rear, trunks and crates. Along the wall to the left, she saw a small stream running the length of the cave. There was even a flat, wooden bridge crossing it, leading into another dark entranceway.
It was in that direction that Laird Carlyle strode, carrying her as if she were a feather. The half-dozen or so people, mostly women, stared at them in surprise. Her cheeks blushed with heat at being carried in front of people, but what else could be done?
“Laird Carlyle?” called a woman.
He didn’t pause, only spoke over his shoulder. “Maeve, bring your healing potions. The lass is injured.”
He crossed the flat bridge, which bounced with his steps. The water beneath gave off the smell of damp earth. The cave passageway continued to the right, but he took her left, into a small, rough chamber. There was a pallet on the floor, two trunks, and a chair at a table stacked neatly with books and papers. Pegs had been driven into the stone and were hung with a man’s clothing.
Laird Carlyle bent to lay her down on the pallet, and she felt the comfort of a stuffed mattress.
“Where are we?” she asked as he straightened.
“Scotland,” he answered briskly.
She would have thought he teased her, but he was so serious, she wasn’t certain. “You know what I mean.”
There was someone in the passageway behind him, but he didn’t turn. His narrow-eyed gaze studied her. He had the darkest eyes she’d ever seen; the pupil seemed to disappear within.
“This is a place of safety my people use when necessary.”
“It looks well used,” she said. “Is there a war I’ve forgotten, one you need to hide from?”
“Nay. Stop asking questions and allow Maeve to see to ye. We’ll talk in the morning after I’ve buried your men.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That is kind of you. Those poor men—I can’t even offer them true mourning without knowing who they are. Their poor families . . .” She broke off, feeling tears threaten.
“Mistress, ye were in a tragic accident through no fault of your own,” he said gruffly. “When your memory clears, we’ll see to their families.”
She sniffed. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your kindness.”
He looked away as if her gratitude made him uncomfortable.
“I don’t know enough to even tell you where they are,” she said.
“Ye couldn’t have walked far. I’ll find them.” With a nod of the head, he left the little cave.
Maeve entered, wearing a woolen gown with a fichu draped about her neck and tucked into the laces at her bodice. The edge of her linen cap dipped, but didn’t hide the wide, disfiguring scar that rippled down the left side of her face, just missing her eye, as if her skin had been melted in a fire. The other half of her face showed that she couldn’t be more than thirty years old.
Before she could embarrass herself by asking about Maeve’s injuries, Laird Carlyle returned, carrying a brazier piled with peat. As he worked to start a fire, the two women waited. At last, with a brusque nod, he departed again.
Maeve’s smile was lopsided because of her injury, but it was still friendly, as she set a tray on the table and laid an armful of clothing on the chair. “Good day, mistress. Ye’ve heard that I’m Maeve. And what are ye called?”
She looked over the woman’s shoulder, wishing Laird Carlyle would return and explain it all as easily as he had to Ivor. “This will sound foolish, but . . . I don’t know my name. I woke up in the rain, with a pounding head and . . . tha
t’s all I know. Your laird found me wandering down the road.” She gave another shiver.
Maeve’s expression faded from interest to deep concern. “How terrible for ye, mistress. Wounded, and now soaked—ye’ll catch yer death. Don’t fash about anythin’ but feelin’ better. That will help yer memory. Let’s get ye out of these garments.”
It took far too long to unpin, unlace, and untie all of her clothes, for the wet strings proved difficult. But at last, she was dressed in a clean nightshift, her head poulticed and bandaged, the scratches on her palms cleaned. She’d wanted to dress in a gown for the day, but Maeve had insisted she needed her rest after such a terrible wound, and she hadn’t protested all that much.
They’d found a small pouch of coins hidden within her skirt, and without saying anything, Maeve tucked it beneath her pillow, out of sight. If Laird Carlyle had been a dishonest man, he would have looked for such a thing and left her to die. But he’d helped her, brought her to safety—in a cave, she reminded herself. There had to be a story behind that.
When at last she lay on the pallet, a blanket pulled up around her, she felt almost peaceful, warm for the first time in hours. Her head continued to throb, but it had dulled. She had a bowl of soup warming her from the inside, and she tried to tell herself to be content that she wasn’t alone, that a kind man had found her.
She drowsily watched Maeve put away her healing supplies, then said, “It feels so strange not to know myself. I must have a name, a family, maybe even a husband.”
“Ye wear no ring, nor is there a mark of one,” Maeve pointed out.
“True. I could be newly married. But regardless . . . I need to be called something, even if it’s only temporary.”
“Should I just suggest names and ye can pick the one that seems to speak to ye?”
“Just . . . name myself?” She blinked again, feeling the distant call of sleep. “Very well, what kind of person do I look like, Maeve? A Mary? An Elizabeth? No, those just don’t . . . mean anything to me.”
Maeve studied her with narrowed eyes.
“Fiona?” Maeve asked. “Margaret? Catherine?”
“Catherine!” she cried. “I like it.”
“Do ye think ’tis your name?”
“I—I don’t know. But I need to call myself something.”
“Mistress Catherine ye’ll be then,” Maeve said, rising up from the chair. She placed a cup of water at the edge of the table, within easy reach, then made sure that the lantern had a fresh candle. “I’ll check on ye later, Mistress Catherine,” she said, emphasizing the new name. “And I’ll try to keep the voices down out in the great hall.”
“The great hall?”
Maeve chuckled. “Our private joke. Sleep well, Mistress Catherine.”
Catherine.
After Maeve pulled the curtain across the opening and left, Catherine turned the name over and over in her mind, even as her eyelids grew heavier. It was a good name, solid, respectable. She hoped she was a woman who deserved it. But she worried that if she was traveling by herself, with only two men, what kind of woman was she? Or had one of those men been the husband she couldn’t remember?
The rain had stopped, the sun was setting, yet Duncan lingered in the small paddock, currying his horse with a comb to loosen the dirt and sweat. The animal asked no questions, unlike the people he was going to face when he went back inside. The wind picked up, and Duncan lifted his head at the eerie wail emanating from high above him. Though the sound was part of his everyday life, others thought the castle was haunted. Even the majority of his clan crossed themselves and kept their distance, which proved beneficial, since they couldn’t know where he was hiding. He’d handpicked the couple dozen men who lived with him in the caves, choosing the strongest, the most talented—the ones without close family who depended on them. The rest of Clan Carlyle lived in several nearby villages, farming their meager lands, raising a few precious head of cattle. The outlaw status of their chief had meant few people wanted to trade with them. The whisky smuggling was the only thing keeping his people from starving. But his clan couldn’t know about that, though he imagined many suspected. They probably thought he was reiving cattle, too, but he preferred stealing from the Earl of Aberfoyle.
And now he’d stolen the man’s daughter to show him the reality of losing a child.
Duncan tipped his head back and could just see the turret of his ancestral home, rising on the mountain high above the glen. From miles away it could be seen, a testament to the greatness the Carlyles had once taken for granted—or a reminder of how far they’d fallen. Oh, the fall had started long before he was born, but for a man who’d vowed to raise his clan up again, he’d done a poor job of it.
No one had lived in the Carlyle castle for several generations; who would think to look for Duncan in such an obvious place? Yet he’d brought Catriona Duff here—the daughter of his enemy. She’d been unconscious and hadn’t seen the hidden path. He would just have to make certain she stayed within the cave until he knew if she was lying to him. If she caught a glimpse of the castle, she’d be able to guide her clansmen here, and he couldn’t allow that. He was endangering his people just by bringing her to the cave.
Taking a deep breath of resignation, Duncan followed the path along the mountainside until he reached the entrance to the cave. He’d passed several hidden men guarding the encampment. Inside, he found his people eating supper, seated on logs or stone, all eyeing him warily. These were the only clansmen allowed close to him, the ones he trusted most to aid his whisky smuggling, and on rarer occasions, to help find the stolen children before they could be taken onto ships for the colonies. But he could never relax and be one of them, was always conscious of the danger he’d put them in—like when he’d nearly been captured last month. He was their chief, the reason their lives were hard, and it was his responsibility to give them a better life.
Maeve brought him a plate of fried trout and someone cleared a place for him at one of the tables. They were all unnaturally quiet, and he knew why.
“The stranger is not hungry?” he asked in Gaelic, in case Catriona was eavesdropping.
“She needs to stay abed,” Maeve said. “I brought her soup.”
The four women continued to serve the men, but the men eyed him curiously. Most were young and unmarried. They were plain-speaking and rough, used to the hardships of the Highlands, which suited Duncan well. One of the men, Angus, had a wife but no children, Melville had a grown daughter he refused to leave alone at their cottage, and Mrs. Skinner, a widow with a son in Duncan’s camp, wanted to cook their meals. The women had come to live with them and help, for which Duncan was grateful. And then there was Maeve, unmarried and likely to remain so since she kept herself distant with men because of her disfigurement. But she’d been a friend since his youth, and he would not deny her the chance to help the rescued children.
“So ye’ve brought a wench to yer room,” Angus called from his place at the table.
There was some chuckling, but most were probably concerned that he’d broken the rules he’d given them. No one was to bring anyone to the encampment without a discussion. Much as Duncan had final approval, he knew his men appreciated being consulted.
“I’ve not brought the lass for myself,” Duncan said. “Ye saw the bandages on her head. She was badly wounded, and I couldn’t leave her wandering the road. She was unconscious for the journey here—have no fear she knows anything that can harm us.” And he would keep it that way.
“Ye could have brought her to the village,” Melville mumbled into his drink.
Duncan wasn’t certain that comment was meant to be heard by him, but he answered it anyway. “I could have, but I didn’t. She claimed there are two dead men near where I found her. I’ll go look for them in the morn, and then I’ll know more of her situation. She was too near the cave for my comfort.”
Maeve gave the clansmen a frown, and Duncan knew she would not remain silent. She was the mother hen of this encam
pment, and everyone respected her. Sometimes he felt like the two of them oversaw this little pocket of the clan together. He appreciated her help, common sense, and companionship. He could never make right what his family owed her, much as his father had tried.
“The lass is lost and wounded,” Maeve explained. “Laird Carlyle did the right thing.”
Duncan eyed Maeve. “Did she remember anything else?”
“Nothin’, not even her name.”
More murmurings floated through the group. Duncan felt a touch of guilt for lying to his clan about Catriona’s identity, but he wouldn’t make them complicit in his crime. Because it was a crime, holding a noblewoman captive, even though she didn’t realize it, even though her father deserved whatever anxiety Duncan caused him.
After swallowing a bit of trout and a mouthful of ale, he said, “Until we know more, Ivor, I’d like ye to see to extra patrols, in case someone is looking for the woman. If ye see them, don’t approach. Return to me.” He let his gaze take in the rest of his people. “And when ye speak to the woman, tell her nothing of our purpose here.”
“How long will she stay?” Ivor asked.
Duncan regarded his war chief impassively. He deserved as much truth as Duncan could give. “I know not. She’s injured, and needs to heal. And there is the problem of her memory loss. We’ll take it day by day.” Then he glanced at Maeve. “Do ye have an extra pallet for me to sleep on out here?”
Angus snickered. “Ye don’t want to share yer room with the lass?”
Duncan was glad to give his men something to laugh about, but it wasn’t easy for him to join in. He arched his brow and said dryly, “None here would force themselves on an injured woman—and that includes me.”
He went back to his fish, and let the conversation swirl around him. He’d leave at dawn to go find the dead men she’d told him about, and if he was lucky he’d know more about why she’d been traveling so near his encampment.
He thought about Catriona, asleep in his chamber, and wondered where her father thought she was. Would the man pace over his frustration, his helplessness, his fear? Duncan had spent many an evening with a grieving woman who’d lost her child forever to the kidnappers. The earl would never suffer that unending pain he’d caused so many families; his daughter would eventually be returned to him. Though Duncan seldom allowed himself to feel content, he did so now at the thought of the earl’s worry.
