by Gayle Callen
She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“Ye could be a danger to yourself or to us. No one can know we’re here, so if ye don’t know our location, then ye can’t tell anyone.”
“Why can no one know you’re here?” she asked.
“That is none of your concern, mistress. But these people are my concern, and I will protect them however I can.”
He leaned over her, all broad shoulders and threateningly male. She was surprised and confused to feel a flutter of excitement at his nearness. She reminded herself that he was not a suitor, but a man who was trying to intimidate her, and he was succeeding. If she didn’t find a way to ease their concerns, she’d be miserable, as well as trapped in the cave.
And a small part of her, like a tiny child curled in the corner of her mind, was afraid to go outside into the world. She didn’t like that part of herself. “Very well, I accept your terms,” she said coolly. “For now.”
“For now?” he echoed with suspicion.
“I reserve the right to discuss changing these rules later, when you and your clan learn that I don’t mean anyone any harm.”
Don’t cast me out, the little girl in her head pleaded.
He locked his gaze with hers, as if sizing her up. Catherine let him look his fill, and looked back, telling herself he was just a man, a man with secrets he had to protect. Though he had all the power right now, those secrets made him vulnerable. Perhaps he knew that and didn’t like it, and used all this bluster to hide it.
Or perhaps he was just a man who needed to have his own way.
She hoped her memory returned soon, so she didn’t have to linger and find out.
Catherine spent the morning preparing vegetables for the midday meal, cauliflower, cabbage, and onions. It was far easier than the butchering Mrs. Skinner was doing. Catherine eyed the bloody mess uneasily, where it was skewered above various fires. None of this seemed familiar to her.
But something did seem familiar—telling others what to do. More than once, she had to bite her tongue before sending one of the women off to fetch something for her, as if she wasn’t capable of getting it herself. It was simply natural for her to give orders. That might be appropriate in whatever life she had—scandalous or proper or otherwise—but it wasn’t her place here.
Mrs. Skinner occasionally said something to her in Gaelic, then rolled her eyes and sighed loudly when Catherine didn’t understand. When Maeve was absent, a timid young woman named Janet translated. When Catherine smiled her gratitude, the woman only blushed and ducked away, as if afraid to be seen with a Sassenach.
All morning, Laird Carlyle returned occasionally to the cave and just looked at her—which didn’t help her popularity. Did he think she was going to use the tiny dirk and threaten her way out of the cave? He had to know she had nowhere to go.
A young clansman came near the cooking fires and stole a bannock and then a kiss from the young woman who must be his sweetheart.
Catherine didn’t realize she was still watching them until Maeve said softly, “Janet and Angus only married earlier this year.”
The girl was so thin and petite, Catherine wouldn’t have thought she was old enough to marry. She gathered the pile of turnips together and eyed Maeve. “She followed him . . . here?”
Maeve shrugged. “They wished to be together. ’Tis not quite the same with Sheena.” She gestured with her chin toward the other woman, more buxom and full of confidence. “She’s here because her da wouldn’t leave her behind.”
“I imagine Laird Carlyle allowed it because the women help keep his men fed,” Catherine said.
“As if the men don’t know how to feed themselves? Ye assume much, mistress,” Maeve chided gently.
Catherine sighed. “Forgive me. I don’t like being accused of lying, and it makes me irritable.”
“Ye don’t like not being trusted. ’Tis how we all feel.”
Catherine couldn’t help staring at the two young women who now spoke to each other quietly as they worked. Though one was married, Catherine felt older than they were. Could she herself be married, or a spinster? Or might she have chosen not to marry, because she wouldn’t settle for less than love? There were so many kinds of women she could be, and to not know herself was incredibly frustrating. As she cut vegetables, she thought hard about marriage, tried to picture the image of a man at her side, a man in her bed, someone to share a discussion of the day, someone who understood her. She was annoyed when Laird Carlyle flashed into her brain, and she immediately shoved that thought away. She was only thinking about him because he’d saved her life, and now he controlled everything she was doing.
But her brain seemed a vast emptiness, where no faces surfaced except those she’d met since she arrived at the cave. She would keep trying to find a memory somewhere within her.
When the laird returned the next time, it was with all his men. They were a rough bunch, their clothes well mended, their hair needing to be brushed, their beards untrimmed. Most carried wood to be stacked against the wall.
Many looked at her with both curiosity and skepticism, but she was growing used to it. She wasn’t to be trusted, she understood that, but at least the women had tolerated her while she helped them. Even gruff old Mrs. Skinner had made a point of showing Catherine how to arrange the mutton pieces on spits over the fire.
When all the men were seated at the tables, talking loudly, Janet and Sheena serving ale from pitchers, Mrs. Skinner handed Catherine a full plate and gestured toward their laird. So now Catherine was to serve this man who thought her a liar.
But Catherine had wanted to be of use. And this is what women did, served their men, much as she chafed at the role.
He wasn’t her man—none of them were. And by the distrust on many of their faces, they were glad of it. Did she have a man somewhere who was desperately searching for her? Or parents who feared she was dead? For a moment, she tried to imagine a childhood, tried to see a mother and a father standing over her. Were they stern and strict, or might they have been tolerant of a little girl’s foibles? Had she been held on her mother’s knee at night—and now that woman might think her dead? The grief of losing such memories threatened to overwhelm her.
Mrs. Skinner snapped her fingers in Catherine’s face and gestured impatiently at the chief. It was obvious “Himself”—as she’d heard more than one of the clan refer to Laird Carlyle—was to be served his meal first.
All the men watched her approach, including the laird.
He searched her face as she set the plate before him. “Should ye be working so hard? Ye don’t look recovered.”
She didn’t want him to be able to see the grief that had been so hard to suppress. “Maeve told me I have two black eyes.”
“That’s only one of the colors,” he said. “I thought ye’d just hit your head, but could ye have been beaten?”
Her lips twisted. “I don’t think so. Nothing feels bruised but my forehead.”
Then to her surprise, he reached up and touched her upper cheek with warm callused fingers. After a shocked moment, she ducked her head away. Why had he touched her in front of all of his men?
“Did that hurt?” he demanded.
If he was concerned, she couldn’t tell by his expression, with the perpetual frown he always wore. But his touch had been gentle . . . she didn’t know what to think, couldn’t trust herself to interpret anything at all.
“I am fine,” she said. “Now eat, so your men can.”
He glanced around, then lifted up a bannock, and sure enough, his men fell on their food ravenously.
But Laird Carlyle didn’t take a bite. Instead he took her hand before she could leave. Catherine inhaled, stiffened to pull away, but he did nothing more than stare at the couple of blisters on her palm.
“So now we know I haven’t been cooking to earn a living,” she said dryly.
“Have Maeve see to those,” he said, letting her go.
Catherine turned away from him
stiffly. So he cared about her health. Probably because he didn’t want her dying on him.
But she surreptitiously watched him. He was there with his men, participating in their discussion, but he never smiled, never really looked like he was a part of them. Of course, he was their chief, their leader, so perhaps all men were careful about such a boundary. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she was far too interested in him.
But how could she not be interested in the man who held her fate in his hands?
Chapter 5
Duncan told himself that he needed to keep an eye on Catriona, and he’d had a difficult time outside that morning seeing to the new foal because he’d kept returning to check on her. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find, since she was working with the women. She hadn’t given up in frustration at being ignorant of the hard work necessary to prepare a meal—even after blisters marred her delicate hands.
She was still angry with him for saying she might be lying about her memory loss. Perhaps stubbornness was the reason she’d worked so hard all morning. He continued to watch her from beneath his lowered brows, as if he expected her to do something that revealed she knew that cooking was beneath her. Instead, she carried plates for his men and ignored their open stares. One of the men grabbed her skirt. Duncan was about to toss the table out of his way to reach them, but Catriona turned back unperturbed, then handed the man the bannock he’d apparently asked for. It was Melville again, who obviously didn’t approve of having a stranger in their midst. He had a daughter here, so perhaps he was allowed to be wary. But harm Catriona?
Duncan was being ridiculous. None of his men would harm a woman he’d brought to the encampment. She was under his protection, and he took that seriously.
A little while later, he was seated alone at his table, finishing up the last bit of mutton as he watched Catriona receive her first lesson in washing dishes. Ivor sat down across from him.
His war chief eyed him silently for a moment, then began to speak in Gaelic. “The patrols returned while ye were eating. They found no strangers, no one looking for a missing woman.”
Duncan nodded, relieved.
“Ye’ve kept us close to the encampment these last weeks after the attack on ye,” Ivor said. “Should we spread out farther, because of the lass?”
“Aye, do that. Be careful.”
Duncan knew his time hiding Catriona was limited, but he hoped to make her father suffer as long as he could.
Duncan glanced at her, saw her smile at Maeve, and felt the shock of it. He hadn’t yet seen her relaxed, with pleasure in her expression. Her golden eyes were alight, her full lips tilted up, her teeth near blinding with whiteness. Except for her head injury, she exuded health and vitality, a woman whose every need had been tended to. He tried to tell himself that of course she’d been able to take care of herself—she had access to her father’s blood money.
“Ye watch the lass more than ye should,” Ivor said quietly.
Duncan focused his gaze on his war chief. “I brought her here. I feel responsible.”
“For her, or for your people, because I cannot tell exactly who.”
“Ye damn well know whom I’ve spent my life protecting,” Duncan said, trying to stifle his rising anger. “I want no danger brought to them.”
“I know why ye couldn’t leave her on the side of the road to die, but in some ways, ’twould have been easier.”
Duncan arched a brow at Ivor.
“Nay, I’d not have let the lass die, either,” Ivor said tiredly. “But she’s a vulnerability I don’t like. We don’t know who she is, who her people are.”
Duncan did, and it magnified the vulnerability tenfold.
Ivor squinted at him. “But there’s something ye’re not telling me.”
Duncan couldn’t lie outright to the man he considered closest to him, a friend. “When I can tell ye my plan, I promise I will.”
“There’s a plan, is there? I think the best plan would be to leave her in the nearest village, where people might know her.”
“Nay, I cannot do that. That would be abandoning her. We’re all she knows.”
“Ye aren’t responsible for every person in the world, Duncan Carlyle.” Ivor let out a tired breath, his mouth crooking up on one side within his bushy beard. “And if ye just wanted a woman, I don’t believe ye’d have slept out here with the men last night.”
“That’s not what this is about.” But he could not lie to himself—he found Catriona Duff far too desirable. His body didn’t care that she was the daughter of his enemy—he had a cock-stand every time she got too close. He wasn’t helping himself by touching her, even to examine the blisters on her hand. Was he using concern to stay close to her? She’d be wise to be wary—he’d be wise to never let himself be alone with her. This weakness was something he hadn’t imagined he’d feel, not after all these years of trying to protect and support his people.
“Laird Carlyle!”
Duncan rose to his feet as young Torcall rushed toward him from the cave entrance. His men’s easy smiles died, their voices quieted to hear what Torcall had to say.
“There’s a shipment, yer lairdship,” he said, his breath coming fast as if he’d ridden hard.
“Say nothing more,” Duncan ordered. He wanted details, but not in front of Catriona Duff. Raising his voice, he said, “Let us go.”
As if choreographed, the men spread out to their respective corners of the cave to arm themselves and prepare for whatever might be needed. Duncan was proud of how well trained they were, how seriously they took this mission.
He glanced at the women, who were frozen, solemn, and concerned, forgotten towels or dirty plates in their hands. Catriona’s wide-eyed gaze went from the women to the hurrying men, and at last to Duncan. He saw her questions, knew he had no time to make excuses. He simply assigned two men to stay behind and guard the encampment, and the rest saddled and mounted their horses to follow Torcall.
No one would speak to Catherine about where the men were going. The easy camaraderie between the Carlyle women changed to a tense silence only broken when orders were given by Mrs. Skinner or Maeve. Many glances were cast at the entrance to the cave, outside which Catherine assumed the two guards stood at the ready.
They prepared a simple meal that could be offered at whatever hour the men returned. Then the women sat beside the cooking fire and sewed silently, mending clothing that had been well worn. Catherine asked for a chance, figuring every woman learned to sew; surely she knew how. None of the women looked confident in her abilities, but to her relief, she was able to mend a frayed cuff and attach a torn sleeve at the shoulder. Who had she sewn for in her past life? She concentrated hard on the needle going in and out, trying to imagine sewing in a different room, with different people. Nothing.
“Mistress Catherine,” Janet began tentatively, “ye truly have no memory of a time before?”
Catherine looked up in time to see Maeve frowning at the girl.
“I don’t mind answering questions,” Catherine hastily said. Surely by being open, she would put the women at ease enough so that they’d eventually return the favor. “Please, ladies, call me Catherine.”
Janet and Sheena exchanged a smile as Sheena said in a false whisper, “She even sounds like a highborn lady.”
Catherine tried to relax—at least they were teasing her with good nature. “I have no idea if I’m a lady.”
“Yer mind,” Janet began, eager curiosity shining through her words, “’tis just . . . blank?”
Catherine nodded. “It’s obvious I know what things are called, how to talk and sew, but . . . when I try to imagine my life before I woke up next to those two dead men”—Janet and Sheena gave twin shudders—“there’s nothing but emptiness. I should know the men I was traveling with. Their poor faces keep coming back to me, but they are still strangers to me.”
The women were silent, barely moving, their sewing forgotten in their laps.
“Perhaps
. . . they died trying to protect me,” Catherine whispered. Was one of them her husband? She shivered. Her mind shied away from that idea. How could one mourn a man one didn’t remember?
“Or perhaps they were villains who’d kidnapped ye!” Sheena said enthusiastically; then, eyes suddenly wide, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Maeve had been quietly translating for Mrs. Skinner, and now both older women gave the younger one thunderous frowns.
“I only meant,” Sheena continued weakly, “that without any memories, it can almost be like a story that ye can make up as ye please.”
Catherine cocked her head. “You mean . . . create something for myself?”
“Why not?”
After Maeve whispered in Gaelic, Mrs. Skinner looked at Catherine with grudging compassion.
“I don’t know if making up the past would help me, but I’ll remember your kind advice, Sheena.” Catherine attempted to sound positive as she said, “It could have been worse. Imagine what would have happened if your laird had not found me.”
“He’s a good man,” Janet said solemnly. “He cares about even the lowliest of people.”
“And I am certainly one of those,” Catherine agreed.
Janet blushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“But it’s true.” Catherine reached to touch the young woman’s hand, then changed her mind. “I am not a Carlyle. He could have left me to fend for myself.”
“He would never have done that,” Sheena insisted.
Janet and Maeve exchanged a sympathetic smile, as if they understood Sheena’s adoration.
“Surely you need to take care of yourselves, not feed another mouth,” Catherine continued.
Sheena set her sewing in her lap. “We don’t see it that way. We help people. ’Tis what we’re here for and what our men are riskin’ their lives for.”
“Sheena,” Maeve scolded gently.
Catherine had been hoping Sheena would keep going, reveal more of the Carlyles’ secrets. But Maeve was in control. Catherine would probably find more answers by approaching Sheena or Janet alone.
