by Gayle Callen
“’Tis time for bed.” Maeve got to her feet, and the other three women followed her lead.
The women set up the screens that separated their pallets from the men’s.
“Might I wash myself at the pool?” Catherine asked. “I haven’t had a chance since I arrived.”
Maeve searched her face worriedly. “Are ye feelin’ steady enough? I should go with ye.”
“No, I don’t need to inconvenience you. I promise I won’t go in deep. I just need to feel clean.”
Maeve hesitated, then sighed. “Let me find ye soap and towels. And call if ye need me. With the men gone, I should be able to hear ye from here.”
“Thank you.”
After Maeve had given her what she’d promised, as well as a fresh chemise and nightshift—and admonished her not to wash her hair until she no longer needed a bandage on her head—Catherine wished the women a good night and left. She felt a little guilty still being the only one with her own chamber. She’d lingered in the passageway to peer back into the great hall, watching as Sheena and Janet removed pallets from the stacks to lie beside one another, continuing to talk quietly. Catherine ducked away, and knew that she’d probably keep the private chamber until Laird Carlyle demanded it back. Did that make her a selfish woman?
After remembering to leave her shoe outside the waterfall cave, Catherine undressed by the light of a single lantern. Now that she was alone, the water seemed dark and mysterious. She couldn’t see the depths. The rock face where the water fell glistened blackly. Catherine didn’t know if she was a superstitious woman, but if so, this cave would scare her.
She was exceedingly careful stepping down from the ledge into the pool. The water only reached mid-calf, but she gasped at the chill that was surely left over from winter. She realized she didn’t even know what month it was. For a moment her head spun. She felt . . . unmoored, adrift, as if time was a current dragging her to an unfamiliar land.
Then she shook herself free of such fanciful musings. Since she had no idea when the men would return, perhaps filthy from their ride and desperate to bathe, it was best to hurry. She felt carefully with her foot, realized there was another rock ledge deeper, and stood on that one, up to mid-thigh, to quickly wash her body with the facecloth. She couldn’t imagine immersing herself into the unknown depths—could she even swim?—so she squatted to rinse herself off, shivering all the while.
Only when she was wearing the clean nightshift did she tiptoe down the passageway, slip past the curtain, and into her little chamber. It felt safe, as if it cocooned her, though she knew that could never be true. It was her mind trying to find a way to accept what had happened to her.
She crawled onto her pallet and pulled the blankets up over her head. Where were the men, and what was involved in this particular shipment?
In Catherine’s dreams the rain was falling, soaking her, seeping into her skin. The dead men were moving about as if desperate for her notice, for her to remember them. The sound of male voices shocked her awake. For a moment, she huddled beneath her blankets, forlorn that her dream hadn’t told her who the men were.
She realized she’d never really fallen into a deep sleep, anxious about what might happen. Without a dressing gown to wear, she was forced to pull on her petticoats and skirt, along with sliding into the bodice and lacing herself in. All the while she hurried, she kept expecting the men to settle into sleep, frustrating her ability to find out where they’d been.
She froze as she moved aside her curtain. Was someone crying?
At the entrance to the great hall, she paused to take in the scene before anyone saw her. All of the men had returned, and the women had stoked fires and were boiling water and heating cold food.
But not Maeve; with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she was standing with Laird Carlyle and the other men, all of them gathered around . . . children. Catherine gaped. There were five or six of them, and the youngest boy, perhaps five years old, was the one who was crying. Maeve bent and put her arms around the child, who resisted, obviously frightened by the strange surroundings, and perhaps by Maeve herself.
The oldest boy, who could have only been ten or so, rested his hands on the little one’s shoulders and said something near his ear. The little one nodded, put a thumb in his mouth and tried to settle his heaving shoulders.
And then another child sobbed.
Catherine couldn’t just hide away and do nothing. The children were obviously frightened and in shock. She swept out of the passageway, ignored Laird Carlyle’s frown and boldly approached them.
The men looked at her with wary distrust. Two moved to the cave entrance, as if she’d make a dash for freedom. Freedom to go where? Didn’t they understand she was helpless, dependent on them for everything? Just like these children.
She spoke directly to Maeve. “What can I do?”
“Mistress Catherine, ye should return to your bed,” Laird Carlyle said in his deep, gruff voice.
Ignoring him, she took a cup from Maeve, got down on her knees, and offered it to the boy who stood apart from the others, hugging himself, chin to his chest. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and he was biting his lip so hard she expected to see blood. Every exposed bit of skin was covered in dirt, but at his wrists, she couldn’t mistake the raw marks of rope burn. Who could do such a thing to a child?
“Have something to drink,” she said gently.
His wild gaze darted from the other children to Laird Carlyle to the cave itself. But Catherine remained patient, until at last he stared briefly into her face. She offered only a kind smile, but didn’t pressure him.
When he took the cup, it was with shaking hands. Greedily, he drank the water, then lowered the cup and stared at her as if he could read her face like a map. She felt embarrassed, remembering her bruises, but she let him look as long as he needed. When he said something in Gaelic, Catherine looked around for Maeve to translate, but instead saw the plaid and bare knees of Laird Carlyle. She looked up to see him frowning down at her, hands on his hips.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He gave ye his thanks,” Laird Carlyle said.
Maeve set platters of oatcakes out on a table. Several of the children rushed forward to begin eating. The little boy beside her waited, looking around with the wary intelligence of one who’d had to survive by his wits. At last, he took slow steps toward the table, reached out for an oatcake and nibbled cautiously, looking about as if someone might snatch it from him.
Catherine rose and continued to watch the children. “They’re starving,” she murmured to Laird Carlyle. “Where did you find them? They can’t possibly be your ‘shipment.’” She emphasized the word.
At first the chief said nothing, causing impatience and frustration to build up inside her. Was she never to know anything about these people who’d taken her in?
He cleared his throat. “Scotland’s own poor and orphaned bairns are being sold as indentured servants to the colonies and West Indies plantations. But ‘indentured servant’ is just another word for slave, when ’tis done for no reason beyond filling greedy men’s purses.”
Though the words he spoke shocked and appalled her, the ugly bitterness in his voice made it sound incredibly personal, beyond righting an injustice. She tucked that idea away to consider later.
She put a hand to her chest, staring at the five children who ate oatcakes as if they hadn’t seen food in a long time. She shuddered with nausea. “These children . . . they are the shipment your man warned you about?”
He nodded.
“And you rescued them.”
He nodded again, without filling in any details. Was he a man who downplayed his own bravery, or was he simply protecting his methods and his men from the danger she might present?
“How did you learn about this barbaric practice?” she asked.
From beneath lowered brows, he watched the children guzzle cider and cram more oatcakes into their mouths before being gently admonished to ta
ke their time. Then he looked to Catherine, and she saw the way he studied her, took her measure. She lifted her chin, and though she wanted to babble something, anything, to prove herself to him, she said nothing. He either trusted her, or he didn’t. There was a connection between them, a pull of awareness that seemed so very foreign to her—but then, how would she know? Yet she felt caught in this intimacy with him, though they were surrounded by people.
And as if he felt the need for privacy, he gestured toward the little stream, away from the people gathered to tend to the children. Catherine followed, and though they were on display, it felt as if they shared confidences all alone. They stood beside the footbridge but didn’t cross it.
“It happened to one of my own clan,” he said heavily. “A poor farmer came to me, complaining that his son had been abducted. I thought surely the lad had simply run away, but the father actually saw, far down the glen, two men take up his child and ride off with him.”
“How terrifying,” Catherine whispered, searching his eyes, which seemed to see far away.
“He went to the nearest villages, but no one had heard anything like it. So he came to me, his chief, because I should be able to help.”
She said nothing, fearing that this particular story did not end well.
“By the time I found a trail to follow, ’twas too late. The boy was gone, hidden away somewhere, and there was no proof as to what had happened. The Lowlanders thought we were simply telling tales to cover our negligence. They usually side with the English, and think we’re but savages,” he added harshly.
Catherine flinched. Was she one of the English he so obviously despised?
“I discovered that other children had gone missing, one or two every month or so, always the ones with no families, or ones too poor for their families to do anything about it. It started with orphans on the streets of Glasgow where the children could easily be sold to agents from the colonies. But when that supply wasn’t enough, poor children were chosen, stolen away from their parents’ arms. ’Tis far more difficult a crime to hide. But the magistrates—with the sheriff’s support—paid them no heed, were silenced with coin by the wealthy who only gained riches as those poor lads and their families suffered.”
Catherine’s mouth had sagged open the more he talked, and now felt so dry it was difficult to swallow. The suffering of the children seemed unimaginable. Stolen from the only place they’d ever known, sent on a dangerous voyage across the ocean, forced to work—and she imagined the conditions under which they toiled would be foul. She shuddered and placed a hand over her mouth, struggling to control her nausea.
Laird Carlyle took her elbow as if to steady her, and with relief she let herself consider him for a moment, rather than the fate that was befalling innocent children. This was the most she’d ever heard the man speak, and his words rang with disgust and hatred. She was forced to reevaluate what she’d been thinking about him. He’d confessed his suspicions about her, and she’d been offended, but he didn’t know her—she didn’t know herself. And what were his suspicions, compared to the fact that he’d rescued her, just like he’d rescued these poor children from a terrible fate? “Laird Carlyle,” she said, “have you been rescuing children for long?”
He shrugged. “Several years now. ’Tis why we’re living in these caves. I spoke out, tried to bring the case to the Court of Session, and they had me imprisoned.”
She gasped. “Imprisoned for speaking the truth?”
“To the wrong people. They wanted me silenced before word could become widespread. They wanted their gold. When I escaped, the sheriff and the magistrates had me outlawed and punished my clan.” He looked at his people, many of whom were trying to make the children feel at ease. His voice hoarse, he said, “My people supported what I was trying to do; some of them followed me. And I led them into a hard life, and caused their families to suffer. Only recently I was almost captured again, which could have harmed them even more. We have to be so very wary of the outside world.”
She heard the self-recrimination he couldn’t hide, and she wanted to comfort him. “No wonder you live apart from the rest of your clan. But they obviously believe as you do that children should be protected.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “And Carlyle children are suffering for it, their parents shunned because of my outlawed status, their cattle selling at prices too low if they sell at all.”
“I know that this is terrible, but surely it’s better than losing their children to such evil men.”
He exhaled a deep sigh. “Aye.”
“Why would the sheriff go along with this? He’s a man who represents the law.”
“Aye, but he’s also a man who knew poverty himself, who raised himself up by whatever means he could so he’d not know deprivation again. Every coin he accumulates keeps him further away from that poverty he can’t forget, that I swear he must see when he looks over his shoulder, because he’s running away from it fast enough. He has several fine horses and a flat in an elegant townhouse, with furniture gilt enough to entertain an earl.” And then he broke off.
Catherine glanced at the little boy she’d tried to help. He sat with his head bowed, away from the other children. He didn’t speak to them, or show any excitement about being rescued. Now that the other four had their bellies filled, she could hear the torrent of questions being thrown at Ivor and Maeve. But the little boy acted like it didn’t concern him. He pushed away Janet, who tried to scrub his filthy face. Catherine wanted to gather him into her arms and rock him as if she could help him feel safe from the world.
“You have done something brave and important, Laird Carlyle,” she said softly. “And your clan’s willingness to support you, regardless of the hardship, speaks to their kindness and fortitude. But now that you’ve rescued these children, what happens next?”
She wondered if he’d even answer, if he thought her too bold. But that intimate spell around them held. Though most of the clan was only yards away, the two of them stood close together, speaking softly, absorbed as if in their own world.
“Gathering evidence to bring to a higher court is proving difficult. The children’s tales hold no sway with the magistrates, who are sharing the spoils with the sheriff. We have yet to find something in writing as evidence of their villainy; they are far too clever for that. But we keep looking. Every time we rescue a child, those villains who aren’t killed in the attack, we return with broken bones or other injuries, removing them from this foul duty. Eventually they’ll have to run out of men willing to kidnap children, forcing the sheriff to do his own work, or lose the money he’s promised to a nobleman too smart to dirty his hands.”
Catherine frowned, wondering at how his tone had changed when he discussed this nobleman.
“Until then, we return the children to their families, who are now on guard. Four of these newest children have families to return to. We’ve begun to keep track of how many children are in the area, so that we have the numbers to use against the sheriff when he’s caught. I know we cannot solve the problem across all of Scotland, but we damn well can do something about our corner of it. But the boy ye spoke with, and others like him, can’t be easily kept track of. On the journey here, he admitted he has no one, and lived on the streets. His Christian name is Finn, but he might not even have a surname.”
“What will happen to him?” she asked nervously.
“We hope to find him a family. Highlanders are a generous people, but times are difficult, and the famine too recent. We will be patient.”
“Until then he stays here?”
Laird Carlyle eyed her impassively, and when she would have gotten her feathers ruffled, she reminded herself of the good he was doing, even at risk to himself and his clan. She knew she was asking too many questions, but she couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t much different than Finn, both needing a place to stay, desperate to find a home.
“Aye, he’ll stay,” Laird Carlyle said.
She smiled at him
with relief. “Excellent.”
For a long moment, he studied her face, as if he’d never seen her happy before. Now that she knew the secret he was protecting—one of the secrets anyway—she couldn’t help but feel kinder toward him.
“’Twould seem I am in your good graces again, mistress,” he murmured.
Without a second thought, she put a comforting hand on his arm. She noticed the way his muscular body seemed to take up too much room, take up all the air, leaving her light-headed. As he tensed beneath her hand, she suddenly realized that people were watching them, that they stood too close, talked too intimately—and now she’d touched him, as if flirting with him.
Goodness, was she actually blushing?
She stepped back so quickly that she stumbled. When he reached out, she put up a hand to stop him from touching her again.
“I’ll return to help Maeve.” Turning away, Catherine added over her shoulder, “My thanks for the explanation, Laird Carlyle. I appreciate the trust.”
“See that I don’t regret it.”
She rolled her eyes and said with mild exasperation, “Must you ruin every honest discussion between us?”
Well, she assumed it was honest. Did she really know?
He stared at her with those black, mysterious eyes, and for just a moment they lingered on her lips, before he abruptly walked away.
Her mouth went dry. Low in her stomach she felt a tension she couldn’t understand, though she knew it had to do with him. Maybe she was the one who’d ruined their discussion by thinking too much about him as a desirable man, when she had no right to do such a thing.
Chapter 6
Duncan watched highborn Lady Catriona Duff help to serve grimy, defensive children, who didn’t have money or fine manners. He didn’t know what to think as she cleaned up a cup of spilled ale without complaint, sliced apples into pieces for the children to devour, smiled at them with the confidence of a woman assuring them that all would be well.
