Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  Her eyes went wide, her lips parted in shock, but he wore no expression at all.

  “Surely an accident,” she began faintly.

  “Nay, very deliberate.”

  Her stomach roiled with nausea at the thought of someone burning another’s flesh. No, not “someone”—his mother. “But . . . why?”

  Duncan glanced at Maeve, still out of hearing range. “It wasn’t because of Maeve, but her mother, our housekeeper. My mother felt threatened by the woman.”

  “But Lady Carlyle was the wife of the laird, the most powerful woman in the clan. Why would she be threatened?”

  “She was a selfish woman who’d been forced to marry by her family. And she could not let anyone forget it. She wanted a husband with more power and ambition. My father was a weak man, who tended to retreat rather than confront. He wasn’t much respected, most especially by her.”

  Though he disparaged his father, his mother’s conduct was far worse, in Catherine’s opinion.

  “He and our housekeeper had a bond of friendship. To this day, I don’t believe it was more than that. She was a sympathetic, friendly woman. Her daughter Maeve was one of the companions of my childhood. Everyone doted on her, and her mother loved her. To punish our housekeeper—and my father—my mother burned Maeve’s face with a clothing iron fresh from the fire.”

  Catherine gasped—she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t wanted to draw his attention, stop that far-off look in his eyes as he remembered and confided in her. Now he shot her an impassive glance.

  “Aye, that was the kind of woman she was. And ’twas the final cruelty for my father, who’d put up with her abuse of the servants, her children, and himself.”

  Her children? Catherine thought. Did he understand the plight of the children he rescued because he’d been treated badly himself?

  “What did your father do?” she asked faintly.

  “He killed her.”

  Chapter 8

  That night, all was silent as Catherine slowly swam up out of the inky blackness of sleep. Confused, still dazed, she was suddenly vaulted into awareness by the rush of air, of movement.

  Suppressing a gasp, she came up on her elbow but could see nothing.

  Someone was there.

  Her heart slamming against her ribs, she was mentally cataloging everything on the table that could be used as a weapon, when a man said, “I didn’t mean to disturb ye.”

  Duncan. Letting her breath out in a rush, she lay back and tried to breathe normally, but it was hard to be normal around the man who held her life in his hands, who made her remember their arousing kiss every time she simply looked at him.

  And now they were alone in the darkness.

  “You have every right to be here,” she murmured. “This is your chamber.”

  “I’m not taking it back. The men and I are leaving, and I needed something from my trunk. I’d have brought the trunk out before now, but space is tight in the great hall.”

  “You’re leaving? In the middle of the night?” She hated how vulnerable she sounded.

  “’Tis just before dawn, hardly the middle of the night.”

  His voice out of the darkness seemed close, intimate—especially since she was lying in his bed, wearing nothing but a nightshift. She’d never thought of clothing as protection, but the layers of chemise, petticoats, stays, and gown had always served that purpose.

  And there was that kiss. Oh yes, they’d kissed. She probably should not lie here in the dark, listening to his breathing, remembering. But her awareness of him was becoming so thick it felt like she couldn’t take a deep breath.

  “You can light a candle from the brazier,” she said. “I don’t want you to trip. I’ve tried to keep things neat for you, but it seems to be . . . difficult for me.”

  He lit a candle, and the flare of light illuminated the harsh, handsome lines of his face, stark cheekbones and grim mouth. He set the candle on the table and didn’t look at her.

  “Is it another shipment?” she asked.

  “Perhaps.” He bent over his trunk, lifted the lid and rummaged within.

  More children stolen away from all they knew. She shivered and prayed that Duncan and his men rescued them with great success and no loss of life.

  “How long will you be gone?” There was that foolish vulnerability again.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Ye may be sleeping in my bed, but ye shouldn’t ask me such things as a wife would.”

  Arousal curled warm within her at the thought of being a wife to this man. The feeling was heightened because he seemed to be thinking the same thing. By candlelight, she could see the set of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and his breathing increased. She reminded herself that he was obviously fighting such thoughts. But they were alone in the shadows, and the kiss hovered between them with a tension she’d never imagined.

  It was wrong to want to kiss him, when she could not offer him a single detail about herself.

  He let out a breath and straightened after closing the trunk. She could see his big body turning toward her out of the shadow.

  His voice soft, he said, “I cannot blame ye for thinking we are more intimate than we should be. I’ve told ye things about my family that I never speak of.”

  The tension that had been growing between them dissolved into sorrow. She shivered, remembering the revelation that his father had killed his mother. She’d spent all day imagining his childhood with parents who hated each other, a mother so vindictive she took out her jealousy on a child, and then that terrible crime. No wonder he was so sympathetic to the children he rescued—he’d want to protect them from what he’d gone through.

  “Perhaps you needed to say it aloud,” she said. “I was grateful to help you in some way after all you’ve done for me. I will not abuse the knowledge.”

  “Everyone here already knows.”

  “Was your father arrested?”

  “Perhaps ye don’t remember the way of the Highland clans. My father was chief. He could decide life or death for his people, even his wife. She’d committed a grave sin, harming a child. None challenged his right to decide her punishment.”

  She didn’t ask for details—it must have been terribly painful for him. She couldn’t imagine the horror of one parent killing another, regardless of the justification.

  Reaching out, she touched his arm. He was in his shirtsleeves, and he felt so warm against her palm. “I’m so sorry for what you suffered.”

  His muscle tensed beneath her hand. “I do not need your pity.”

  “You have my sympathy, Laird Carlyle. Or may I call you Duncan? ‘Mistress’ and ‘laird’ are so awkward between two people who’ve”—she was about to say “kissed,” but realized it would be best not to bring it up—“discussed what we’ve discussed.”

  He moved his arm away from her. “We should remain formal.”

  She knew that was for the best, but in her mind he was already “Duncan.” “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

  At the door, he paused with his hand on the curtain. “We will return when we can. I’ll not leave the cave unprotected. Ye’re safe here.”

  Then he was gone. Safe? How could she feel safe when she didn’t know who she was, when every attempt to regain her memory had failed? She blew out the candle, then rolled over on her stomach, hugging the pillow against her cheek. He cared about her, though he didn’t want to show it. Were all men like that, trying to be so gruff and imposing, hiding any softer feelings?

  He didn’t want to care about her—she couldn’t fail to realize that. He was an outlawed chief, doing his best to protect his clan. He didn’t have time to dally with a woman he could never have.

  But she could imagine being held in those strong arms, feeling safe and desired.

  With a groan, she rolled onto her back and put the pillow over her face, as if she could smother such fantasies. What man could ever risk caring about someone like her, when every important detail of her life was unknown?
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  The pack train of horses seemed to appear out of the predawn mist, one after the other. Casks roped across their backs juggled inelegantly as they found their footing down the hillside and the narrow dirt path. Duncan and his men waited silently, until he had a rough estimate of two dozen whisky-laden horses, and a half-dozen mounted guards. The Duffs had added two more guards to this shipment’s journey, had planned a new route south, but the earl or his men obviously underestimated Duncan’s determination. Duncan had let several shipments go unharmed, until once again the Duffs were lax about the danger, as if Duncan might have abandoned this enterprise. That wouldn’t happen. He wanted the earl to know that another batch of whisky would bring him no illegal profits.

  The mist sank low in the glen as the pack train descended, the packhorses picking their way down a sloping path. Duncan and his men hid beneath a fall of rock, and at his whistled signal, they rose up, the mist swirling off them. The packhorses in the lead reared, and one man fell from the saddle, while Ivor knocked the other to the ground. Duncan took care of the first with a blow to the head with the hilt of his claymore. The lead horses tried to run, their neighs like screams, but they were all tied in a long line. One horse fell on the uneven path; a cask of whisky cracked open and splashed across the rocks in a pungent explosion.

  Several mounted guards on either side raced toward them. Two dozen Carlyle men used swords and cudgels to bring a half-dozen men down, overwhelming them with no loss of life.

  Only when the men lay groaning along the path did Duncan wipe down his claymore, sheath it, and say to his men, “Bandage the worst of the wounds and then tie them together.”

  They left the Duff men without horses, where they’d eventually help untie each other and have to wander for help.

  But the whisky—the whisky and its profits were for the Carlyles. As Duncan led the pack train south toward the River Clyde and their hiding place, in his mind he was already making plans to signal the ship captain, who regularly came into the Firth of Clyde, and unload this cargo.

  And Duncan realized he would continue thinking about these things he’d done a dozen times, anything to keep from thinking about Catriona, whom he’d left sleepy and warm in his bed.

  Damn his traitorous body. He should have been focused on retrieving his clothing, but instead, he’d had to grasp every ounce of control just hearing her breathe. And when he’d lit the candle, her gold eyes had looked so ethereal and luminous. Much as she’d kept herself covered, just knowing she wore so little had been erotic. He’d wanted to draw her up against him, free her long plait of hair and spread it through his hands.

  To make matters worse, she might welcome his attention. He’d hoped that telling her ugly details about his past might make her keep her distance, but it had only encouraged her. He kept reminding himself that she was the daughter of his enemy. She could regain her memory any day. He knew it would change everything.

  But what if she didn’t? What happened if she stayed this way forever? She wouldn’t remember her family, her friends—she would only have him and his clan. Keeping her from the earl could only last so long, he reminded himself sternly. He hadn’t meant to keep her away from them forever. Yet he’d found no clue that anyone was looking for her, which was so suspicious he couldn’t keep ignoring it.

  And yet . . . here he was, focused on her rather than on the whisky shipment. Ivor gave him a frown and Duncan put Catriona from his mind.

  It had been a day and a half of fear. Catherine’s constant worry for Duncan and his clan preyed on her thoughts, hour after hour. She hoped to distract herself by helping with the laundry in cauldrons outside the cave, or learning Gaelic from Maeve, but such measures proved useless. Mid-morning the second day, Catherine felt a need to escape, to be alone with her fears and confusion, as if she’d climb out of her skin trying to keep calm and expressionless. She left the cave, and to her surprise no one stopped her. Angus did follow along behind, at a distance that fooled no one. What did it matter, as long as she could breathe fresh air, feel the wind in her face?

  She couldn’t just hide in the cave and pray for her memories to return, so she took the only path she knew, along the cliff wall to the horse paddock. There was a three-sided stable where the horses could escape the weather. Inside she found grooming equipment, a currycomb and brush. These felt right and good in her hands, and when one of the friendly geldings nudged her, she began to curry him. She crooned softly, not paying attention to her words, just basking in the sun and the breeze and letting her worried thoughts drift away.

  “Do ye hear yourself?”

  Duncan. Catherine whirled about, the currycomb clutched tightly to her chest, as if to stop herself from flinging her arms around him in relief. He looked well, whole, leaning his forearms on the top rail of the paddock, watching her with those dark, arresting eyes.

  “Hear myself?” she repeated. “I don’t think I was saying anything important.”

  “Ye spoke with a faint Scottish accent.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “I did? I didn’t do it deliberately.”

  He shrugged. “I heard it.”

  “I’m not disagreeing.” Eyeing him, she continued to pet the horse, who put his head over her shoulder as if he wanted her attention. She glanced at the gelding, so close, and smiled.

  “Ye’re good with animals.”

  It almost sounded begrudging.

  “Good with animals, and possibly Scottish. Those are two clues I didn’t have before.”

  “You were riding a horse when ye fell down the ravine, and ye’re in Scotland. These two new ‘clues’ aren’t all that unexpected.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Ye don’t understand how important it is to know something about myself.” She let the silence grow a bit, eyeing him. “Did ye bring home any kidnapped children?”

  He shook his head.

  Her chest tightened uncomfortably. “You were too late?”

  “Nay, there were no children to be found. ’Tis rather soon, considering we just rescued Finn’s group a week ago. ‘Twill take them a while to come up with new men. We made certain that the ones holding Finn and the other boys won’t be capable of riding a horse, let alone stealing children, for a long time. Eventually the sheriff will run out of men and be forced to show himself. Just not last night.”

  After nodding her approval, Catherine leaned her head along the horse’s neck, and the great animal allowed it.

  “So I’m good with horses,” she began. “Might I go riding?”

  She thought he might have stiffened, just a bit.

  “Nay.”

  “There’s a village nearby. I saw the smoke from it. What’s its name?”

  “Nothing ye’ve heard of.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because if ye lived so close, or had visited, I’d already know about ye and I’d ken where ye’re from.” His gaze slid away from her.

  “So I’m still not to know where I am.”

  He frowned. “’Tis better this way.”

  “I would never reveal anything that would jeopardize your clan,” she said softly.

  He didn’t answer, and she got a faint tingle of premonition, as if there was another reason he was being so vague with her. She studied him closely as if she could read something in his expression—but she was only kidding herself. He might as well be wearing a mask.

  “Mistress Catherine!”

  Finn came racing down the path from the cave and skidded to a halt when he saw Duncan. The boy’s blue eyes, momentarily full of excitement, now shuttered as he murmured, “Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lairdship.”

  “No apology necessary,” Duncan said, leading his own horse into the paddock.

  “We’ll unsaddle him for you.” Catherine stepped forward to take the reins. “It’ll be a good lesson for Finn. Riding a horse can be fun, but taking care of the animal is an important obligation.”

  Duncan didn’t release the reins immediately.

  “Do you no
t trust me to see to your prized possession?” she teased in a quiet voice.

  “My horse is far more important than that,” he said, then let go of the reins. “I trust ye.”

  Was she supposed to thank him for the great honor? she thought wryly. But perhaps it was an honor to him—his horse was his constant companion, his means of transport. So instead of smiling, she simply nodded.

  “I think I should take the saddle off,” he began.

  “No. We can take care of it.”

  He arched a brow. “Call one of the men if you have need.”

  “We won’t, but thank you.”

  Duncan turned and walked out of the paddock. Finn didn’t move, but Catherine thought he shrank into himself when the chief walked by. Duncan had rescued him, had proven himself—why was Finn still so afraid?

  Once Duncan was out of sight, Catherine gestured for Finn to come closer. The little boy stared up at the massive horse, wide-eyed.

  “He won’t hurt you,” she said.

  “He might step on me by accident,” Finn insisted.

  Some of the bad things that had happened to Finn hadn’t been deliberate, but he’d been wounded anyway. She didn’t blame him for being cautious.

  “Do you want to sit on his back before we remove the saddle?”

  “Nay!” He gasped and backed away.

  “I won’t force you. It’s your choice. But come closer so I don’t have to shout.”

  For at least an hour, she talked about horses, their equipment and care. Finn never seemed bored, but more than once he gave her a glance that seemed skeptical.

  “Go ahead and ask whatever’s on your mind,” she said patiently.

  “Well, ye’re a lady,” Finn said with solemn logic. “Ye must have had servants. But ye know all about horses.”

  “If you’re going to ride one, you need to be able to care for it when you’re traveling.”

  Suddenly, she had a flash of memory, saw a chestnut horse in a fine stable and felt a deep love for the animal as she’d tended it. And then it was gone, and she was left to wonder if that had been her first glimpse of her old life. She wanted to be excited and hopeful—maybe her memories would return after all—but she also felt the deep sadness of knowing that if the memory had truly been her old horse, that horse had suffered in the fall down the ravine and been put out of its misery.