by Gayle Callen
“Of course she did,” he said tiredly. “She’s incredibly curious.”
“A good trait.”
“Not necessarily.”
“In women?” she demanded with annoyance.
“In anyone. Curiosity can cause too much trouble, and Muriel has always gotten into her share.”
Catherine winced. “I’m glad you weren’t going to say that curious women are in the wrong. I find that women are treated very differently from men, and that is unfair.”
He arched a brow. “And ye remember examples of that?”
“Why . . . no, I guess not. It’s simply something I believe deep inside me. And of course, I don’t see any of the men helping the women cook,” she added with a pointed frown.
“And I don’t see any of the women riding on the hunt,” he responded dryly.
She put her hands on her hips and leaned toward him. “Did you ask any of them?”
As she suspected, there was nothing he could say.
“I imagine Carlyle women would be happy to help support the clan in any way they can. In fact, they’d probably accompany you when you . . .” She trailed off and gave him an expectant look.
Impassively, he said, “When I what?”
“Do whatever you do to support your people,” she said throwing her hands wide.
“My people farm and raise cattle.”
“No, what do you do to support them?”
“What do ye mean? My men and I protect them, and we hunt for them. Some of today’s meat will be distributed.”
She dramatically rolled her eyes. “Your sister said you support the Carlyle villages and keep them from starving, and I don’t think it’s by hunting alone. When she realized what she’d said, she couldn’t bid me good-bye quickly enough. And Maeve said I should talk to you about it.”
“Another example of too much curiosity.”
“It’s something you do at night,” she mused, remembering when the men had returned without any rescued children.
“There are many things I do at night.”
His voice had dropped into a deep range that seemed to slide across her skin with a promise of sin.
“You’re doing that on purpose,” she accused.
“What?”
Those dark, gleaming eyes dropped lower, and she felt as if he could see right through her fichu.
She crossed her arms over her breasts. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“Is it working?”
“Yes—no! Your men were celebrating your big secret that night when I drank too much. They were speaking in Gaelic, and Maeve is teaching me your language. It was something about the whisky we were drinking . . .” She trailed off, frowning.
Though it was near dark, the impassive expression on his face told her enough.
“It’s the whisky itself, isn’t it?” she mused. “You’re smuggling whisky to avoid the British taxes.”
He seemed to search her face. “Why is it so important for ye to know any of this?”
She opened her mouth, and nothing came out right away. Why was it so important to know everything about the Carlyles—everything about Duncan?
“Because I live here,” she said softly. “Because you and your clan are all I know.”
He reached out to cup her cheek with his warm, calloused hand. “Do not be afraid, lass. Ye’re safe here. I’ll let nothing harm ye.”
That wasn’t what she was worried about, but she forgot when he slid his hand to the back of her head and drew her toward him for a long deep kiss. She felt both desperate and overcome, frightened and at peace, all those emotions jumbled up inside her, emotions she only found in his arms. He backed her up against the vine-covered rock wall of the cliff with his body, while she explored his mouth as if she could know everything about him.
Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, the curve of her jaw, the slope of her throat. Her heart raced at the intimate contact, at the groan he made when he nipped the skin beneath her ear. She dropped her head to one side as he kissed his way down her throat, then lingered at the hollow, with a lick.
To her surprise, he fell to his knees, hands on her hips, and continued his exploration of her collarbones. She clutched his head to her, gasped when he pulled the fichu away, and then his mouth was on the upper slopes of her breasts. His dark hair gleamed under the first touch of moonlight as it peaked over the mountain. When he reached the neckline of her gown and could go no farther, her regret and frustration were sudden and surprising.
Raggedly, she began, “I wish—” and then stopped. She didn’t know what she wanted.
And then he licked a gentle line into her cleavage. She shuddered.
“I want ye.”
The words were hoarse and quiet, and his breath light across the dampness of her skin.
“Duncan . . .” She didn’t know what to say.
“But I won’t take ye.”
He was right but oh, she wished he wasn’t.
“But I can make ye feel such pleasure.”
He slid his hands to the front of her hips and up over her bodice. Above her stays, her breasts were only covered by her chemise and the gown. When his hands covered there, squeezed gently, it was as if she’d been shocked by lightning. When his fingers gently squeezed her nipples, she jerked in his arms, feeling a stab of pleasure that shot down within her body.
“Duncan!” his name was an agonized whisper into the darkness. “What are you—” But she couldn’t ask, didn’t want it to stop.
For a long moment, he buried his face into her neck and kissed her skin, while his fingers played a dance across her breasts that she’d never imagined. She desperately wanted to undo the front laces of her gown, feel his touch on her bare skin, and as if he read her mind, she felt him tugging the front laces loose. She wanted this, but she was afraid to want too much, when nothing could ever be normal between them.
But she wasn’t going to marry him, wasn’t going to sleep with him, they were just . . . touching.
“Open your eyes,” he whispered huskily.
She did so, and in the moonlight, she watched in awe as he slid her chemise down, baring her breasts, which seemed presented to him by the up-thrust of her stays. She should be embarrassed—but she wasn’t. She felt both proud and humble, to affect him, to know how they could make each other feel. Her nipples tightened into points as an evening breeze caressed her.
“My God,” he breathed.
Instead of touching her with his fingers, as she’d been silently begging, he leaned forward and touched her with his tongue, a lick across her nipple which made her skin come alive with overwhelming pleasure. She moaned and clutched him to her, and to her astonishment, he sucked her nipple deep into his mouth. Gasping, she arched her body, desperate for him to do more.
Then they heard voices at the entrance of the cave.
They both froze. Oh, God, she would never be able to face the men again. They’d think she was a—
“They cannot see us,” Duncan whispered. “Just hold still.”
“I can’t. When you do—that, my body no longer seems my own.”
He inhaled deeply, then said her name with a reverence that surprised her. She was afraid to move, utterly bare to him, even as his men were talking. Then their voices stopped.
“Where are they?” she whispered.
Duncan placed a kiss between her breasts. “The guards changed. One went back inside and the new guard went to the paddock. We’re alone now.”
And sinner that she was, she wanted him to touch her again. For a long silent moment, neither of them moved or spoke. Her hands were still on his shoulders, and seemingly without her volition, she slid them into the hair at his neck.
With a heavy sigh he rose to his feet. Pressing his cheek to hers, he whispered, “Everything in me cries out for ye, lass. But I—we—cannot.”
She nodded, turning away from him to draw her chemise and gown back in place. Her fingers were trembling as she tightened th
e laces and rearranged the stomacher. When she was done, she was afraid to face him, but he pulled her against him and rested his cheek against her hair. All the reasons why she couldn’t have this life were crowding around her, making her feel embarrassed and ashamed and sad.
But she put her hands on his arms and they stood there in the moonlight.
“Duncan,” she said quietly.
“Hmm?”
The sound of him vibrated against her back, and it seemed almost as intimate as his mouth upon her skin.
“If you were only smuggling your own whisky, I don’t believe you would have hidden it from me.”
She thought he tensed behind her.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
After a long moment when she thought he would ignore her once again, he said, “Aye.”
“So you’re stealing whisky, smuggling it, and sharing the profits with your people.”
“Aye, and I’m not ashamed of it. We steal it from the nobleman who supports the sheriff and magistrates in their evil deeds, the man who allowed me to be outlawed rather than end the theft of children. So indirectly, he also finances my men and our search to stop him.”
“That makes sense to me,” she said. “Thank you for explaining it, even though you didn’t have to.”
He rubbed his cheek slowly against her hair. “What he and the sheriff have done to my clan and to innocent children has to be punished somehow. Right now this is the only means I have.”
“Who buys the whisky?”
“Lowlanders, and some is smuggled south by sea. We don’t harm the nobleman’s men—we steal their horses and tie them up, so their return home is delayed.”
“Aren’t the casks marked?”
She glanced up and over her shoulder to find him staring down at her in surprise.
“Ye know something about whisky, do ye?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I—don’t know. Perhaps I simply assumed.”
“These casks aren’t marked, which means his lordship is smuggling his own whisky.”
“Well, he deserves whatever he gets,” Catherine said firmly, then turned around within his arms and faced him. “What can I do to help?”
He seemed to search her gaze. “Catherine—”
“I, too, want to fight against the man who’d condone selling children. It’s not fair how you’ve been treated just for caring deeply about your people.”
He briefly closed his eyes, before saying tiredly, “By helping my men, ye’re helping our cause. ’Tis enough.”
She wanted to disagree, but couldn’t after he’d been so honest with her. “Thank you for trusting me,” she whispered. “I never thought anyone would risk telling me the truth after my memory loss.”
“Catherine—”
She put a hand to his lips to silence him. “At night, when I try to fall asleep, the enormity of what I’ve lost stretches before me. But to have your clan accept me, to have you trust me—I am content.”
She went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, then hurried back inside the cave before she could embarrass herself by crying. Most of the men had found their pallets and were rolled up on the floor in snoring lumps. Maeve was the only one who gave her a worried look, but Catherine offered a shaky smile and crossed the footbridge over the burn and ducked into the passageway. Only when she had drawn the curtain and closed herself into her chamber, lit thoughtfully with a candle by Maeve no doubt, did Catherine sink to the floor and cover her mouth, stifling a sob. She might not have her memories, but she no longer felt alone. The relief was overwhelming.
Chapter 12
Dazed, his chest tight with pain, Duncan stumbled away from the cave, uncaring of where he might go. The darkness wrapped around him, and the night sky wheeled overhead like a thousand pairs of bright eyes, watching him.
What was he doing? Catriona was a lost innocent and he continued to take advantage of her. It wasn’t enough that he’d kidnapped her, but now he was making her depend upon him—hell, he’d told her he wanted her. He was letting her think she had a home with them, and a place in his own life. He might even have taken things further if they hadn’t been interrupted. He leaned against the rock cliff and shuddered. As if he could ever offer a woman—especially the daughter of his enemy—any kind of life with a price on his head.
But that didn’t seem to matter when he held her in his arms. She was eager and loving; perhaps that let him delude himself for those brief moments. She knew he hadn’t told her everything about the smuggling, and he hadn’t been able to lie to her anymore, when he was lying about so much else. He’d told her what her father had done, without mentioning the earl’s actual name. He hadn’t wanted it to spark her memory. But if she got her memories back, she’d damn well put the clues together, and could betray him. And how could he blame her?
And to make things worse, she’d asked how she could help—against her own father. After everything the earl had done, how he’d encouraged the stealing of children, Duncan should be glad to turn Catriona against him. It would be the ultimate revenge.
But it only made Duncan ill to contemplate it. He couldn’t—wouldn’t do that to her.
But apparently he was willing to hurt her in other ways, and he had to stop himself. And the only way to do that was to find out why no one had been looking for her. Waiting around was making him risk everything to be with her, and he had to get back to being objective, to understanding and accepting that she wasn’t for him.
It was time to find out the truth.
Though she’d fallen asleep with eyes wet from weeping, Catherine woke up feeling at peace. She’d cried from relief, and the knowledge that she was not alone in the world, that Duncan would never allow her to be. She didn’t know what her future held, but she was content to let it happen, and to cease her constant worrying, to accept that she could be like other women.
As she helped to serve the men breakfast, she didn’t see Duncan, and after a while, she quietly asked Ivor where he’d gone.
The war chief eyed her for a long moment. “He had business to attend to, mistress. He has no need to clear his plans with anyone.”
Catherine blinked at the prick of embarrassment his words caused. “I know that, sir. I was simply curious.”
Several men chuckled, and worse, Sheena didn’t bother to hide a superior grin. Catherine stiffened, annoyed with herself for feeling defensive toward Sheena. She felt a tug on her elbow, and turned to find Finn watching her earnestly.
“Come to the horses with me, mistress,” the boy said, tugging her hand.
She had to smile at him—did he see that she needed to be distracted? He was a clever boy, quiet most of the time, but it was obvious he noticed and evaluated everything.
She spent much of the day with him, either at the paddock, or teaching him his letters. She heard nothing about Duncan, and didn’t ask any more questions, knowing it wasn’t her place.
But that night after supper a rider came with news. Catherine felt a sick twist of fear that something had happened to Duncan. It wasn’t her place to stand beside Ivor waiting for the news—she wasn’t the lady of the clan, after all. So she stood with the women, hands on Finn’s shoulders, and watched with apprehension as Ivor spoke quietly to the rider. All around her, the men muttered and waited.
At last Ivor faced the gathering. “We have word of a shipment tonight.”
Tension and excitement moved from person to person. Catherine felt Finn tense beneath her hands. Many glances of skepticism were cast her way, and she knew most didn’t know she knew all of the truth.
She raised her voice. “Children or whisky?” she demanded.
Maeve stared at her wide-eyed, as did many of the men. Ivor frowned.
“Laird Carlyle told me about the whisky smuggling,” she admitted.
That turned Ivor’s frown fiercer. “’Tis none of your concern, mistress.”
“If children are to be rescued, we have preparations to make,” Maeve said calmly.
&nb
sp; If the woman was trying to smooth things after Catherine’s inappropriate questions, Catherine didn’t think it was working.
But Ivor nodded to Maeve. “Children, ’tis believed, perhaps several of them on their way from Stirling to the coast. Prepare to leave,” he announced to his men.
As the men dispersed to prepare, Finn broke away from Catherine and hurried toward Ivor. She followed in time to hear the boy plead.
“Let me come with ye.”
“Nay,” Ivor said brusquely. “Skilled men are needed, not boys.”
“But who will convince the lads that ye mean them no harm?” Finn asked softly. “When ye rescued me, I didn’t believe ye any better than the other men. They might feel the same. I could help.”
Ivor’s expression softened and he put a hand on Finn’s head. “Lad, yer bravery is to be commended. But we’ve been doin’ this for years without ye. No need to go riskin’ yer life.”
Finn said nothing, just fisted his hands in his coat and watched the men. When Catherine bent to speak to him, he ducked away and raced outside. She couldn’t find him right away, and as more and more of the men saddled their horses and gathered to leave, she began to fear Finn had run off, perhaps in search of Duncan. She went back into the cave for the cloak Maeve had lent her, and by the time she came back out, the men had all mounted and were trotting away.
It was easy for her now to see Finn struggling to saddle an older mare who continued to chew grass unconcerned. Catherine approached, but didn’t try to stop the boy. It took three tries for Finn to put the saddle on, only to have it fall onto the far side.
Finn cursed well, in the manner of the clansmen he’d spent so much of his time with.
“Finn,” Catherine began gently.
Finn briefly rested his forehead on the mare’s flank, saying fiercely, “I should be there! They’ll be frightened.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off, retrieving the saddle to try again. He got it on this time and began to tighten the girth.
Over his shoulder, he said, “Ye’ve done yer best to help me, mistress. Can ye not help me do the same for the others? Help me repay the kindness of Clan Carlyle.”
