Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  Chapter 3

  It had been awkward for Duncan to leave the encampment alone to deal with burying bodies. Ivor had seemed skeptical when Duncan had turned down his offer of help and asked the war chief to oversee a hunt for fresh game. But Ivor was a loyal man and had made no protest.

  Because Catriona couldn’t have walked far in her condition, it only took an hour or so for Duncan to find the place she had described—a steep ravine, a burn overflowing its banks. The two dead men were still there, their bodies broken in the fall. They were plainly dressed, obviously guards rather than a new husband or betrothed. Though they had died tragically, he could not alert their families. Eventually, when Catriona returned to the Duff clan, he’d make sure she knew where her guards were buried.

  He stared up at the path they must have taken in their fall, shrubs uprooted, earth gouged. It was amazing that Catriona had lived. The storm the previous day had been ferocious, and horses could have flung off their riders in a panic—but all three of them? He couldn’t believe that. More likely they’d come too close to the edge of the hilltop in the storm, slid down themselves, then bolted in fear. But the steepness of the drop made him think the horses had certainly not gone unscathed. And if they had run off, it wouldn’t be long before they were found and people came looking for Catriona—something he didn’t want, not until he figured out why she had been so close to his encampment.

  It wasn’t difficult to find and follow the bloody trail of wounded animals. None of them had gone far, and he was able to put them all out of their misery, though he wouldn’t be able to bury them. The tragedy was a waste of good horseflesh.

  It was the baggage that gave him the most consternation. The men’s needs had been few, a clean shirt, weapons, ammunition, food for the journey. They’d been dressed in breeches for traveling, not a clan-revealing plaid. But Catriona had obviously meant to be gone for a while, as there were gowns and shoes and undergarments. He didn’t want all of this found—it would cause too many questions and could lead right back to the Duff clan—but he wanted to be able to get his hands on it when needed. So Duncan buried it with the spade he’d brought, marked with an unusual rock so that he could find everything again. Next he turned to the men themselves and did the same. During the backbreaking work, he planned what he would tell Catriona.

  Catherine awoke in near darkness, but for the guttering of a candle. She didn’t know what had awakened her, or if it was even morning. She lay still, tense, until she heard the sound she’d thought was only in her dreams—a high, keening wail that didn’t sound human. It raised gooseflesh on her arms. She came up on her elbows, wincing as her muscles protested, but the sound was already so distant, muffled by rock and earth. Or she’d imagined it. After all, she could hardly claim that her mind was acting soundly.

  Because much as she’d gone to bed hopeful, this morning she still had the same blank slate in her mind. Her memories only started yesterday, when she’d awakened in the rain beside two dead men. Her men, she assumed, and she wasn’t even able to mourn them properly. She didn’t know what had happened, except somehow they’d ended up in the bottom of a ravine. Had it been an accident? Or had someone forced them over and left them for dead?

  Now she was being ridiculous, inventing enemies to explain an accident. She closed her eyes and lay back again, and the terrible ache in her head eased somewhat. The rest of her body felt bruised and sore. She glanced at the clothes Maeve had left, but she wasn’t sure she could dress herself, considering how weak she felt. The urge to use the chamber pot only grew stronger. She had to brace herself on the table to combat the dizziness, and her head pounded so hard she closed her eyes. But she was able to take care of her needs. Rising back to her feet, she swayed again, grabbing the chair, just as she heard footsteps in the passageway.

  Maeve swept the curtain aside and entered, carrying a tray. She took one look at Catherine—who was so weak that black spots were floating in her sight—then put the tray on the table and a bracing arm around Catherine’s waist. Together they made it the couple steps back to the pallet, where Catherine collapsed with relief. The two women smiled at each other.

  Maeve put her hands on her hips. “Good mornin’, Mistress Catherine. I see ye felt up to gettin’ out of bed yerself.”

  “Well I had to,” she insisted, “but perhaps I’ll take things slowly.”

  “Aye, see that ye do,” Maeve said good-naturedly. “Do ye still like the name?”

  “I think I do, thank you. I hope you don’t grow too tired of hearing me offer my thanks for all of this.” She gestured with her hand, encompassing the tray and all of Maeve’s work. “I’m determined to be on my feet soon, and then I can repay you all for your hospitality and do my part.”

  “Think nothin’ of it, mistress. Here in Scotland, we always help strangers in need. And ye’re our guest—even if ’tis only in a cave. Now, how do ye feel about breakin’ yer fast?”

  Catherine sniffed appreciatively. “It smells good.”

  “I thought it best to start ye on somethin’ plain as ye’re healin’, so ’tis only porridge, but I’ve added honey to sweeten it.”

  Catherine imagined such an encampment didn’t have many luxuries to spare, and surely honey was one of them. “That was kind of you.”

  “Do ye need help sittin’ up?”

  Between the two of them, they put an extra pillow behind Catherine, and she was able to sit with the tray across her lap. She found herself starving, and the porridge tasted delicious.

  “I cannot believe how lucky I was to be found by your chief,” Catherine said, after finishing her bowl and wishing there was more. “I was so confused I could have wandered right into a river. But Laird Carlyle was kind and gentle with me.”

  Maeve sent her a startled look, then smiled. “Glad I am to hear that. There are not many who’d use those words to describe him. I’ve known him since we were bairns together, and beneath that gruff behavior is a good man, one he doesn’t often let show.”

  “Why not?”

  Maeve hesitated. “His life has not been an easy one.”

  Catherine thought it strange that a woman with such a devastating scar could say such a thing, but she was obviously loyal.

  “It can’t be easy, if his clan is living in this cave,” Catherine said gently. She was far too curious, even though it was none of her business.

  “Not the whole clan, of course,” Maeve said, then winced. “’Tis not my story to tell, mistress.”

  “I didn’t mean to pry. I have no memory of my life, no idea where to go or what to do next. Asking questions is the only way I can learn anything.”

  Maeve sat down in the room’s only chair. “I cannot imagine such a thing. I’ll answer what I can, but there is little I can say about his lairdship.”

  “How many people live in this cave?”

  “’Tis not our regular home, but right now over twenty people are stayin’ here.”

  “Why?”

  Maeve didn’t answer.

  “More things I cannot know,” Catherine said, hiding her frustration. “Surely Laird Carlyle can tell me something. Where is he?”

  “Gone to bury your men, mistress.”

  “I cannot just lie here,” Catherine finally said, fisting the blanket with frustration.

  “Ye must, for at least another day. Let me look at yer injury.”

  Maeve was efficient as she worked, and as she regarded Catherine’s uncovered wound, she gave a critical nod. “It seems to be healin’ well. ’Twill probably leave no scar at all.”

  Maeve applied a healing salve before beginning to wrap a clean bandage around Catherine’s head.

  “Would you mind telling me what happened with your scar?” Catherine ventured with hesitation. “Only if you wish to, of course.”

  “There is nothin’ much to say.” Maeve continued to work, not meeting her eyes. “I was deliberately burned by a cruel person when I was a child.”

  Catherine gasped, and lai
d a hand on Maeve’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”

  “’Twas a long time ago and best forgotten.” Maeve finished tying the bandage in place and rose. “I think ye should sleep some more. I’ll check back on ye later.”

  Because Maeve’s smile was as friendly as always, Catherine hoped she hadn’t been offended by her curiosity. The woman left a fresh candle in the lantern and departed. Hearing a boisterous laugh from the “great hall,” Catherine found herself wanting to be out there, but dreading it as well. Everyone would stare at her with suspicion, with pity, maybe even with hatred, since she seemed to be English—at least her accent was.

  Then why had she been traveling through the Highlands? Wouldn’t she have visited Edinburgh, perhaps, in the Lowlands?

  And that made her think about Laird Carlyle. Had he been of age to fight during the rebellion, when the Jacobites had claimed victory on the field, but hadn’t won their cause? Could that be part of the reason he and his people hid in caves?

  She seemed to know historical things, but not her own name, which was very frustrating.

  Aloud, she whispered, “My name is . . .” and hoped the right words would fall from her lips. “My name is . . .” Nothing.

  Her mind was spinning, and that wasn’t helping the throbbing behind her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she tried to wipe away her doubts, her very thoughts, to let sleep claim her. It wasn’t easy, but at last she escaped the pain down the dark well of unconsciousness.

  During a meeting of the men before supper, Duncan gradually lost their attention as, one by one, they went silent, staring past him. He turned around to see Maeve helping Catriona across the footbridge. Even the women cooking over their cauldrons looked up, before whispering among themselves.

  Though Catriona still had a bandage wrapped around her head, the fall of her dark hair hid some of it. He could see that he was not the only man to realize her beauty. Even in the simple garb of his people, she was riveting, her waist slim, her breasts pressed up to overflowing by the stays, though she did try to cover herself with a fichu. Her expression showed determination, even as she allowed Maeve to steady her arm.

  Not all of his people’s expressions toward Catriona were admiring or curious. They’d heard her speak with her English accent, and he saw Melville wearing a skeptical frown. But Duncan was their chief, and his word was law.

  Maeve brought her to the first table and helped her find a seat on the end of a bench. One man got up and left; another slid to the far end. All watched her warily.

  Catriona only gave a brief wounded look, before raising her chin with an arrogance that was inbred in her, a subconscious memory—unless of course she was feigning her memory loss, a possibility Duncan had not yet dismissed. She’d only been with them for a day.

  “Mistress Catherine requests permission to eat with the clan, Laird Carlyle,” Maeve said.

  Duncan hid his startled response to that name. “She has remembered who she is?”

  “You don’t have to talk as if I’m not here,” Catriona said.

  She spoke politely, but the men murmured regardless, most likely at the way her English accent made her seem foreign. No one but he knew that she was Scottish.

  “I have remembered nothing,” she continued. “But I had to have a name.”

  Yet she’d chosen to use one that was the English version of her own name, Catriona? It seemed suspicious. His men, abused by the English for too long, could see that she was no ordinary lass; Duncan hoped he wouldn’t have to guard her from their justified anger.

  “We discussed many names,” Maeve said, giving the group of men a frown.

  “And I liked the sound of Catherine,” Catriona said. “You also should know I have no memory of Gaelic either. I assume that is the language in which you speak to your men.”

  He nodded. He couldn’t even take reassurance in that. She could be lying, or if she was telling the truth, why would an earl’s daughter, who spent most of her time in London, know any Gaelic at all? Still, he would be careful to reveal nothing too important in her hearing, regardless of which language he used.

  She looked around. “Might I wash up before eating?”

  “We wash in the burn.” He nodded his head at the little stream. “Wash just where it leaves the cave, beyond where we take our drinking water.”

  “But I’ll bring ye a basin while ye’re recoverin’,” Maeve called, giving him a stern look Catriona couldn’t see.

  Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted Catriona to know the rules and abide by them like everyone else—but he didn’t mean to be unsympathetic to her injuries.

  “I can do it,” Catriona insisted.

  “And so ye will—eventually,” Duncan said. “Maeve is right.”

  Maeve brought a pot of soap and the basin, then helped her wash.

  “Ye look pale, Mistress Catherine,” Duncan said, emphasizing the name she’d chosen for herself. She didn’t react as if she remembered she had another name. “Should ye not be abed?”

  Her smile was faint. “Perhaps, Laird Carlyle, but it was a long day there. I hoped you wouldn’t mind if I shared supper with your clansmen.” She lowered her voice. “And I hoped to hear what you found at the sight of my accident.”

  As if on cue, the last four men at her table got up and left, making an exaggerated show of handing their empty plates to the women before leaving the cave.

  Catriona’s troubled gaze followed them, as Duncan sat down opposite her. He took a drink of ale from his tankard.

  “I did not wish to drive anyone away,” she said quietly.

  “They saw that ye wished to speak with me,” he answered. “The way we live, they’ve learned to be discreet.”

  She looked around with interest, as if she would question him more about that, but instead, her golden eyes found his and focused with determination. “What did you find, Laird Carlyle? Was the scene as I remembered?”

  “’Twas just so, mistress. Two poor souls dead. I buried them, then marked their graves so they could be found again.”

  Her expression was solemn. “So you found nothing to indicate who they were?”

  Or who she was—the unspoken question was vivid.

  “Nothing,” he answered. “Your horses had been injured in the fall. I tracked them and found that none could be saved.”

  She inhaled sharply, murmured, “Poor beasts,” before saying, “And my baggage? Surely there were packs or . . . something.”

  “Stolen, mistress,” he replied, the lie coming easily.

  She gasped. “Someone stole my goods but left the horses to suffer?”

  She was quick—he hadn’t even considered that he should have claimed the horses had already been killed. “The thieves might have been in a rush, fearing to be discovered. Many Highlanders are desperate for a way to feed their families.”

  Though she nodded, she studied him too closely. “I imagine your people know all about desperation.”

  He glowered. “Are ye accusing us of—”

  “No, don’t misunderstand me.” Wide-eyed, she put up a hand. “I simply meant that because you live here, in a cave, things cannot be good for your clan.”

  “This is not all of my clan.”

  “So Maeve told me, but when one doesn’t remember even the most basic facts, it’s difficult to believe one can make judgments about anything.” She smiled when Maeve approached with a platter of salted herring and boiled leeks and cabbage.

  “Eat slowly, mistress,” Maeve said. “I still think ye should be havin’ soup.”

  “I had it for luncheon, Maeve. I need something more, or my stomach will gnaw through my backbone.”

  Maeve nodded and moved away. Catriona glanced around, noticing that several men smirked with disdain. “What did I say?” she asked softly.

  “Luncheon. ’Tis for ladies of fine birth. We have dinner at midday.”

  “Oh.”

  She stared down at her plate, her shoulders lowered as if in defeat. He found hi
mself feeling sorry for her, something he hadn’t expected.

  “I understand your people have no cause to think kindly of the wealthy,” she said softly. “I do not know how I came by my fine clothes. For all I know, I could be some man’s mistress.”

  Duncan shook his head. “With your fine way with words? More likely some man’s wife.”

  Her expression twisted. “If so, I am causing him and the rest of my family much pain.” She looked down at her plate, using the small knife to disturb the cabbage, but not eating.

  “Ye wear no ring, mistress. Do not fret about what ye do not know. My patrols will be looking for anyone searching for ye. Be at peace.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out, attempting a smile as she cut a piece of fish and ate it. She chewed for a moment, then ate another bite, more quickly.

  “I am trying to be at peace. I will admit I’m surprised I don’t feel hysterical. To know nothing about myself, I should feel panicked. But . . . in some ways, it’s a challenge, like figuring out a child’s puzzle. I know things I might have learned or heard as a young girl, history for instance.” She gestured toward her plate. “But every time Maeve has given me something to eat, I’ve had no idea if I’ll like it or not, whether it might be a favorite I have no memory of.”

  He had to admire her fortitude. Many in her situation would be reduced to cowering, afraid to face the world. “Do ye remember faces of people ye might know?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Nothing. I feel alone in the world, but for your clan’s kindness. I imagine I should be grateful that I know how to talk or even dress myself.”

  And that made him glance again at her cleavage, obscured by the fichu. He looked back down at his plate. He was noticing too frequently that she was a beautiful woman, with sincere eyes that could make a man feel as if he could lose himself. But if there was a plan against him by her father, that would have been part of it. It was difficult not to notice a woman as striking as Catriona.