Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  Maeve approached. “Mistress Catherine, I think ye should rest now.”

  Catriona sighed. “Very well. I do feel tired.” She gave Duncan a faint smile. “You’ve allowed me to use your chamber while I recover, Laird Carlyle. I am grateful.”

  “I was being practical.”

  Maeve rolled her eyes.

  He added, “But I should retrieve some items before ye go to sleep.”

  “Of course, please do,” Catriona said.

  He followed the two women through the great hall and into the passageway. Catriona sat down heavily in the single chair, on top of several feminine garments, and let out a sigh.

  He almost asked if she was in pain, then stopped himself. It wouldn’t do to seem too curious about everything she did. Maeve excused herself to fetch hot water, leaving Duncan alone with Catriona—and the mess. He was surprised to see items of women’s clothing scattered about, her ruined shoes where they could trip her, a hairbrush and pins spread out on the table, garments on the chair instead of hung on pegs, forcing her to sit on them. It was none of his business how she wanted to live. Under her curious gaze, he found a fresh shirt in his trunk and gathered his shaving items.

  “There is room in the trunk if ye wish to put any clothing away,” he offered.

  “Thank you,” Catriona said, then looked around with a rueful smile. “I’m sorry your chamber isn’t more tidy. I confess I don’t even realize there’s a problem until I see it through someone else’s eyes.”

  The amusement with which she regarded her flaws should have bothered him, but he found himself impressed that she didn’t try to blame Maeve or use her illness as an excuse.

  “I asked Maeve why you all live in this cave,” she continued, “and she said it was your place to tell me, not hers.”

  He straightened and regarded her warily.

  “You said most of your clan lives elsewhere.”

  “In their own homes, aye.”

  “But a select group lives here, because . . .” She trailed off expectantly.

  “I cannot be answering all your questions, mistress.”

  She blinked up at him, before nodding. “Of course not. I was simply curious.”

  “Were ye? How can I know that?” When she flinched, he held up a hand and spoke with quiet determination. “I am responsible for everyone here, and we live in this cave for a reason. There are people looking for us. How am I to know if ye’re not lying to me about your lost memory?”

  “You think I’m lying?” she said in a cooler voice. “Why would I do that?”

  “I’ve heard of men addled from a blow to the head, but never this complete loss of memory. Ye seem to function well in every other way, which makes me curious. I know nothing about ye, do I?”

  “And I know nothing about you,” she retorted. “Of course I would ask questions—I am at your mercy, after all. You could want . . . anything from me.”

  White with strain, she was all prickly and stiff, and he admired her defiance, especially considering he held the upper hand. It felt strange to admire the daughter of Aberfoyle.

  “I brought ye here because ye needed help,” he said. “And now I’m offering ye as much honesty as I can. I hope ye offer the same.”

  Maeve entered the chamber carrying a steaming basin and towels, eyes downcast as if she’d heard every word,

  Duncan sighed. “Please show Mistress Catherine where we bathe.”

  “I hope you’re not saying that I smell,” Catriona said tiredly, her defensiveness melting away.

  He bit back a smile. “I offer ye a kind gesture, not an insult. Good night, Mistress Catherine.”

  As he left his chamber, he realized it was dangerously easy to sympathize with her, injured and alone amidst strangers, but still trying to defend herself. Wouldn’t he do the same?

  He couldn’t relax his guard. He needed to be wary, to remember who she was.

  He trusted few people, a lesson formed in childhood, beaten into him by a mother who hated her life and made certain her family suffered for it. He’d been a frightened boy whom his father should have protected, but his father had waited until it was too late.

  Chapter 4

  After Laird Carlyle had gone, Catherine distractedly pushed aside the things on the table to make room for the basin and towels. Maeve didn’t meet her gaze, and Catherine couldn’t help wondering if the woman thought she was lying, too.

  At first Catherine had been at ease in his presence, this man who’d saved her life. She’d been foolishly admiring his hair, how she could now see that it was auburn, and thinking what a handsome man he might be if he smiled. He exuded a powerful, yet leashed strength that affected her far too much.

  But his words of distrust had shaken her, reminded her that she was an outsider. She really knew nothing about him at all, except that he and this small band of people were in hiding. They could be thieves, for all she knew.

  She glanced at Maeve, who was laying out towels and the nightshift. Catherine stopped her questions in her throat, knowing that trusting Maeve was probably a mistake, too. With her memory gone, trapped in a cave, Catherine shouldn’t trust anyone.

  But she smiled tiredly at the servant, who was only trying to help her. “Apparently, I need to bathe.”

  “Och, his lairdship doesn’t know how to be tactful.”

  “So I gathered,” she said dryly. With a sigh, she stood up. “But I am curious. I take it the water pools somewhere within the caves?”

  Maeve grinned. “’Tis better than that. But I think ye should wait until another time. Ye’re tired, and ’twouldn’t do to slip.”

  “But—”

  “And perhaps ye should wait for the men to be gone.”

  “Oh.” Catherine let out a sigh. “Very well, I bow to your expertise. But please show me where it is tonight?”

  She followed the maidservant out into the passage and turned away from the great hall. Maeve carried the lantern, which glimmered on rock walls that were smooth and damp. A chill wind rippled across them, and Catherine shuddered. She couldn’t imagine being in these caves in the dead of winter.

  Over her shoulder, Maeve said, “There are no other little caves like the one ye sleep in. But up ahead, the burn that enters the caves from the mountains above separates into two paths. The one runs into our great hall, and we can use that for drinkin’ water.”

  “How wonderfully convenient.” Catherine had begun to hear the sound of running water growing louder with every step.

  Maeve smiled. “The second travels deeper into the caves and ends up . . .” She trailed off as she stepped through another uneven entry way. “. . . here.”

  Catherine gasped as she followed Maeve into another cave. The lantern light glittered on a pool of water that churned from a waterfall not much taller than a man. The water seemed to burst out of the cave wall.

  “This is incredible,” Catherine said with awe.

  “Och, don’t be deceived—it looks beautiful, but the water is . . . brisk.”

  Catherine laughed. “I’ll remember that.”

  “And if ye decide to bathe, the signal for privacy is a shoe left in the passageway. Ye shouldn’t be disturbed.”

  “I appreciate that, thank you. For now I’ll use the hot water basin you brought me.”

  Catherine took one last look at the natural beauty of the waterfall, before Maeve and her lantern started down the passageway. Catherine paused. Inside the waterfall cave, it was completely black, an inky stillness that hid danger to the unwary.

  It was a reminder of everything that had happened to her since she’d woken up.

  In the morning, Catherine awoke and dressed in the dark before Maeve even arrived. She could hear male voices echo along the rock, but decided not to face them alone. She was still irritated by Laird Carlyle’s accusation that she could be lying.

  Lying! Why would she lie about losing her memory?

  She’d been wearing fine clothes, yes, and that marked her as someone fro
m a wealthy family. Apparently, he had something against wealthy people.

  Well, he was a chief who lived in a cave, she reminded herself, wincing. It was all such a mystery, one he didn’t want to talk about, and had obviously instructed Maeve not to discuss either. Figuring it all out would at least give her a purpose.

  Because otherwise, she had nothing at all except the struggle to regain her memory. She felt like she was floating in a boat without oars, with no idea where she was or how to get somewhere else. She was stuck.

  But she didn’t have to feel sorry for herself or be a burden. She wasn’t an invalid; surely she had some sort of skills to help. She’d remembered how to dress herself, after all, she thought dryly. And then perhaps, if she didn’t panic, her memories would come back on their own as her wound healed.

  She was sitting in the chair, waiting patiently, when a glow bobbed down the passageway, and the curtain was drawn aside. Catherine narrowed her eyes at the sudden light.

  Maeve came to an abrupt halt. “A good morn to ye, mistress. I assumed ye’d still be abed.”

  Catherine slapped her hands on her thighs as she came to her feet. “No, I’m feeling much better. It’s time for me to do something to earn my stay here.”

  “Earn your stay? Ye’re our guest, mistress,” Maeve insisted.

  “That is kind of you, but I simply cannot sit around waiting for my memory to return. Assign me something to do. I’m a quick learner—I think.”

  They shared a smile. Catherine was grateful for the other woman’s presence. Maeve made her feel at ease, made her think that at least she had one friend here amidst Clan Carlyle.

  “Let me look at your wound first,” Maeve said, guiding her back into the chair by the shoulders.

  Catherine waited patiently, only wincing once as the bandage seemed stuck to her forehead. “Is it inflamed?”

  “Nay, ye were lucky.” She met Catherine’s gaze. “It must have been terrible.”

  Catherine shrugged. “It was mostly just the pain and confusion that I remember. I don’t think I wandered long before your laird found me.” She put a hand to her forehead tentatively. “There is a giant lump, though.”

  “It already looks better. Except for your eyes, o’ course.”

  “My eyes?” Catherine said, aghast. “But they don’t hurt!”

  “They look like someone took a fist to both o’ them. Purple, blue, green—very attractive,” she teased.

  Catherine winced. “Maybe I’m vain, because I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “We all want to look our best. No shame in that.” Maeve applied more salve, then began to wrap a clean bandage around Catherine’s head.

  “We still need the bandage?” Catherine asked.

  “We’re in a cave, mistress. Surely ye don’t want bat droppings falling in it.”

  “What!”

  Maeve gave a hearty laugh. “I be teasin’, mistress. We chased out the bats long ago.”

  Grinning, Catherine shook her head. “How long have you lived here?”

  Maeve sighed. “Ye know I cannot speak of it.”

  “Do you have your own home somewhere else?”

  “I did.”

  “Meaning . . . you don’t anymore?”

  Maeve didn’t answer.

  “I’m sorry if I’m prying,” Catherine said with a sigh. “When you don’t remember anything, you’re filled with questions about . . . everything. I hope something I ask will trigger my own memories. I imagine where I lived, see myself going through a door, or looking out a window, or turning down a bed.”

  “Is it workin’?”

  “Not yet. So if I keep asking questions you aren’t allowed to answer, just tell me to stop.”

  “’Tisn’t that I’m not allowed, mistress,” Maeve explained. “Laird Carlyle is not a tyrant whose fist we live beneath. I made me own decision to support him and what he’s doin’. Perhaps he will answer your questions.”

  “That won’t happen,” Catherine said with faint bitterness. “He thinks I’m lying about my memory loss.” She hesitated. “Do you?”

  “Nay,” Maeve said kindly. “But his lairdship has had reason in his life not to trust most people.”

  Catherine shook her head. “Then he must live a very miserable, lonely life.”

  “Aye, that he does,” Maeve said. “He trusts us with most things, but his inner thoughts and feelings? Nay.”

  Catherine could believe that. She remained silent as the woman tied off the bandage and helped pull her hair back to secure it in a simple knot at her neck.

  Maeve stepped back and examined her.

  “I’m presentable?” Catherine asked.

  “I believe so.”

  “Please thank whoever loaned me their gown,” she said, spreading wide the plain brown skirt. It was tied over a stiffened petticoat. She knew she’d been wearing a hooped petticoat when she’d arrived, but it had probably been damaged beyond repair.

  “’Tis mine,” Maeve said almost shyly. “I made it meself, so ’tis not as fine as ye’re used to.”

  “It is perfect, and all the better because you worked on it yourself. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”

  Maeve blushed and bobbed her head, the edge of her cap dipping to cover her eyes.

  “And who knows what I’m used to?” Catherine added. “For all I know, I’m a thief who stole that gown.”

  “Och, that is certainly not true!”

  “We don’t know that, do we?” Catherine asked bitterly. She took a deep breath. “But thank you for your belief in me. I cannot dwell on my hidden past. All I have is the present. Let me find a way to be of assistance. You’ll be helping me fill my day, as well.”

  “If ye insist,” Maeve said doubtfully.

  She was staring at Catherine’s hands.

  Catherine held them up. She’d scrubbed them as well as she could in the basin. “Is something wrong?”

  Maeve shrugged. “Those are delicate hands, mistress, not used to hard work.”

  “Then it’s time they were of use.”

  Maeve bowed her head and held her lantern to lead the way back down the passage. The “great hall” opened up before her, the ceiling dark above, with a haze of smoke from the several fires. The entrance to the cave was the only natural light, so the torches were surely kept lit most of the day. The odors were a mix of charred wood smoke, too many bodies, and something cooking.

  A few men still lingered over their breakfasts, eyeing her suspiciously as Maeve made her sit down at an empty table to eat. An older woman, her bosom big, her hands well worn, slapped a plate down in front of Maeve, said something in Gaelic, then went back to the girdle on the fire to put on more oatcakes.

  Catherine watched her go, then asked Maeve, “Does she know I don’t speak Gaelic?”

  “I’m sure she does. But Mrs. Skinner does not speak English.”

  Catherine’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I see.”

  “She’s the mother of one of our youngest clansmen, and is a widow, come to make sure her laddie eats well.”

  Catherine took a bite of her oatcake. “And I appreciate it.”

  She stiffened when she saw Laird Carlyle enter the cave, his impassive gaze focusing immediately on her. She remembered his accusation that she could be lying, and as much as she was offended, the objective part of her understood his concern was for his people.

  Laird Carlyle strode toward her, looking intimidatingly large and powerful. He wore a dark green coat over his shirt and belted plaid, with the excess plaid up over his shoulder and held in place with a brooch. A sword hung at his side, a pistol tucked into his belt. His knees were bare above muddy boots, his auburn hair tied back in a messy queue, and his brows lowered in a frown. With his dark, dark eyes, he seemed menacing, and as he came to a stop right in front of her, she had to force herself not to back away.

  She wasn’t going to show him any fear. She might be alone in the world, with nowhere to go, but she wasn’t going to cower.


  “You are well enough to be out of bed?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it a bed.” She was attempting a light, dry tone, but his lip didn’t even quirk with the hint of a smile. “But, yes, I am feeling better. I wish to be of help, to earn my keep.”

  “I’ve told the lass she’s our guest,” Maeve said, “but—”

  Catherine interrupted. “And that’s kind of you all, but I need to do something.”

  Laird Carlyle took a hold of her hand and held it palm up. Her soft skin seemed somehow embarrassing within his big, rough hand. She rose to her feet and tried to pull back, but he didn’t release her, and she faced him over their joined hands.

  “I doubt ye’ve worked a day in your life,” he said.

  A voice came from a group of men near the entrance. “Unless ’tis on her back.”

  Maeve gasped, Catherine inhaled sharply, but before she could defend herself, Laird Carlyle spoke.

  “Melville, I will not have Mistress Catherine disrespected,” he said coldly.

  One of the men turned on his heel and left the cave, and Catherine thought she remembered that same man glaring at her the day before.

  For Laird Carlyle’s ears only, she said, “Didn’t you disrespect me by accusing me of lying?”

  “I told ye the truth about my suspicions,” he answered impassively. “Surely ye don’t want things hidden from ye.”

  “Like you’re hiding in these caves?” she whispered back, feeling suddenly reckless. Perhaps she was a bold sort of woman.

  He arched a dark brow. “Ye know nothing about us.”

  “And neither of us knows anything about me. Let us not assume the worst, shall we? I want to help, and that’s all.”

  He let her hand go. “Aye, ye can do that, and ‘twill be appreciated.”

  “But there are rules in this encampment,” he added, “and ye shall follow them. Ye’ll do whatever Maeve or Mrs. Skinner tells ye to do. And ye’re not to leave this cave.”