Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  He was relieved by the thaw that had occurred between her and the other women. The cave was already so small that any arguments would distress every resident. Catriona was different, and there was no hiding that fact. She scrubbed her hands repeatedly as if she wasn’t used to dirt under her nails. She even questioned the translation of Mrs. Skinner’s orders. Catriona was a woman used to being in charge, even if she didn’t remember that.

  But she’d blended in quickly, just by being willing to work and help the children. The women had accepted her, and soon the men would, following his own lead. He’d confided in her more than he meant to. But the rescued children couldn’t be explained any other way. Detail after detail had poured out of him, lured by her sympathy. Those golden eyes had shone with approval.

  And she’d touched him, and he’d had the overpowering desire to pull her into his arms. He hadn’t been able to stop watching her mouth, had imagined kissing her, caressing her, laying her down on his pallet and taking her.

  What kind of chief was he, to let the daughter of his enemy affect him so? He shouldn’t want her understanding, just her acquiescence.

  But she bustled about almost authoritatively, asking for whatever food she thought the children needed. He knew she wasn’t used to being subservient. Anyone could see that she was a woman who’d been trained to run a household; she was a lady.

  He suddenly had a sobering thought—would behaving in her old manner trigger her elusive memories? He studied her too closely, looking for a sign that her mind was releasing the truth, a sign that she didn’t belong here.

  But it didn’t happen. She seemed lit by an inner fire of resolve, of determination to help the abused children. She treated them with gentleness and good nature, and when their steps grew weary, their heads drooping, she worked with the other women to find them pallets to lie upon near a warm fire.

  She did not leave their care until all were asleep, including the silent orphan who spoke not at all, but whose eyes were windows of both wariness and fear. Catriona sat beside him until he fell asleep, and only then did she speak a soft good-night to Maeve.

  He continued watching her until she was at the entrance to the passageway into the next cave. She looked over her shoulder one last time and saw him staring, then blushed and turned away. What had she read in his expression? He’d worked so hard to overcome his impetuous youth, to become a leader to be trusted, a man who expressed impassivity, not emotion.

  But he wasn’t thinking with his brain when he looked at Catriona.

  Catherine didn’t sleep well, unable to shake her concern for the children. She rose and dressed swiftly, this time in a dark plaid gown, with her chemise apparent at her neckline and shoulders and at the laces that attached her sleeves. She wasn’t wearing a fichu, and trusted that the chemise distracted from her cleavage. She hardly wanted to display herself before the men.

  Unwillingly, she remembered the way Duncan Carlyle had watched her when she’d retired for the night—retired to his chamber, his bed. She had no memories of any bed at all, she reminded herself with sarcasm, but that didn’t matter. She hadn’t been able to gauge his expression, but she’d felt . . . hot, as if it were high summer instead of sliding into autumn. Her legs had felt weak, and between them—good God, she could not let herself remember how restless and yearning she’d felt in his bed.

  She scolded herself for such weakness. He’d rescued her, been kind to her, even as he’d harbored natural suspicions about something so outlandish as losing all of one’s memories. This was gratitude she was feeling, nothing more.

  It didn’t help that he was handsome in a rough, masculine way, with his unruly auburn hair that seemed to want to escape his queue, high cheekbones, the stubble of a day’s growth of beard, and dark eyes that hid the weight of the world.

  No, she was done thinking about him. There were helpless, lost children to focus on. She entered the great hall when the cave entrance was still awash with gray light. Without thinking, she crossed to look out upon the dawn, only to find one of Laird Carlyle’s men silently stepping into her path, blocking her.

  “Oh, my apologies,” she murmured, giving him an embarrassed smile before turning away.

  He didn’t smile back. But she was starting to learn people’s names. He was Melville, Sheena’s father, and it was obvious he didn’t like her—and trying to go outside had probably increased his suspicion.

  But she’d almost forgotten what the outdoors even looked like. There were few men in the cave, and she imagined the rest were outside, feeding animals, gathering wood, or hunting.

  After washing her hands in the burn, Catherine walked to the cooking fires and greeted the four women. “Good morning to you.” She glanced past them to see the five little boys, all still sleeping soundly, some wrapped tightly in their blankets, others sprawled with abandon. “At least some of them feel safe at last,” she said wryly.

  Maeve translated for Mrs. Skinner, then smiled. “Some had nightmares, but I was able to console them.”

  Catherine stiffened. “Oh, I could have been helping you.”

  “Nay, ’twas an easy task.”

  “Then at least allow me to help with breakfast.”

  Soon they had cauldrons of porridge and boiling eggs to be consumed with fresh buttermilk, and Catherine’s mouth watered. The scents awakened the children, who looked frightened again, as if they hadn’t remembered the rescue. While the clanswomen set a table for the children, she guided them to wash up in the stream. The little orphan boy, Finn, seemed frightened of the water—of perhaps everything. He resisted much washing, and since she didn’t want to push him, she settled for making certain that at least his hands were clean. When Maeve announced breakfast, and the children rushed to the table, Finn hung back.

  “Are you not hungry?” Catherine asked gently.

  Eyes downcast, he only shrugged. So he did speak English, she thought with relief.

  “I am Catherine. I understand you’re Finn.”

  He mumbled something, but she didn’t call him on it.

  “Finn, that’s a good strong name,” she said. “Come and taste the porridge. Do you like eggs?”

  Another shrug. But she made certain the children shared the meal, and that no one with quick fingers ate more than another. Then she just sat back and listened. The children recounted being tied together in a cart, covered over by a tarpaulin, fed blackened oatcakes over several days, seldom even allowed to stretch their legs except at night, when they’d be locked into an old barn. The other four women listened with sympathy, but it was obvious they’d heard this before, after other rescues. To Catherine, it was fresh and appalling, and her chest ached without the release of tears she couldn’t shed.

  Finn said nothing, of course, just ate steadily, his eyes downcast. He stared at the eggs on his plate in curiosity, poking them with his finger before finally eating one, gingerly at first, then with more enthusiasm. Catherine suspected he’d just had his first egg, and her throat grew tight at withholding her emotions. The poor boy.

  “What do we do now?” the eldest asked, while the youngest put his thumb in his mouth and looked around with interest.

  “I want to go home,” whispered another, his voice wobbly.

  “We’re contactin’ yer parents, as Laird Carlyle said,” Maeve responded. “Ye know it may take several days until we can bring ye to them. Until then, ye remain in the cave, helpin’ with chores as best ye can and waitin’ for his lairdship to give permission to go outside.”

  “Chores!” the oldest said in dismay.

  “Busy minds cannot dwell on things best forgotten,” Maeve said.

  That seemed reasonable, Catherine grudgingly admitted to herself. She almost asked about tutoring, but stopped herself. The boys would only be there for a few days—she glanced at Finn—she hoped.

  And then she had a sudden horrible thought. What about her? Could she read? Could she remember how to read? She tried to remember words, but in her panic, everyt
hing stayed a blank. She only grew more and more fearful, wondering what else she had forgotten she even knew.

  “But for now,” Maeve was saying, “there are sticks near the burn. Build yerselves some boats.”

  And they were off, even young Finn, though he trailed them and stood back while the other boys flung themselves on the embankment, grabbed the sticks and string, and began to build.

  Catherine and the other women prepared even more food for the men, who would be returning for dinner at midday. In between, she watched over the children until they grew tired of boats and turned to marbles. Finn continued to hang back, and soon the other boys didn’t even bother to include him in their games. Catherine almost interceded, until Maeve suggested that boys should learn to solve their own small problems, so they’d eventually be prepared for the big ones.

  For the first time, Catherine had some time where she had absolutely nothing to do—and she was in a cave. She glanced at the entrance with longing, seeing light and imagining the sun on her face. She would give almost anything to step outside and simply inhale something fresh that wasn’t smoke and men’s body odor. But she knew that wasn’t going to happen until people began to trust her.

  Someone sighed loudly right next to her, and with a start, she turned to see Janet, watching the boys and shaking her head.

  “What is it?” Catherine asked.

  “I tried to interest the boys in chess with Angus, and they would have none of it. Splashin’ and gettin’ wet and dirty was all they wanted.”

  Catherine barely heard anything after “chess.” “You have a chessboard?” she asked excitedly.

  Janet eyed her. “Ye remember how to play?”

  That stopped Catherine, who closed her eyes and imagined the board and all the pieces. In her mind she saw them move. Opening her eyes, she said excitedly, “Yes! I believe I do. Where is the board?”

  Janet found the board on an upturned crate along the rough stone wall. The game pieces were in a plain wooden box on top—no wonder Catherine hadn’t seen it. When she lifted the lid and saw the delicately carved ivory pieces, she gave a little gasp.

  “’Tis Himself’s set. Few use it.”

  “He has forbidden it?”

  “Nay, but . . .’tis from his family’s past, when things were better, aye?”

  Catherine nodded. “I understand. No one wants to risk damaging it. I’ll be careful.” And the act of mental exercise might help regain her memories, she realized with excitement. “Do you play?”

  Janet shook her head.

  “I could teach you.”

  But Janet was already glancing at the other women as if she couldn’t wait to escape.

  “Go on then, I won’t keep you.”

  Smiling with relief, the young woman darted away. Catherine gently touched the king, surprised to see three crowns, one on top of the other. But she imagined every artist had their own particular style. These pieces, with their stacked rounded disks, were tall and slender, as if they’d tip over if one became too excited during the game.

  Who could she play with? She looked around and saw the women talking quietly near the children. The only other person was the guard at the door—the one keeping her from stepping outside. It was Angus, the young man newly married to Janet who had said he played chess. Catherine could tell he was trying to focus on keeping them all safe, but he kept watching his wife with longing. There was a man who needed to be distracted, and whom she needed to befriend if she was ever going to be trusted to see the last heather on the moor before autumn chased it away.

  When she marched up to Angus, he stiffened and eyed her warily.

  “Angus, I’ve been told you play chess.”

  He looked around as if for moral support before giving a tiny nod. “Aye, I do, but—”

  “Will you play with me? Your wife just showed me the chessboard.”

  “Laird Carlyle’s board?”

  “Is that a problem? Has he forbidden its use, considering he left it out in the open?” As if there were cupboards in a cave where he could have tucked it away.

  “Nay, but—”

  “Have pity on me, Angus. It’s something I remember knowing how to do. We won’t even leave the entrance. I’ll bring the board to you, and you can even stand while we play.”

  She didn’t wait for a reply, just returned for the crate, and then the game board, setting them along the cave wall near the entrance. She caught a whiff of the outdoors, of heather, earthy and herb-like, and could have swooned.

  Angus still eyed the women and then the entrance, like a small boy who worried about being caught doing something naughty. But she ignored him, sat down on a stump, and lifted the first piece, a horse’s head, from the box.

  “The knight is lovely,” she breathed, the ivory so translucent she could see the carving strokes.

  But she couldn’t waste time admiring the set when Angus might balk at any moment. She set up the pieces without even thinking about it, then stared in wonder at what she’d remembered. She tried to think of playing the game before, of who might have been across the board from her, but nothing came into her damaged brain. She was growing accustomed to feeling defeated where her memory was concerned.

  She moved a white pawn two squares, then looked up at Angus expectantly. “Your turn,” she said brightly.

  He glanced away again, and she saw that Janet was regarding them curiously. But when his wife nodded, Angus reached down and moved a black pawn, before standing up straight next to the entrance again.

  By his first move, Catherine could see he was not an advanced player—how did she know this? she wondered—and adjusted her strategy accordingly. It didn’t take long before she let him win, and he actually smiled at her with happy triumph. She smiled back. Maybe it wouldn’t be that long before she could gain a few minutes’ freedom outside. It wasn’t like she would run from her escort; she was just starting to feel closed in, as if the ceiling sank lower every day. And it had only been a few days! She couldn’t imagine the months and years Laird Carlyle had been here.

  And then the chief himself walked through the entrance and right past them. Angus stiffened and shot her a frown. She quietly pulled the little crate away from him along the wall, to keep from implicating him. Laird Carlyle’s gaze swept over the cave and settled on her, making her blush. She wasn’t going to feel guilty for playing a game. More men arrived, milling between her and him, so she quickly put the pieces back in the box and left them on top of the game board. She didn’t bother moving the crate back where it had been—she had plans to play with every guard she could. But for now, there were hungry men to be fed and they all sat down, waiting to be served.

  She took up a pitcher to fill the men’s tankards with ale. Many spoke in their own language at first, then switched to English when she was near. Had she finally earned their reluctant respect?

  When she leaned past his lairdship’s shoulder to serve him, feeling all embarrassed as if she’d never been near a man before—and for all she knew, she’d been raised by nuns—he met her gaze and didn’t look away. She didn’t want to give him a chance to ask about the chess game.

  She took a deep breath. “Shall I bring you something else, Laird Carlyle?”

  “Nay, the ale is fine,” he said, his manner full of his usual gruffness. “How were the bairns this morn?”

  She tried to will the tension from her shoulders. Everything was fine. “They wanted to be outside, of course, but since they couldn’t, Maeve was quite ingenious suggesting they build boats in the burn.”

  “She’s had practice,” he said dryly.

  Her smile faltered. “It’s a shame she has had so many stolen children to help. Or do you mean having children of her own?” she added, frowning.

  “Nay, she’s never married.”

  Catherine glanced at Maeve, whose gentle manner made her a favorite among the clan. Did no one see past her scar to court her? Or did living in a cave make one put off marriage? she guessed.
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  “How long does it usually take to return the boys to their parents?” Catherine asked.

  “Anywhere from days to weeks, depending on how much information the child is able to supply. We’re lucky that the youngest is brother to the second oldest. Their parents’ village is relatively close. We’ll return them on the morrow, making less work for ye ladies.”

  “We don’t mind,” she said absently, then frowned as she looked for Finn, who was sitting at the children’s table, staring at one of the fires rather than talking with the others. She lowered her voice. “I’m worried about Finn, the one who rarely socializes.”

  “Och, the quiet one, aye. Once rescued, some of the bairns forget quickly what happened to them. Others . . .’tis some time before they move on.”

  “Who can blame them?” she murmured sadly. “I saw the rope marks on their little wrists.”

  “Aye, they’re tied up day and night so they don’t escape.” His voice grew thick. “I’ll not see that done to a child. I understand too well how it works on the mind.”

  She stared at him in surprise, but he said nothing else. Ivor called for more ale, and she went back to work. Had something been done to Laird Carlyle as a child?

  She continued to think on it as the women ate their own meal and cleaned up. Catherine watched the laird say something to Ivor, then head down the passageway, she assumed to his chamber, the one he’d not yet taken back from her.

  The women settled into sewing, while Maeve spun wool from a handheld distaff to a spindle. Catherine chose a rather large shirt, with embroidery on a torn cuff. She set about repairing it without even thinking about it.

  “Ye know fine embroidery work,” Maeve commented.

  Catherine looked up, then glanced at the cuff in surprise. “And so I do! I hadn’t even realized.”

  “’Tis the shirt of Himself,” Maeve said.

  “How did he damage such a fine piece?”

  “He wears what he has to wear, like all of us do,” Sheena said.

  Catherine held it up, and noticed the strained shoulder seams.

  “’Tis many years old,” Maeve said. “Take it to Laird Carlyle for fittin’.”