Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  Janet and Sheena glanced at each other, wide-eyed, and Janet smothered a giggle. Sheena only frowned.

  Catherine willed herself not to blush. “I’ll return quickly,” she said, and took the shirt to the passageway.

  Outside the curtained-off chamber, she hesitated, but there was no wooden door upon which to knock. She leaned closer, wondering if she could time her disturbance, but all she heard was the shuffling of paper.

  “Ye’re breathing mighty loud,” he said from the other side of the curtain.

  She jumped. “Forgive me, Laird Carlyle, I didn’t know if it was a good time to interrupt.”

  He swept back the curtain so suddenly that she started. She found herself looking up into his shadowed face, the lantern behind him making his features even more remote and intriguing.

  “What do ye need?” he asked.

  She held up the linen. “I’m mending your shirt, where you’ve strained the shoulder seams.”

  He stepped back and motioned her inside. “Come in.”

  The chamber looked different and it took her a moment to realize why—he’d folded all of her clothing and set them in piles on the pallet. It had all been in his way, of course. She never thought about why she left things about; it was just something she did, something natural. She wondered if she was simply messy, or used to servants. And if she had servants—which she might, wearing such a fine gown—she seemed to have no problem giving them a reason to do their job. She flushed with embarrassment.

  She could see papers set in neat piles across the table, a book nearby, and for a moment, she panicked, before saying faintly, “I don’t even know if I can read.”

  He eyed her. “Pick up the book and see.”

  She opened the leather cover and gave a sigh of relief when she read, “The Defects and Remedies of English Husbandry, by Robert Child. Oh, thank goodness.”

  “’Tis hard to fake that kind of relief,” he said dryly.

  It was her turn to eye him. “I don’t understand.” Then she stiffened. “Ah, back to my supposed lying again.”

  Folding his arms across his broad chest, he leaned casually against the rock wall. “For what it’s worth, if I didn’t believe ye were telling the truth, I wouldn’t have told ye about our mission.”

  “Well, aren’t I grateful I’ve suddenly become trustworthy.” She didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm.

  He caught her upper arm and pulled her toward him, saying quietly, “And I’m supposed to take your word for it, for something so unbelievable as a loss of memory, when my people’s safety depends on my judgment?”

  He was leaning over her, far too close. She could smell him, manly scents of the outdoors that were far too attractive. The black depths of his eyes might as well have been mirrors, for all she could understand there. But she did see anger and frustration lining his forehead, bracketing his mouth.

  And then his gaze left hers and slid lower, to her mouth, and that first sense of attraction blossomed into heat that spread from her chest up to her cheeks, then down, lower, feeling like it burned between her thighs. She gave a little gasp, feeling every imprint of his fingers on her arm, especially his thumbs against the side of her breast. She should tell him to let her go, but words wouldn’t come. All she could think about was how much she liked his hand on her body, on her breast.

  He lowered his head, and she could barely breathe. She felt his hair brush hers, the heat of his cheek so near, but not touching. His breath on her lips made a moan escape her. If she turned her head, just the slightest bit, their lips would meet. And she desperately wanted that, needed to feel close to someone—to him, this man full of contradictions: anger and righteousness, intensity and reserve, empathy and wariness.

  “I want to kiss ye,” he said, his soft voice husky. “But I’d be taking advantage of ye.”

  They were still so close, but she lifted her gaze and met his. The black depths of his eyes were coal with a spark of fire down deep.

  “Not if I give you permission,” she whispered.

  His lips touched hers with a gentle exploration that surprised and moved her. With another moan, she leaned up to him, tilting her head to give him more access. He pressed kisses against her mouth, like petting a fragile butterfly—but she was not so delicate. She kissed him back, harder, and it was his turn to groan, even as he opened his mouth, slanting it across hers until she did the same. The rasp of his tongue along hers made her shudder with both shock and dark passion. She’d never felt anything like it. It made her feel desperate and reckless; it made all her concerns recede. The only thing that mattered was his mouth bringing hers to life.

  She wanted to be closer, and as if he read her mind, he let her arm go and drew her up hard against him. Her breasts against his chest made her gasp; his arms wrapping about her made her feel like a woman, not a victim. She was able to touch him at last, wind her arms around his neck, then tangle her hands in his wild hair. The queue came undone and she felt brazen as she held his face to her by his hair.

  At last he lifted his head, and both of them breathed hard as they stared at each other. She would have pulled him to her again, but he suddenly stepped back, forcing her to let go. The silence between them seemed loud as her mind cleared, and she remembered why she should never have kissed him. She didn’t know who she was, what she was: wife, fiancée, mistress? When she regained her memories, would she be horrified by her behavior? Because she’d have regrets if she allowed this to go any further.

  And then there was how he’d feel when he found out who she was. She didn’t want him to have his own regrets about helping her, or to think she’d used this attraction between them to benefit herself.

  “I should not have done that,” he said, eyes narrowed.

  “You did not do it alone.”

  “‘Twill not happen again.”

  “No, it cannot.” Her words sounded weak, so she cleared her throat and straightened her back. “We don’t know who I am, what I am.” She glanced down at the book on the table. “I don’t even know what I’m capable of. This memory of mine could come back any moment, or not at all. I have to find some kind of future for myself.”

  Here, among these kind, generous people? a voice whispered slyly inside her. But that would be safe, and far too easy. And she knew little about him, she reminded herself.

  Tentatively, she said, “Do you . . . is there a woman—”

  “Am I married?” he interrupted brusquely. “Nay, there is no one.”

  Relief moved warmly through her.

  “I will never commit to a woman when all I can offer is this.”

  When he put out a hand, she knew he meant not just the cave, but the life he led.

  “Surely you will not do this forever. You deserve happiness, too.”

  He looked at her for far too long, and she couldn’t read his expression. Was he punishing himself?

  “’Tis nothing I think about,” he said. “Right now I am concerned with those children, and stopping what is happening to them. But I have not forgotten your plight, mistress.”

  Catherine, she thought. My name is Catherine. But she realized he rarely said the name she’d chosen, as if he could not forget that it and her whole identity was a fraud. She knew it, too.

  “My men will keep visiting the surrounding villages to ask about a lost woman. It has only been a few days.”

  “But they’ve heard nothing,” she said, trying not to be disheartened when he nodded. It was early yet. “Maybe I’m not from here, and I was simply traveling through.” With just two guards? she wondered. Through the horse paths of the Highlands?

  “Even if that is true, someone will look for ye eventually.”

  Sometimes she felt like such an inconvenience to him, and other times closer than she could ever have felt for another man. It seemed too raw, too rare, this desire that made her watch him whenever she could. But it wasn’t just desire. She hugged herself. “I don’t like feeling so helpless and dependent. I know this a
bout myself.”

  He said nothing.

  “And I don’t want to be yet another person you have to take care of,” she added bitterly. “You believe I’m telling the truth about my memory now. Maybe it will help if you let me go outside occasionally.”

  “’Tis dangerous.”

  “So it’s dangerous for all these people you care for, but too dangerous for me?”

  His frown deepened. “They know what they’re doing and how to protect themselves.”

  She felt a touch of fear. She didn’t know anything at all about herself. But . . . maybe it was more than what he was saying. After all, most women had to be protected.

  “Your camp is well guarded, I assume, so it can’t be just that,” she mused, then met his gaze decisively. “You don’t want me to know where we are. You’re in hiding, and you can’t trust a stranger in your midst with your secrets.”

  He said nothing, but he didn’t need to. It was too obvious.

  “I want to be angry with you, but I can’t,” she said tiredly. “I’m an unknown risk. I could have family worried about me, searching for me, risking your encampment. Or maybe I don’t,” she added with frustration.

  “I am certain you have people who care about your welfare,” he said. “You were finely dressed.”

  “That means nothing. I could be wealthy and be totally alone in the world.”

  She paused, and another uncomfortable silence settled between them, full of possibilities and danger and yearning. She saw him glance at his paper and discarded quill, knew he wanted to finish whatever he’d been doing—that he wanted to be rid of her and this . . . feeling between them that could not be.

  Then she saw the shirt on his bed, and suddenly fitting it to him seemed far too intimate and uncomfortable a task. But how could she return to the women with it unfinished, especially after all this time had passed with him alone? She might not remember much, but she remembered how a woman’s reputation could be so important.

  She picked up the shirt. “If you give me your back, I’ll hold this up and do a rough measurement.”

  He eyed the shirt dubiously.

  “It is a fine piece of workmanship,” she said, letting her fingers brush the embroidery at the cuffs. “A woman who cared about you sewed this.”

  “A long time ago.”

  “Which is probably why it no longer fits.”

  He turned around, presenting her with his wide shoulders beneath his coat and the excess plaid. She held the shirt up, attempting to match the seams where she guessed his shirt was.

  With a muffled sound of impatience, he let down his excess plaid, leaving it to hang from his belt, as he removed his coat. She felt another thrill of both anxiety and eagerness. But he left his shirt on, and she should be relieved, she told herself.

  Beneath the shirt, his flesh was warm, the muscles hard. She tried to concentrate on how much she needed to let out the seams, but she kept imagining him removing the shirt, touching him, tasting him—

  Tasting him! Where had such a shocking thing come from? She was so glad he wasn’t looking at her scarlet face.

  Clearing her throat, she tried to speak normally. “Did your mother make this shirt for you? Or perhaps a sister?”

  “My mother died many years ago, and my sisters are older and married with their own households.”

  “Aunts? Grandmothers?”

  “None I saw frequently.”

  “Brothers?”

  “Just me.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Is that a problem?”

  “No! Not at all, it just sounds lonely.”

  “Perhaps ye know from experience.”

  She sighed. “Maybe I do, but it’s just a feeling, not an actual memory.”

  “Although my clanswomen are competent seamstresses, I believe this was a gift several years ago from a Carlyle chieftain’s wife. If it is irreparable, then use it for rags.” He shrugged her off.

  “I didn’t say that.” She draped the shirt over her arm. “I’ll leave you to your letter, Laird Carlyle.”

  He gave her a quick look, as if he might say something. Did he want her to call him by his Christian name? Duncan. But all he did was wave her off, as if she were his servant rather than a woman he’d just passionately kissed.

  She pulled the curtain shut behind her and held back a groan at her behavior.

  Chapter 7

  When Catherine retired to the little cave bedchamber that night, she saw that Duncan had left the table with only a neat stack of papers and the book to one side. Her garments—the ones he’d picked up from the floor and folded, she thought with a wince—were still on the pallet. She had to make more of an attempt to keep the chamber as neat as he preferred, so she opened the lid of the large trunk he’d told her to use. There were folded shirts, stockings, and another length of plaid, and it felt far too intimate to be touching them. She carefully stacked them on one side of the trunk, and was surprised to uncover a sheaf of papers.

  Frowning, she lifted them up. Though very old and brittle, the top paper opened easily, and she realized it was a letter addressed to the laird, but the inscribed date had to be for Duncan’s father. It was simply business, discussions of crops and cattle and seed. Feeling curious, she read the second letter referring to a land dispute from a generation ago. It was a window into a world where the chief wasn’t an outlaw, where the Carlyles were average Scotsmen with the normal problems of farmers and landowners everywhere. She was touched by the thought of Duncan keeping them as a memento of his father. Knowing she shouldn’t be reading something so personal, she was about to fold the third letter away when the words leapt out at her in a strong hand, with a bold “A” as the only signature. This man seemed to be threatening Duncan’s father to keep silent about . . . something. Threats? She frowned, confused, then read closer.

  “A” assured Duncan’s father that a missing child he’d asked about had died. Had the old laird been looking into the missing children, too? Rifling through the rest of the letters, she found more correspondence from chieftains about the kidnappings. It hurt her to think that this had been going on so long.

  She was glad to know that Duncan was going to make sure such evil stopped. He’d dedicated his life to this, risked everything to keep the children of his clan safe. His father would be proud.

  But this was none of her business. She was starting to feel guilty for even having read the letters. She was at the mercy of Clan Carlyle; she didn’t want them to think she snooped where she didn’t belong. She quickly folded away the letters, then put her clothing on top, before someone discovered her.

  For the next three days, Catherine couldn’t help noticing that Duncan was avoiding her. Oh, he didn’t leave the great hall when she came out of her chamber, but he avoided speaking with her unless he had to, avoided eye contact. It wasn’t that he was a social charmer with anyone else either, of course. When he was with his men, he often spoke in Gaelic, another way he was reminding her to stay away. She knew he had a lot on his mind, and she felt guilty that she’d added to his worries. Here he was, taking her in, providing for her, and now the kiss had made things terribly awkward between them.

  And caused her to toss and turn far too often in his bed each night. She kept waiting for him to ask for his privacy back, had tried to keep the chamber neat for him. More than once she’d quietly asked Maeve if she should offer to give it up, but Maeve had continued to insist that Catherine was a guest of the clan.

  So Catherine was left to lie awake and imagine the laird sneaking into her chamber and wondering what she’d do. She didn’t like feeling so . . . obsessed. Did other women have this problem? Thankfully, her days did not leave much time for eyeing the chief of Clan Carlyle. Two of the rescued children had been returned home, and one more had his family contacted. The fourth child had given enough details that Maeve was confident the men would find his family soon.

  And that left Finn. Catherine felt an affinity for the boy from Glasgow who protected him
self by keeping his distance. He seldom spoke, didn’t know the most basic of manners, resisted cleanliness as if it were a threat. Once he realized people said “thank you” for receiving something, he began to mumble those words. Although the other boys had been talked into a bath in the cave pool, Finn utterly refused to join them, and Catherine worried what terrible scars from his life on the streets he might be hiding. They did persuade him to change out of his filthy clothing by offering him privacy at the pool. Catherine stood in the passageway and listened to make sure he was all right, since she assumed he couldn’t swim. Except for the occasional splash, he was utterly silent, obviously unable to enjoy being clean. She brought his filthy clothing to Maeve, who took them outside to boil, holding them far in front of her with only two fingers. Maeve later confided that she was surprised she didn’t discover lice.

  But when he emerged, Finn looked even more fragile without all the dirt, his skin pale, his clean hair hanging ragged to his neck. For a day, he retreated even more into himself, turning his face away from people, as if he was naked without all his dirt. Catherine kept trying to draw him out with offers to teach him chess but he was uninterested. Hoping Finn would watch the game while she befriended another clansman, she challenged the guard, Torcall, when most of the men were away. Torcall shifted from foot to foot with uncertainty, looking past her.

  She glanced over her shoulder but saw no one but Finn nearby. Finn squatted on the ground, playing with stones, acting as if he was ignoring them. She didn’t believe it.

  “Do you play chess or not, Torcall?” she repeated.

  He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Angus strode by, on his way outside. He looked at them both, and at the box of chess pieces she held in her hand, and said, “Aye, go on and play her, Torcall. She could use the practice.”

  Catherine held back her amusement. She’d apparently succeeded in making Angus believe she was a terrible chess player.

  So Torcall nodded and pulled over the crate with the chessboard on top. Soon they were hunched over it, eyeing each other competitively. Finn crept closer to watch, still pretending he was more interested in his rocks than what they were doing. Again, Catherine could tell immediately that she was the better player, and found herself enjoying the challenge of outwitting the poor man by losing to him. How had she learned the game so well? As was her habit lately, she kept trying to form a mental image of herself in some other place, learning from a chess expert. Nothing.