Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  She comforted herself by teaching Finn what she knew. Perhaps she could instill a love of horses in the boy, so that he could find pride in being accomplished—and it would give him something to do besides sit apart from everyone else and brood.

  For a few moments, Duncan watched Catriona and Finn. Studying her seemed like all he wanted to do lately. She offered gentle kindness to the boy, and Duncan couldn’t understand her easy temperament. She’d come from a terrible father, a man who profited off selling innocent children.

  For all Duncan knew, losing her memory had changed Catriona’s entire personality. She was the wealthy, pampered daughter of an earl, and if she knew what Duncan was doing to her, she’d hate him. He had to remind himself at all times that they were enemies.

  Because watching her with the little boy unnerved him, twisted things inside him, made him feel too soft and warm. He prided himself on examining everything he did with objective eyes.

  He couldn’t be objective about Catriona.

  And he couldn’t stop watching her. Instead of retreating to her chamber—his chamber—as usual that night, she stayed out with the men gathered around one of the fires. They were celebrating the success of their smuggling raid, toasting each other with Duff whisky, but she didn’t know that. Duncan knew she only saw their high spirits, and now that she was no longer quite the prisoner within the cave, perhaps she felt free to enjoy herself.

  But it made everything worse for him. He was forced to watch her smile at Ivor, at Angus, at Torcall. Even Melville’s glower couldn’t douse her good mood. She listened to them tease her to try some whisky, until she finally did. The sight of her face going red sent the men into gales of laughter, and when she wheezed in a breath, Duncan saw even Finn giggling.

  To his surprise, she motioned for another dram, the men hooted their encouragement, and this time, she sipped it with more decorum. She listened to their stories of life in the Highlands, the freezing mornings bathing in a loch, the cattle they’d stolen, the redcoats they’d outraced.

  She grew tipsy enough that she was all set to learn the bawdiest song the men knew. When she stood up to lift her glass, she teetered and caught herself on Ivor’s shoulder.

  Duncan rose up. “I believe that will be all, laddies.”

  They protested halfheartedly.

  “Don’t stop our fun,” Catriona begged.

  “I’ll not stop their fun, only yours. Ye’ll not be happy if ye’re puking through the night.”

  She twisted her face into something so funny, that even he almost smiled amid the roaring laughter of his clan.

  “Aye, well, men, I be off,” she said, her Scottish accent perfect.

  That caused even more laughter. She took a step toward the passageway at the back of the cave, and reeled to one side, where Ivor caught her arm. Duncan strode forward and lifted Catriona into his arms. She was warm and curved in all the right places. He’d held her like this before, when she’d been a stranger, but now—now he knew too much about her. Now she made him feel a yearning that bordered on desperate, and not just for her body.

  “Whee!” she cried, kicking her feet, even as her head fell back.

  When she flung her arms over her head, he dipped to keep her securely against his chest. This was not the same as holding the dazed, sodden woman he’d held the first day they’d met. She literally squirmed to get comfortable against him, and he was glad his plaid hid his reaction. The women stood together and watched him curiously, but he could have sworn Maeve smiled with approval.

  Maeve made no secret that she thought he needed to find a wife, to “settle him down.” As if he could ever bring a “Lady Carlyle” to live in a cave. And choosing Catriona? He was using her for revenge, and lately it seemed as if his punishment would be never having her, the sweet, intelligent, and compassionate woman that she was. If Maeve only knew . . .

  Someone had already lit a candle in his bedchamber, and the curtain made the flame dance on the rough stone walls.

  “’Tis like the spirits, dancing in the night,” she murmured, then chuckled.

  That accent again. He wondered if other things would begin coming back to her.

  As if she read his mind, she said, “I remembered something today.”

  He froze just before laying her on the pallet. He stared down at her flushed face, his gut clenching, and waited, even as he told himself that if she’d remembered anything significant, she would not have been enjoying the evening with her captors.

  She tugged the hair just above his ear and grinned. “Nothing important, silly, just a horse that might have been mine in a fine stable.”

  He didn’t think a woman had playfully tugged his hair before. The women he’d known intimately had been brief moments in the dark, satisfying a need in them both, and little else.

  But Catriona, drunk though she was, felt comfortable enough to tease him, even as she devastated him with hints that her memory might slowly be returning. This woman who mischievously lounged in his arms would then turn into a she-devil, and instead of tugging his hair, might rake his face with her nails.

  “What do you think of my memory?” she asked lightly.

  When he would have risen, she caught the front of his coat and held him there, until he put a knee down to balance himself.

  “Duncan?”

  His Christian name on her tongue felt as intimate as he had feared it would, but he didn’t correct her. “’Tis a random memory, to be sure.”

  Her smile fading, she said, “I fear that mare was the one ye had to kill. I even had a dream about her last moments alive, as the earth gave way beneath us in a storm. Just that frozen moment, not the actual . . . fall. I thought it just a dream, a memory I’d created, but the horse was the same.”

  That was two more memories she’d had, and her brogue had only broadened. Was her time with him growing short? He was surprised at the surge of melancholy such thoughts brought forth. Though at first her presence in their encampment had made things awkward, now she was a lovely helper, whose smiles and enthusiasm had won over many a cynical clansman—perhaps even him. Seeing her with Finn only made him think about the family he had denied himself. He was too eager to see her every time he entered the cave, too aware of her presence, too full of longing for her touch.

  “I am sorry for your pain,” he said hoarsely, then cleared his throat.

  He was still bent over her, and he knew he should rise and step away, but she was all languid and prettily blushing. Her lacings and stomacher pressed her breasts above the neckline, and he longed to lean over and explore the valley between them with his lips and tongue.

  “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she said, cupping his cheek.

  Her touch sent a jolt of urgent need through his aching body. He felt poised on the edge of control.

  “You have done all you can to help me,” she whispered. “If I never remember anything else, I will have to be content.”

  “Content?” he echoed in surprise. “How could ye be content to never find your family?”

  “Because I’ve realized that family is what I make of it, and who I choose to be with.”

  Those golden eyes searched his with a yearning he could no longer resist. He bent his head and kissed her, exploring the softness of her lips, tasting the sweetness that was her mouth. Her hands clutched his garments, pulling him closer, and with a groan he deepened the kiss, letting his tongue enter and mate with hers. His chest against the softness of hers, one arm beneath her neck, he let his other hand roam her side and hip, feeling the round fullness beneath skirt and petticoats. Back up he traced his hand, where the swell at the side of her bodice taunted him.

  Was he the sort of man who’d grope a woman who’d been addled by whisky? He seemed to be the sort of man who took advantage of a woman with no memory. He broke off the kiss, resting his forehead against hers, trying to catch his breath.

  “Duncan.”

  The sound of his name on her lips made him shiver.
/>   “Don’t stop.” She turned up her face, grazing his chin with a kiss.

  “I must—we must.”

  “But it feels so good to be in your arms.”

  She moaned and squirmed, and it was all he could do to remember his honor, the little he had left.

  He straightened, and her hands fell away from him as he rose stiffly to his feet. “Good night,” he said, giving her a nod, almost a bow, of respect.

  Her hands fell back to her chest; her eyes watched him with a yearning he couldn’t face.

  Turning aside, he asked, “Shall I send Maeve in to help ye undress?”

  Unspoken was his belief that Catriona might have wanted him to perform those deeds.

  She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Good night.”

  He marched his unwilling legs down the passageway and into the cave. Most were so engrossed in merriment that they didn’t notice his arrival, except for some knowing and even amused glances. He ignored them.

  His whisky was waiting on the table where he’d left it, and he downed it in one gulp, letting the fire burn him. He had to face the fact that he didn’t want her to remember her life before he’d found her, that he thought they could somehow be together. It was a ridiculous fantasy, and he should have known better, but apparently his body did not. She made him feel alive, beyond duty and anger and vengeance. Being with her reminded him of families, of children, of a wife who might wait only for him.

  He was a fool. He could never have her, for if he did, he’d spend the rest of his life waiting for her to remember the truth of how he’d tricked her, how he’d used her in vengeance against her own father.

  And that look of desire, maybe even someday love, would turn to hatred.

  Chapter 9

  At the first sounds of voices in the great hall, Catherine opened her eyes—and groaned. Her head pounded, and she knew the oncoming day wouldn’t be pleasant.

  As memories of her drunken behavior flooded back, she clapped her arm to her forehead and winced with embarrassment. She’d practically thrown herself into Duncan’s arms. If he hadn’t shown restraint, they might have been entwined naked together right now.

  For a moment, she couldn’t think what was wrong with that. This was Scotland; she knew there were trial marriages, where people could change their minds at the end of a year.

  She shot upright in disbelief at where her thoughts were going. Marriage? She’d known the man less than a fortnight! And considering that was still better than how little she knew about herself, she had to be crazed. She dropped her face into her hands. Very well, she was crazed—with lust. And she was rationalizing how she could protect her reputation and still be with him.

  Be with a clan chief in exile, who was encamped in a cave.

  This was ridiculous; she had to go speak with Duncan, apologize, come to some kind of understanding.

  After she lit a candle, she washed and began the process of dressing. To distract herself, she remembered last evening, and the way the men had seemed to accept her in their midst, making her feel totally comfortable for the first time. They’d spoken some English, and some Gaelic. Since Maeve had been teaching Catherine, she’d begun to recognize a few words now and then. But something about the men’s discussion seemed . . . off. It was something about the whisky itself. She knew most of the whisky distilled in the Highlands was illegal, to avoid the high taxes on malt. It was so common that everyone knew about it. The British didn’t often come to do anything about it. So the men were probably just hiding knowledge of their illicit stills.

  There was something more important she needed to do. After she finished dressing, she went to the great hall. Many men were still rolled up in their plaids or beneath blankets on their pallets. Naturally, the women were awake, gathered near cauldrons and at the work tables. Catherine looked but didn’t see Duncan anywhere, so she left the cave. The sun had just risen above the horizon, though mist still obscured it in the glen. Duncan wasn’t at the paddock, and with Angus watching her, she knew she dared not go anywhere else.

  As she approached the cave entrance again, she saw Duncan coming from the opposite way, bare-chested and damp, but for the plaid wrapped around him. His wet chestnut curls dripped to his shoulders. He must have bathed outdoors, instead of using the cave pool. Had he not wanted to awaken her? When he saw her, he came up short, face freshly shaven, his brows deep in a frown. She tried to keep her gaze on his face, but it was difficult, with so much glistening skin.

  “There you are,” she said with determination.

  “Ye’ve been looking for me?”

  “I needed to talk to you about last evening.” She glanced at Angus, who stiffened and hurried back inside the cave.

  “Do ye want me to apologize?” he asked.

  Her lips parted. “Of course not! If anyone should apologize, it’s I. I know we’re attracted to each other, but that doesn’t give me the right to encourage you.”

  The faintest of smiles touched his lips. “I’m not certain I’ve ever heard a woman speak so boldly.”

  “Women should say what’s on their minds, just like men.”

  He came closer, eyeing her with interest. “And what do ye feel ye must say?”

  “Why . . . what I just said. There’s something between us, but I believe it’s best not to complicate things by acting upon it—right now.”

  He cocked his head. “Right now? So there’ll be a time when ye snap your fingers, and I’ll understand we’re to start courting?”

  “Yes—no! That sounds so cold-blooded.”

  To her surprise, he boldly looked down her body, then said, “I’m no feeling exactly cold-blooded about ye.”

  Flustered, she tried to look anywhere but at his wet chest, where the hair grew in damp swirls, and made her want to . . . touch it. Touch him. She took a deep breath. “I understand feeling . . . heated. But . . . we don’t know who I am,” she finished softly.

  Her life was a void stretching out behind her. To not know oneself was frightening and overwhelming. It took all of her mental strength to keep her anxieties at bay. But every time she kissed him, those anxieties later rose up as if to drown her with all she did not know about herself, all she could not offer him.

  The warm look in his eyes disappeared so fast, she almost thought she imagined it.

  “Aye, ye have the right of it,” he said, beginning to move past her into the cave.

  And all she could think was that she didn’t want to be wise or sober. She wanted to be young and wild, testing her wiles on a tall, handsome Scottish outlaw.

  After Catriona’s confession, Duncan’s day only got worse. His messenger returned with missives from two different noblemen from whom he’d requested help convincing the magistrates to end the bounty on his head. But the two men had no wish to associate with Clan Carlyle, and had rejected him. Disgruntled, he went to the one place where he knew he’d never be rejected—his sister’s home.

  His oldest sister, Winifred, had married a lawyer who’d been raised in Clan Carlyle and moved to Glasgow. His second, Muriel, lived nearby, in the village of Ardyle, married to a clansman who owned cattle and a bit of farmland.

  When he arrived, Muriel was working in her vegetable garden, her youngest on a blanket in the shade. Duncan casually sat on a bench near the blanket, and eyed the sleeping babe as if it might jump at him like a spider.

  When Muriel still didn’t notice him, he said, “Where are your other terrors, sister?”

  She gave a little shriek, came off her knees, and collapsed onto her backside when she saw him. “Duncan Carlyle, why must ye give me a fright every time ye visit?”

  He gave her a faint smile. “Because ’tis so easy to do.”

  Muriel looked around with a frown. “I told Robby to fetch a pitcher of water to drink, but that was some time ago. Robby!” she called.

  The four-year-old appeared out of the bushes as if awaiting a summons. His face was filthy, his dark hair wet with sweat. “Aye, mum? I was foll
owin’ a worm.”

  “The water?” she said patiently. “Perhaps your uncle would like some, too.”

  Robby blinked at Duncan. “Good day, uncle,” he said politely.

  Duncan nodded. “A good day to ye, too, nephew. And water sounds refreshing.”

  Muriel rose to check on the sleeping bairn, then came to sit beside Duncan on the bench. She gravely took the pitcher and ladle, offering some to Robby first, then Duncan, then took a deep draft herself.

  “Ah. Thank ye, lad. Now ye may go back to your worm-chasing. But don’t jump over—”

  Robby vaulted right over the blanket and the baby, who slept on.

  “—Alice,” Muriel finished weakly. Glancing at Duncan, she said, “The lad does not walk if he can run. He’ll wear me out before Alice is his age.”

  “His da was never one to sit still himself.”

  “Stop saying I told ye so.”

  Duncan raised both hands. “I didn’t. Ye said such a man would always work hard rather than sit around on his arse.”

  “And he does,” Muriel said tiredly. She took another dipper full of water, then eyed Duncan. “So I hear ye have a guest up in the caves.”

  He grimaced. “I figured ye’d hear about her from Maeve.”

  “Maeve might be my closest friend, but I actually heard from Ivor, when he came to visit his mum.”

  “Traitor,” he grumbled. “I hope he didn’t gossip with anyone else.”

  “He didn’t, only to me. So ye didn’t want us to know ye have a fine lady trapped in a cave?” she said, with both amusement and curiosity in her voice.

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “So ye planned to tell me.” Her look was full of skepticism. “Mmph. No wonder ye haven’t visited much—although ’tis nothing new.”

  “Ye know why I don’t come often,” he said in a low voice.