Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  She had to be careful, or she could feel too much for this lonely man.

  Moving from ghost room to ghost room, Duncan felt a sense of unreality. This castle had been made for the Clan Carlyle, to house them, protect them, bring them together in joyous celebration and to console them through the trials of life. A woman like Catriona was made to oversee such a place—he knew her father the earl must surely have plans to marry her to another nobleman with lands and castles and thousands of dependents.

  Would she remember that soon? He’d actually felt a chill when she excitedly told him about having a brother. Every day was one day closer to her memory returning, one day closer to her eventual departure. His plan to teach the earl the lesson of a child’s absence was backfiring on Duncan—someday he himself would know the loss of her bright spirit in his life.

  Ever since his sister had mentioned marriage, he’d been able to think of little else, even though he knew it could never happen with Catriona. Here in this castle, a symbol of the wreckage of Clan Carlyle, she seemed lovely and ethereal, a ghost of all that might have been.

  When at last they began the descent down the steep path, Duncan was forced to touch her, though he’d been doing his best to keep his hands to himself. He reached back and helped her down a particularly rocky slope. Once she lost her balance and slid right into him. The tangle of their limbs, even impeded by her skirts, preyed on the weakness of his desire, harming his resolve to remain unaffected. Though she began the descent in cheerful spirits, by the end even she seemed strained and couldn’t meet his eyes. All this touching obviously did not lend itself to her vow either.

  At the bottom, she took a deep breath and said, “Well, I thought that would be easier going down than it had been going up. It’s a good thing you were here.”

  She smiled up at him, and for a long moment their gazes met and held. The unusual golden color of hers kept him captive. He didn’t know what he was looking for but he knew he could never find it with her.

  Chapter 11

  Over the next couple days, Catherine tried to honor her promise to keep her distance from Duncan, grooming horses, making soap as she learned Gaelic, trying to draw Finn out. She and Duncan were doing a dance of avoidance, and she worried it was becoming so obvious that it would focus even more attention on their attraction. She had to treat him like everyone else.

  One evening, while he was drinking a dram of whisky and frowning as he watched Finn playing alone with his rocks, Catherine set the chessboard on the table next to him.

  “Shall we play, Laird Carlyle?” Calling him by his Christian name in front of his clan seemed far too intimate.

  He seemed to take a long time to lift his gaze from Finn. She wanted to talk to him about the boy, about the absence of any new memories, all of her frustrations. He wasn’t her confidant, she reminded herself sternly.

  Duncan eyed the chessboard and spoke dryly. “Ye wish to let another man defeat ye at chess?”

  “Perhaps I shall win,” she said with confidence, even as she knew she wouldn’t do that. It would unravel all her efforts to win the acceptance of his clan.

  “Ye can certainly try.”

  He set up the black pieces, while she set up the white. Several people eyed them with interest, but no one came too near, for which she was grateful.

  She held up the king. “Why does this have three crowns?”

  He picked up the black king and studied it. “Some say it represents James Stuart, the rightful heir of both England and Scotland until almost forty years ago.”

  “I may not remember the personal details of my life, but I seem to remember the animosity between England and Scotland—although we’re supposed to be one country now.” She hesitated. “I know that part of the reason King James was denied the throne was because he was Catholic. Are you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Do you believe in the Stuart right to the throne, and call yourself a Jacobite?”

  “Not aloud, if I value my neck.” His mouth quirked in half a smile as he moved a pawn. “But I already risk my death in other ways—such beliefs can hardly make it worse.”

  She moved her own pawn. “I believe there was an uprising against England when I was younger. And don’t ask why I can recall history but not my own name.”

  “The Fifteen, aye, named for the year.”

  “Were you part of it?”

  He frowned and moved his bishop. “Nay, I was too young.”

  “You seem to regret that.”

  “I do. After the Union, England denied vows they’d made, refused Scottish peerages in the House of Lords when they’d promised otherwise, taxed the citizens more than they could bear. A man has to stand up for his country.”

  They remained silent for several moves, testing each other in the game. She deliberately made a mistake or two, wondering if he noticed.

  “For a woman without personal memories,” he said, sitting back, “ye seem to remember much of history.”

  “I told you not to ask about that,” she said wryly. “And what does it matter, when I know not which side of the war my family belonged to. In my mind, history is as if I’ve read about it, not lived it or even heard mention of it. I try to picture a father telling me his experiences with the Fifteen, but there’s . . . nothing. I don’t know if I’m English or Scottish. But of course, there’s my accent, which might indicate the truth.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps it shows ye were educated in England.”

  She smiled even as she shook her head. Concentrating on the board again, she realized she had him in check. Damn. She would have to move away before he noticed.

  “Ye have me beat, lass,” he said.

  She glanced at him, wide-eyed, trying not to stare at his full mouth as he smiled. “That can’t be true. It must be an accident.”

  He stood up. “Never sell yourself short. And I’m not a man who minds losing to a beautiful woman.”

  He walked out of the cave and she watched him go, unable to take her eyes off the sway of his perfectly pleated plaid, his strong calves, the breadth of his shoulders. She dropped her forehead to her palm and groaned.

  The next day, a redheaded stranger appeared in the mouth of the cave, a woman who seemed known to everyone, Catherine thought. The woman and Maeve embraced and talked together softly, excitedly, as if long parted.

  Maeve motioned for Catherine to join them. Catherine had been sewing a new shirt for Finn, but she put it aside and came forward, curtsying to the stranger, who looked her over with open interest, even as she herself curtsied.

  “Mistress Catherine,” Maeve said, “this is Mistress Muriel, sister to Himself.”

  Catherine studied her with far more interest. This woman had been at Duncan’s side through a terrible childhood, had known the same sorrows. Now she smiled at Catherine with all the warmth and joy that Duncan could never show.

  “Mistress Catherine, Duncan has told me all about your plight,” Muriel said. “I thought ye should know that right away, since I came to meet ye.”

  Duncan had talked about her, Catherine thought in surprise. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or intrigued. “I hope he didn’t bore you to tears with my travails.”

  “I confess to the utmost curiosity. I’ve never met anyone who lost their memory.”

  “Me neither—oh, wait, I don’t know if that’s true.”

  They smiled at each other.

  Catherine glanced around the cave. “I feel that my first instinct would be to invite you for tea in the parlor, but . . .” She trailed off, feeling embarrassed.

  “I can bring ye both some tea,” Maeve said. “Go sit outside on the bench.”

  “Make sure to bring yourself a cup to join us,” Muriel said with mock severity.

  Catherine thought it was going to be easy to like Duncan’s sister.

  As they waited for Maeve on a hand-hewn bench under the shade of a tree, Muriel studied her.

  “For such a great blow to the head that ye rec
eived, glad I am to see that the worst of it has faded.”

  Catherine put a hand to her head, where she was still tender. “There’s but a small bump.”

  “And the lovely shade of green still rimming your eyes.”

  Catherine winced and touched her cheeks. “I didn’t realize. Everyone here is kind enough not to mention it. They’re very good people—as you must know.”

  “These are some of the younger, wilder men of the clan, anxious to spite the redcoats and defend their laird. I wasn’t certain how they’d treat a lady.”

  “We don’t know that I’m a lady, do we?” Catherine asked wryly.

  “Of course we do.” Muriel’s gaze quickly dropped from hers. “Even in your plain wool gown, ye walk and speak and behave in a way that sets ye apart. I can tell that from just meeting ye.”

  “Oh, dear.” Catherine hated to think it was obvious that she felt . . . different from the other women.

  “Ye can’t help yourself, of course, and I’m thinking no one is offended. Ye’ve just seen and experienced more of the world than this wee glen.”

  Had she? Catherine was growing used to not dwelling on what she couldn’t change. That strategy had brought her the memory of her brother, after all. She put a smile firmly back in place. “The men have been quite considerate to me.”

  “I hear ye help serve them—they’d better be kind to ye.” Muriel shook her head.

  “I don’t mind. What else should I do, sit in a corner and do nothing while others work? If I’m a lady, perhaps I do too much of that. Although I do seem to know how to take care of a horse, so that’s helpful.”

  “What are your plans?”

  Catherine took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I have none. Your brother has patrols looking for signs that someone is searching for me, and so far . . . nothing.”

  Muriel set her hand gently on Catherine’s arm. “I’m sorry. Try not to worry. When ye discover the truth, it’ll all make sense.”

  “I tell myself you’re right.”

  Muriel’s sympathy and comforting words made her feel like a friend. With perfect timing, Maeve arrived with a plain tea set on a tray.

  “You have everything in that cave,” Catherine said in disbelief.

  “We’ve lived here for a while now.”

  Maeve and Muriel glanced at each other and back at the teapot as Maeve poured. They had the ease of friends, and Catherine imagined there was a wealth of unsaid things between them. She’d try not to pry, but she couldn’t let this opportunity go.

  “How long has it actually been?” she asked.

  Maeve stirred her tea. “I’ve been here with his lairdship for three years, but Himself has been an outlaw for five.”

  “Duncan was alone here for two years?” Catherine asked, aghast.

  “Duncan, is it?” Muriel said. “Quite informal of ye.”

  Catherine felt her face growing heated. “‘Laird Carlyle’ just seemed so long, after a while. It was my idea; he did not give me leave.”

  The two other women actually smiled at each other, and Catherine was on fire with embarrassment.

  “Ye’re bold,” Muriel said. “I like that.” Her smile faded. “For almost a year after he escaped gaol, they hunted for him in large numbers. He moved about constantly, and certainly never came near his own land, for fear of risking the lives of his clan. I hated to think of him alone night after night, never letting himself trust anyone.”

  “How did he end up here?” Catherine asked.

  “He became ill,” Maeve said. “At the time, he’d only been in the next glen. In the middle of the night, I found him at my cottage door, near dead of fever.”

  “He was thinking of my children,” Muriel said solemnly, “and refused to come to me, foolish man.”

  “Considerate man,” Catherine insisted. “He has such a fondness for children, he’d never forgive himself if something happened to yours.”

  Both women eyed her, Maeve with amusement, Muriel with speculation. Could Catherine not think well of the chief, without giving them ideas of an impossible relationship?

  “Laird Carlyle only remained in me barn for a night,” Maeve continued. “He retreated to the caves to finish healin’, and eventually he just . . . stayed. One by one, the men followed him in their quest to aid the children.”

  “He has spoken to me of his childhood,” Catherine said. “Mistress Muriel, do you believe he feels so strongly about helpless children because your own mother was not kind to you both?”

  “‘Not kind’ is quite a polite thing to call our mother. And it’s Muriel, please. If we’re all mistressing each other to death, we’ll never finish a conversation.”

  “That is generous of you,” Catherine said.

  “Nothing generous about it. If Duncan has told ye such secrets from our past, then it seems I can feel comfortable enough to answer your questions. Aye, we were all scarred by our mother’s hatred of her life. She had not wanted to marry Father, and never let him or anyone else forget it. She was cruel, impatient, sharp-tempered, and miserable. Ye could almost feel sorry for her, if she wasn’t so uncaring about anyone but herself. Father . . . now he was a pitiful soul, just as miserable as Mother in his own way.”

  “Though he’d never take it out on anyone,” Maeve said solemnly.

  “But he also never stood up to her—or to anyone,” Muriel said. “And that, Duncan could not forgive. Father didn’t lead our clan into battle against the British in the Fifteen, and Duncan was too young to go himself. Mother caught him trying to sneak off once to join the other clans and . . . let me just say that he couldn’t sit for a week. Duncan could never see beyond his disappointment that Father wasn’t a warrior, a bold leader of men. He couldn’t see that Father had his own strengths: intelligence, compassion. Or if Duncan saw them, he cared little.”

  “He was young and headstrong then,” Maeve said.

  Muriel nudged Catherine. “Wild, they called him.”

  Catherine looked from one woman to the other, wide-eyed and intrigued.

  “Many thought he’d never make a good chief, he rebelled so much,” Muriel continued. “He kissed the maids, played pranks, rode about the countryside with the other lads. But after Father died, he had the scare of his life.”

  She made no mention of their father killing their mother, but Catherine wasn’t surprised.

  “They almost did not elect him chief,” Maeve said quietly. “The fact that he hadn’t earned their respect, that they only gave him the honor because he was the only son of the chief, changed him, forced him to become a man quickly.”

  “And he was so young,” Catherine said sadly.

  “But he proved himself,” Muriel said with pride in her voice, “as those of us who knew him best, knew he would. He stood up to the magistrates and sheriff on behalf of the most helpless of our people, and even now he continues to provide for the Carlyle villages, so that we do not starve in the winter.”

  Catherine perked up. “He provides for the villages—from here? How does he do that?”

  Muriel wouldn’t meet her eyes. She pressed a hand to the upper slope of her breast. “Oh, dear, I’ve been away from my bairn too long, and she surely needs to nurse. I’d best be on my way. ’Twas such a pleasure to meet ye, Catherine.”

  Baffled and growing more curious by the minute, Catherine said, “But didn’t you want to wait to see your brother?”

  “Nay, I came to meet you.” Muriel smiled, then gave Catherine’s hand a squeeze. “And I’m glad I did. I know we’ll see each other again soon.”

  Muriel kissed Maeve on the cheek, then took the reins of the horse Torcall brought her and mounted. She waved good-bye as she trotted away down the narrow path.

  Catherine eyed Maeve, who continued to smile long after they could no longer see Muriel. “You’re close to her, I can see.”

  As if startled out of her thoughts, Maeve blinked and turned to look at Catherine. “Aye. I worked in their home my whole life. She st
arted out as my mistress and became my friend.”

  “And Laird Carlyle is your friend.”

  Maeve’s gaze turned penetrating. “Nay, not in the same way. He is my laird, my chief.”

  “And yet the two of you are close like friends,” Catherine persisted.

  Smiling, Maeve shook her head. “If ye have a question, ask, mistress.”

  “Catherine.”

  “Catherine.”

  It suddenly seemed so important that Catherine have friends too, that she find a way to not feel so alone.

  “Maeve, how does Laird Carlyle provide for the villages?”

  Maeve didn’t look stricken, as Muriel had. “Ye’ll have to talk to Himself for those answers.”

  Catherine sighed. “I thought you might say that.”

  It was a long day until the men returned from hunting just before supper, and then there were hours of preparing the meat, some to eat soon, some preserved in salt brine for later. It wasn’t until the exhausted men had a brief meal, and settled around their fires to retell stories of their hunting adventures, that Catherine was able to take Duncan aside and then lead him outside for privacy.

  “Now everyone thinks ye have nefarious plans for me.” Duncan folded his arms across his chest, while behind him, the sun had disappeared, leaving a golden halo on the mountains.

  “No, if that were true, I would have taken you to the bedchamber.”

  “In front of everyone? Nay, ye’re too shy for that.”

  “Am I?” she countered.

  They looked at each other, and the faint buzz of insects suddenly seemed too loud within the charged silence that stretched between them. His face was shadowed in the growing darkness, but his eyes gleamed.

  She cleared her throat. “Your sister visited today.”

  He took a deep breath. “Impressive change of subject.”

  “I thought so.”

  “What did she want?”

  “To meet me.”

  She thought he might have grimaced.