by Gayle Callen
With a sigh, she clasped her hands to her hot face in the darkness of the cave and at last gave the memories free rein to envelop her. She hadn’t imagined being touched intimately could feel so incredible. She let her hands cup her breasts, touch between her thighs, but it didn’t feel the same as when his big rough hands had done it. He’d known just what to do, had known her body better than she had.
He must have done such things before, she reminded herself—but since she’d been the recipient of his knowledge, she didn’t care. Her skin still seemed sensitive, her body full of a peace she hadn’t imagined. It seemed forever until she could sleep, and even then her dreams were of the future they might have together. But to be with him, she would risk anything . . . Was she falling in love with him? And how could she trust her emotions, when she had no past experience to base them on? After all, Duncan had saved her life—maybe she was mistaking gratitude and lust for something more. All she could do was be patient with herself, take things slowly.
In the morning, it was laundry day. Maeve and the other women were still inside, gathering the clan’s garments. Outside near the giant cauldrons that were slowly coming to a boil, Catherine brought the saddlebags that Duncan had taken on his trip. She felt almost like a wife, going through them for any soiled laundry. She’d never even asked where he’d gone—they’d been too busy, she thought with a blush.
At the bottom, something pricked her finger, and she drew in a sharp breath. Pulling out her hand, she saw blood welling on her fingertip. Frowning, she wiped it on her apron, then used her other hand to pull out the soiled shirt. She looked inside the bag and at the bottom, something gleamed. More carefully this time, she reached in and removed a brooch. It was in the intricate design of a clan crest, she thought, but it wasn’t the Carlyles’, which she’d seen on a brooch holding Duncan’s plaid across his shoulder.
This brooch suddenly seemed familiar, as if part of her brain had been illuminated. Her awareness sharpened into focus that blocked out the trees and the cauldrons, and the autumn wind that teased her.
The brooch—it was hers, her family crest. Relief made her stagger as a rush of memories washed over her. She’d chosen Catherine as a name, not even realizing how similar it was to her own.
Though everyone called her Cat, she was Lady Catriona Duff.
Chapter 14
Desperate to remain alone before the women emerged and asked questions, Cat staggered away from the cauldrons, clutching the brooch and the bag. Her mind became a torrent of pictures and memories, first from when she was a child and then swiftly moving forward. She saw her brother Owen’s beloved face. Tears of relief came to her eyes. They’d shared the misery of parents who kept them from their homeland as much as possible, who tried to turn them into English aristocracy, and who’d almost succeeded.
Her father had offered her in marriage at birth to bring peace between the Duffs and the McCallums. Cat hadn’t known about it until her father had changed his mind and deceived the groom into kidnapping the wrong bride, her dear cousin Riona. Riona and Hugh McCallum had fallen in love, to Cat’s relief, but their marriage hadn’t satisfied the contract between the two families. Owen had offered to marry Hugh’s sister Maggie instead. She’d thought her brother so brave and honorable—although it had taken a while to convince Maggie that they could really have a good marriage.
But it had strangely left Cat feeling on the outside. Much as she’d been relieved not to marry a stranger, all around her people were falling in love, marrying, and now both couples were expecting babies. She was happy for them all, thrilled to be an aunt, but . . . there’d been no one in her life. She’d felt it was time to begin finding her own happy ending, and the only way to do that was to meet new people. So she’d decided to travel to Glasgow to visit friends, with the vague future plans of going to Edinburgh and maybe London itself.
As each new memory unfolded, she at last began to remember that final journey, taken with the two clansmen who’d always traveled with her, more like friends than guards. Her eyes welled up as she remembered the storm’s approach, the way they’d been caught off guard at its intensity, her men trying to get her to safety—the collapse of the ground beneath their feet. She didn’t remember anything right after that, including waking up to find her friends dead. But waking up in Duncan’s arms—that she remembered. It seemed her brain was either damaged, or trying to protect her from the trauma of her friends’ deaths.
Duncan.
She took a deep breath, wiping away the sad memories, and absorbing the knowledge that she knew who she was, that she was free of doubts and indecision. She wasn’t married, she wasn’t betrothed. She could come to Duncan with honesty, and surely she could find a way to help him escape his past. They could be together, they could marry—
And then she stared down at the brooch still clutched in her hand, as doubt and growing fear assailed her. Something was wrong. The brooch—it had been in Duncan’s saddlebag. She always wore the brooch when she traveled, a mark of her clan, of her pride.
Duncan . . . he must have taken it from her, hid it away. She feebly tried to tell herself that perhaps he meant to research it, discover where she came from.
She covered her mouth with her free hand, tears welling up. She moved farther into the trees, away from the cave, from what she knew to be true.
She could no longer make feeble excuses for Duncan. He wouldn’t have forgotten something so important as a clue to her identity. He had deliberately hidden it away, kept her from knowing her true self. Her breath was coming fast as she fought not to sob, bracing her arm against a tree to hold herself up beneath this terrible weight of shock, disappointment, grief . . . and anger. Oh God, she let that anger well up inside her, burn hotter and hotter, blasting to cinders any thoughts of affection and love.
She’d nearly fallen in love with a man who was holding her captive, scheming against her and her family. He wasn’t just a smuggler—he was a thief and a kidnapper!
And she’d helped him.
She felt sick, and leaning back against a tree, clutched her stomach and tried to quell her nausea. She knew her father was guilty and deserving of punishment—he’d been a cruel man who’d let her innocent cousin Riona be kidnapped so Cat wouldn’t be surrendered in marriage to a “savage Highlander”—she remembered those words well.
And it was her father who’d profited off the sale of innocent children, torn from their families and abused. She’d seen the sorrow and fear in young, innocent eyes, the rope marks on their wrists. Finn had been unable to find words at the terror he’d experienced. She leaned against the tree, heaving up her breakfast in horror.
At last she wiped the back of her hand against her mouth and sank down against the base of the tree. She’d known the extent of her father’s cruelty. She would have done anything to make up for that, would have helped Duncan, but he hadn’t given her the chance. He’d kept the truth from her, had seduced her into caring about him. She shuddered.
She would have given herself to him if he hadn’t stopped her. She didn’t know if he’d felt guilty, or had worse plans for her. It didn’t matter. Her grief and disappointment seemed too great a load to bear.
What was she supposed to do now?
Duncan wasn’t surprised when, after most of the men had left the cave that morning, Ivor came and stood before him.
“Aye, Ivor?” Duncan said.
“I have news. One of the villains implied that there might be other children ready to be transported.”
Duncan cursed. “Did he know specifics?”
Ivor shook his head. “He might have just been saying what he thought we wanted to hear, to keep me from breakin’ his other leg.”
“Perhaps. Tell the patrols to be extra vigilant.”
When Ivor continued to stand before him, shoulders stiff, expression sober, Duncan frowned. “Is there something else?”
“I went against yer orders, Laird Carlyle.”
Duncan arched a brow. “Which orders?�
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“To keep Mistress Catherine safe.” Ivor let out his breath and met his gaze. “I should have sent her back immediately once we discovered she and the lad followin’ us.”
“Why did ye not?”
“We had the kidnappers in sight, and I feared we’d lose them, if I sent men to escort the lady away.”
Duncan put a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Ye did what ye had to, my friend.”
He felt the tension leave Ivor, who ruefully shook his head. “She’s a willful lass, that one.”
“Aye.” Duncan could have joined him in the head-shaking.
“Ye sure ye ken what ye’re doin’ with her?”
Ivor was no longer speaking as his war chief, but as a friend.
Duncan hesitated, then admitted softly, “Nay, I’m not certain I ken anything anymore.”
“She’s a gentle one, but . . .” Ivor trailed off, and rocked once on the balls of his feet. “But made of steel when she wants her way. And perhaps . . . she wants you.”
Duncan sighed.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” Ivor added quickly.
“Ye’re not intruding. I appreciate your concern. And I’m too susceptible by far to the lass’s charms. Don’t blame her for my inability to keep away from her.”
“I understand that your sister has offered to take her in.”
“Muriel told ye that, did she?”
Ivor only cleared his throat.
“Catherine is my responsibility,” Duncan said. “If I order her to Muriel’s, I think I’d have to tie her up to keep her there. I’ll keep better watch on her here from now on.”
“I vow we all will,” Ivor said.
“Have ye seen her?” Duncan asked.
“Before we spoke, I thought she was with you. Maeve said she began doing laundry with the other women, but now they don’t know where she went.”
“I’ll find out.”
“And keep her tied up in the cave?” Ivor asked, wearing a lopsided smile.
“God, no.” Duncan grimaced, forcing away the erotic images that evoked.
Outside the cave, he saw Maeve, Janet, and Sheena stirring cauldrons full of soapy wet clothing. The hair curled on their damp foreheads and their faces were flushed with the heat.
“Ladies,” Duncan said, to get their attention.
They all paused in unison to stare up at him.
“Where can I find Mistress Catherine?”
“She was supposed to help us, your lairdship,” Sheena said, “but she’s disappeared. Sometimes she’s no a very hard worker.”
Maeve frowned at Sheena before saying to Duncan, “This is the first time she’s ever missed work she volunteered to do.”
It was Duncan’s turn to frown. He went back into the cave, across the little footbridge, and into his own chamber. It was messy, as she always left it, but quite empty. He followed the passageway to the pool cave, but it was inky black.
“Catherine?” he called, just in case.
His voice only echoed.
In the great hall, several men sharpening dirks at the table looked up as he strode past them. Whatever they saw on his face, they only swallowed and went back to their tasks. At the paddock, Catriona wasn’t there, but at least the horse she usually rode was.
When he returned to the cauldrons, Maeve held up a shirt. “I believe this is yours, my laird.”
He frowned. “Aye, and what of it?”
“I found it on the ground, and none of us brought it out, so we assume Mistress Catherine did.”
His faint feeling of unease was growing stronger. Catriona might leave his chamber a mess, but her work on behalf of the clan was always precise. “Was she feeling well this morn?”
The women looked at each other and shrugged in turn.
The only place left was—he glanced up at the turret that seemed to straddle the cliff. He left the curious women and found the hidden path, heading up it a little faster than he might. Would Catriona have gone up to the ruins again, when he’d warned her she shouldn’t go alone?
At the top he was heading directly for the gatehouse when movement caught his eye. He saw Catriona silhouetted against the morning sky of orange and pink, standing so close to the cliff, she seemed like she stood at the edge of the world. The wind whipped her skirts and tangled strands of her long dark hair around her head.
On one hand he was relieved—why had he thought she would leave the encampment alone?
But on the other hand, she stood so still, so near the edge, that his heart skipped a beat as he hurried to her. He feared calling out her name would frighten her, so he deliberately kicked a few rocks together. He saw her start and look back over her shoulder, her expression stark and impassive.
Turning fully toward him, she said, “I know I should not have come up here alone.”
Something seemed . . . off as she spoke, and he realized that her brogue had gone away again. He’d liked how she’d sounded like one of his people instead of the aristocratic daughter of his enemy. Perhaps it was better this way. He needed to remember she wasn’t for him.
“Why did ye then?” He stepped up beside her, not touching her, and they both looked out over the Highlands, where the barren mountains rose and fell, and the tallest was touched with winter’s first frost.
She gave a long sigh. “I don’t really know. I suddenly felt like I needed to see the land as a pure thing, where villains who kidnap children—who kidnap women—don’t exist.” Her voice rose on the last phrase.
Her words echoed into the sudden silence. And he knew, without a doubt, that she remembered who she was, that she comprehended everything he’d done.
He clenched his jaw and braced himself, as if he’d lost something precious—something he’d never had, he reminded himself bitterly. “Ye’ve remembered.”
“Yes, I’ve remembered,” she said with a sneer. “I’m Lady Catriona Duff, and you knew it. You lied to me; you took my brooch and hid it, all to keep me in the dark and dependent on you.” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with both hands while her shoulders shook. Her whisper was agonized when she looked up at him with wet eyes. “You let me depend on you, care for you, desire you, and all along you were using me.”
Her words cut him, but he deserved the pain. “Aye, it started that way, but it’s not how it ended,” he said roughly. “I blamed your whole family for what your father had done; I wanted to despise ye as an arrogant aristocrat with no idea what it was like to suffer as my clan has suffered. Instead, I found a woman who treated everyone the same, who felt each person’s pain as her own, who tried to help everyone she met.”
She slapped him hard across the face, her eyes suddenly blazing within the sheen of unshed tears.
“You made certain I was a dependent, naïve, pliable creature so frightened of the strange world that I never left your side.”
“That was never how I saw ye,” he insisted. “I saw ye as courageous and optimistic. Ye could have sunk into a corner in fear, but that is no the woman ye are.”
“No, it’s not me—I’m a woman who doesn’t forget the evil done to her and to her whole family.”
“Evil done to your family?” he shot back to her. “Ye don’t think your father deserved far worse than he got, the reward of dying an old, rich man in his own bed?”
“Yes, you’ve opened my eyes,” she said bitterly. “You showed me what kind of man my father was. I knew he was a bastard, but to find out he was a monster . . .”
She shuddered, and he wanted to comfort her, but he’d lost that right—he’d never had that right.
She gathered herself together, and though a tear fell down her cheek, she ignored it to say with sarcasm, “And yet you still needed your revenge.”
He could make no rebuttal, for that was the truth.
“What was your plan? Go ahead, explain it to me. Did the brooch show you who I was, daughter of your enemy?”
“I’d seen ye before,” he said, “riding through Edinburgh once,
in your silks and finery.”
“Oh, of course, I deserved to be punished for that.”
“Nay, I never thought that. But your father, aye, he deserved to be punished, to know what it was like to be missing a child. His child was perfectly safe, not sold to agents who planned to use that child until he was crippled or worse.”
Though her face blanched, she spoke coldly. “So I was betrayed by the man who I thought had saved me, used to punish a man who was already dead. When did you discover that little truth?”
“I went to Castle Kinlochard.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “You saw my brother? Is he worried about me? Is his wife full of anxiety? It’s not good for the babe she carries.”
“They don’t believe ye’re missing at all. Apparently everyone is used to ye getting so caught up in your social life that ye sometimes forget to write.”
She winced, but let out her breath. “At least they’re not suffering—yet.”
“Aye, and I know they don’t deserve to suffer. I knew my vengeance didn’t matter anymore. But now ye know where my clan lives, where my faithful men hide; I let ye find out too much.”
“So what now—you’ll kill me for what I know?” She stiffened her shoulders, lifted her chin. “Do you want to throw me off this cliff right here?”
She gestured wildly toward the glen below, and his stomach twisted as if with vertigo.
“Kill ye? Have ye seen any evidence that I’m a murderer?”
“Fine, you’re not a murderer. But you’ve told me lie upon lie, most especially about myself. You let me think—”
Her voice broke then, and her pain shamed and hurt him.
She steadied herself. “You let me think I might have a husband somewhere, while you . . . made my body feel—” She couldn’t go on for a moment, her expression full of grief and disdain. “I agonized over the fear that I was betraying a man I loved with what I felt for you. I lay awake at night in desperation, giving myself headaches trying to remember my life, when all along, the man who’d saved my life, who claimed to be protecting me, could have spared me the pain.”