Love with a Scottish Outlaw

by Gayle Callen

  “What foolish prank?” Cat asked.

  “And who do ye be?” the old woman demanded.

  “My name is Catherine, and I’ve been taking care of Finn since he was rescued.”

  “Ye’re Himself’s fancy lass, are ye?”

  Cat stiffened, sensing she wasn’t being complimented. She glanced at Finn, who didn’t hide her curiosity. “I am a woman who was also rescued by Laird Carlyle, just like Finn.”

  The old woman snorted, but only turned back to Maeve. “The lads need a switchin’.”

  “What did he do?” Cat asked again.

  Muriel sighed. “They were throwing mud balls at a fence, but overshot the target . . . many times.”

  “Mud come flyin’ all over me fine cloth I’d worked hard to weave,” the old woman cried. “No one will buy it now.”

  Cat winced. “I’m so sorry for the boys’ mistake.” But was it a mistake? She’d seen Finn tossing horseshoes against the paddock fence and hitting it perfectly every time.

  Finn’s glance at her was momentarily sly before turning innocent once again.

  “The boys did not understand how important the cloth’s sale is, Mistress MacFarlane,” Cat said. “Finn, and I assume Logan, will wash all of it for you and anything else they dirtied.”

  Finn frowned, but said nothing.

  Cat gave the girl her own frown. “Won’t you, Finn.” It wasn’t a question.

  Muriel elbowed Logan, who gulped and nodded, whispering, “Aye, mistress.”

  Finn’s gaze became fearful, leading Cat to turn and see Duncan entering the fray, the baby still on his shoulder. Muriel tsked and went to take her child, leaving Duncan to look more intimidating as he folded his arms across his chest.

  “We always repair our mistakes,” he said in a cool voice.

  Logan and Finn bobbed their heads quickly.

  Mistress MacFarlane’s expression softened as she curtsied. “Laird Carlyle, yer help is much appreciated.”

  But not that of his “fancy lass,” Cat thought sourly.

  “Follow me, lads,” Maeve said, her voice brisk but still kind. “We’ll see what Mistress MacFarlane needs ye to do.” She readjusted the scarf across her face and shooed them before her.

  Mistress MacFarlane and Muriel followed behind, and when Cat would have accompanied them, Duncan put a hand on her arm. She pulled away, although she tried not to be too obvious.

  “Do not touch me,” she whispered, tilting her head to look him in the eyes.

  “Fine. But I only meant to say that ye don’t think that shower of mud was an accident,” he said.

  Reluctantly surprised at his insight, she said, “No, I don’t.”

  “Why would my nephew and Finn want to ruin the harvest festival?”

  “Not ruin it,” Cat pointed out, “but call attention to themselves. Or Finn wanted to, anyway. Logan might have been totally innocent of planning any damage.”

  “Finn has been a good lad. What has changed?”

  Cat debated if she was revealing Finn’s confidences, and decided it would all be public eventually. “You want to give him to a strange family, and he doesn’t want to go. I think he believes making the village disapprove of him will ensure no one here picks him.”

  Duncan frowned. “But—”

  “Don’t you see? He knows all of us now. We’ve shown him the most security in his young life. He thinks being given to another family is the same thing as the indentured servitude the sheriff’s men stole him for.”

  “I’ve had much success finding the orphan children good homes,” Duncan insisted.

  “He doesn’t know that—nor does he care. This is all about him, a boy who’s been alone for several years now.” A little girl who hadn’t had the protection of anyone. Cat didn’t know if she’d really understood how alone and defenseless a woman could feel until she’d lost her memory and been manipulated by Duncan. But now she felt a solidarity with Finn.

  Duncan rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. “I cannot excuse what he did.”

  “Of course not. Actions have consequences.”

  His expression didn’t change, although he did look away.

  And she felt childish, though she had a right to her anger. She felt a pang of sorrow that he could do this to her—that her father could have started it all by allowing children to be stolen.

  Duncan sighed. “Then let us witness the punishment.” He gestured for her to lead the way.

  Finn and Logan were ordered to fetch water from the well in many trips and bring it to boil in a cauldron that they first had to wrestle over a fire. While that was going on, they used rags to clean up the mud that spattered not just Mistress MacFarlane’s booth, but many others. The afternoon dragged on, the “boys” were the object of much teasing, and Cat thought at least Logan had learned a valuable lesson. She wasn’t so sure it had taught Finn anything. The girl seemed far too pleased to be on public display as a scamp.

  As if the two children were the evening’s entertainment, the men brought forth a barrel of whisky to share, and the merriment increased. Duff whisky, she thought tiredly. Duncan was stoic as the whisky was distributed, as if he knew it reminded her of what had happened the last time she’d over-imbibed, how she’d let him kiss her.

  Since she didn’t want the clan to know anything was different, she accepted the dram they urged on her. It burned just as much this time. A clansman laughed and nudged her into Duncan. She was his “fancy lass” after all, and she couldn’t jump away like she wanted to. Sadly, touching the warm length of his arm muscles did not inspire revulsion, much as she wished it would.

  Chapter 17

  On the ride home, the last climb was in the darkness, and Duncan’s horse knew the path as well as he did. Finn slept slumped against his back, and Duncan felt another stirring of sympathy. The boy had worked hard to make his mistake right—although it hadn’t begun as a mistake.

  What was Duncan supposed to do with Finn?

  He’d never had this problem before. Children were always so grateful to be rescued, and if they were orphans, pleased to have a home. But the longer Finn stayed, the more he’d think of this dank cave as home, and that wasn’t fair for a little boy to grow up as a fugitive.

  Duncan carried Finn into the great hall of their cave complex, where some of the men were subdued after a long day, and others were still gregarious from too much drink. Catriona, who’d been ahead of him with Maeve on the way back, was nowhere to be seen. Probably preparing for bed, he thought, inwardly grimacing as he remembered she slept on a cave floor in a room with dozens of men.

  He lowered Finn to his pallet, then tucked the blanket in around him.

  Tonight Catriona had pretended there was no distance between them, for the sake of his clan. She’d sat beside him in the village, sipping her whisky as the gentle September wind brought the scents of fish frying and the laughter of his people. Her arm had briefly been against his, and it had taken tenuous control not to slip his arm around her shoulder and bring her more fully against him as he wanted to.

  But she wasn’t his wife, she wasn’t a woman he was courting—she wasn’t his “fancy lass.” She’d been tipsy when she’d told him Mistress MacFarlane had called her that. He’d been furious, while Catriona had given him an accusing look—he didn’t need her to point out that this was his fault.

  There didn’t seem to be room for any other thoughts in his head but for Catriona, all of them tinged with both guilt and desire. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be escorting her home—and she’d be lost to him. Ye’re drunk, he told himself, disgusted.

  Preoccupied, he left the great hall and headed down the stone passageway. There were several boots at the far end, signaling the pool cave was well occupied. He heard deep laughter and splashing and hoped no one was too drunk to swim.

  At his bedchamber, he swept the curtain aside—and froze.

  Catriona, bent over his trunk, rose up swiftly to face him, her face pink in the lantern light
. They were alone, and he couldn’t help boldly looking down her body. He’d spent the entire day trying not to stare at her, at the way the laces across her bodice seemed to bring her breasts together and lift them up as if on display. It was nothing overt, but the creamy skin of her cleavage hinted at what was below. Her waist was delicate, and the flare of her skirt only emphasized her round hips.

  “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said stiffly.

  When their gazes met and held, he reached behind him and slid the curtain closed. He saw her eyes widen.

  “Did ye want people to see us alone together?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why are ye here?” he asked, hearing the roughness of his voice.

  He wanted her. The anger and frustration of that made him take a step closer. Lifting her chin, she didn’t back away.

  She licked her lips. “I thought I left something in the trunk, but . . . I can’t find it.”

  “What was it?” He was another step closer, and he could have touched her if he reached out. It was a daring game he played with himself: touch her or not, test his powers of control or back away.

  But she smelled so good. On her, the plain soap the women made seemed somehow enhanced by mingling with her skin. He wanted to bury his face against her neck and inhale.

  “It’s not your concern,” she insisted. “And you’re drunk,” she added accusingly.

  “And ye’re blushing.” Without planning it, he reached to cup her cheek.

  They both inhaled at the touch, warm skin to warm skin. Then she pushed his hand away, but there was no room to step back.

  “’Tis just a chemise,” she said with exasperation.

  He tilted his head. “I do not remember seeing such a feminine garment in my trunk after you moved out.”

  “It’s not there. I’m going to leave now.”

  He didn’t step aside, and she didn’t push him away.

  Words he didn’t mean to say tumbled out in a husky voice. “I know what I’ve done to ye, and though I’ve asked your forgiveness, ye haven’t granted it, as is your right. But I cannot stop thinking about how it was with ye in my arms. I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman as I’ve wanted to kiss ye, never wanted to touch a woman as badly as I want to put my hands on ye.”

  Her eyes widened more and more with each word he said. For a frozen moment, he didn’t have any idea what she thought of him. And then without a word she pushed past him and fled.

  Duncan had once deluded himself into believing he could have her; he’d let himself sink under her spell until she was all he could think about. But now that she knew all he’d done to her, there could never be forgiveness between them.

  He pounded his fist hard into the rock wall, little caring that he bloodied his knuckles. It was less painful than the way his heart felt, torn up knowing that he’d hurt her, that he could never have her—that he’d fallen in love with her.

  He had to take her home the first chance he got. After the assembly, he’d sent even more men to search out this missing child, to see if at last the sheriff had run out of men and was doing his own foul work. The lust for money was apparently too powerful for the man to lie low.

  But after that, it was time to take Catriona home and accept her brother’s punishment.

  Cat stood in the passageway, fighting to control her racing pulse, her uneven breathing. She was disgusted with herself and the way Duncan’s words had even momentarily tempted her into forgetting everything he’d done and exploring that dark world of pleasure she’d only ever glimpsed. What kind of person so easily forgot betrayal? Apparently, she did. She’d thought she could control her reactions to the dazzling sensations he invoked in her—she was lying to herself. Regardless of what he’d done, her body still wanted him.

  She had to forget about her weakness and think about what she’d uncovered in the trunk—proof of her father’s guilt. But there was also a revelation about Duncan’s father. After what he’d said of his father’s weaknesses and mistakes, she didn’t think he knew about the letters. In some ways, even her captivity was because of how Duncan had shaped himself to be nothing like his father. She found herself more curious about the dead man than she wanted to be.

  It wasn’t until the next morning, when Duncan left the cave with Ivor and many of the men, that Cat slipped back into his chamber. Dropping to her knees beside the trunk, she carefully moved aside his clothing until she found all the letters. Wrapping them into her towel, she ducked back into the passageway with her lantern, left her shoe on the ground and slipped into the empty pool cave. No one would disturb her there for a while. She had to begrudgingly give him credit; he’d kept his men loyal and in line. She sank to the ground, her back against the rough wall, and found the letter she was looking for.

  She stiffened as she recognized her father’s handwriting. She’d been right; he was “A,” making threats he didn’t bother to veil against Laird Carlyle and innocent children. Of course, he didn’t put it into incriminating words, damn him. He’d always been too smart for that.

  Duncan had assured her that his father was a weakling. But if his father had been investigating the missing children, had even connected it to the Earl of Aberfoyle, but had died before he could finish the work—then he was more than the pathetic chief Duncan thought him to be.

  Duncan’s father had had the same goal as he did. Had Duncan known? She shouldn’t care, but . . . she did.

  And there was her father, his spidery penmanship reminding her of the evil he wreaked in all the lives he touched. Tears stung her eyes but she wiped them away. Though Duncan had made his own poor choices, he was only desperate to save his people because her father had made everything worse for them.

  At a commotion echoing down the passageway, Cat lifted her head and froze. But no one called her name, and the shoe she could see at the edge of the shadows remained undisturbed. She gathered the letters back together, and after tying them up, crept down the corridor, dropped them in Duncan’s chest, and emerged into the great hall attempting to look untroubled.

  Duncan and Ivor were standing face-to-face, glaring at each other, the rest of the men watching with either curiosity or worry.

  “I must go to her,” Duncan said coldly. “My sister needs me.”

  “Muriel?” The name left Cat’s lips without her even being aware.

  None of the men looked at her, but Maeve hurried to stand by her side.

  “Muriel?” Cat whispered again in fear, searching Maeve’s face.

  Maeve shook her head. “Nay, not Muriel. His lairdship’s other sister, Winifred. She sent word that she’d been interrogated by Sir Brendan Welcker, the sheriff of Glasgow, for the whereabouts of Himself.”

  Cat caught her breath, her gaze rushing back to Duncan. If his sister had been hurt, he’d blame himself forever. “Is she . . . ?”

  “She says she’s unharmed, that she told the sheriff she’s estranged from Himself, and he finally believed her. She wants her brother to continue his work for the children. But he . . .” Maeve’s words faded away, her eyes full of helplessness.

  “But he blames himself and wants to go to her,” Cat finished for her.

  Maeve nodded.

  Duncan suddenly strode past her without glancing her way, crossed the footbridge and disappeared up the passageway. When no one followed him, Cat did. She didn’t know why; it wasn’t her place, but—

  She found him packing a saddlebag, stuffing things in without even paying attention to what he was doing.

  “Duncan.”

  He didn’t look at her. His movements got more explosive, and she thought he’d rip a hole in the bottom of the bag.

  She repeated his name more firmly, then put a hand on his arm. He froze. She could feel the terrible tension of his muscles, a faint vibration from holding himself still when she knew he was desperate to do something.

  “Welcker hit her,” he said through gritted teeth.

  She caught her breath. “Winifred? She
told you that?”

  “Nay, of course not. She thinks she has to protect me, but her servant said she had a bruise on her face after the encounter.”

  He was still clutching the bag with both hands, as if he needed something to hold onto as he accepted the blame for everything that went wrong.

  “I have to go to her,” Duncan said.

  But he held the bag and looked at it, as if unseeing.

  “And then you’ll have made her bravery useless, because you’ll be captured. This is just what the sheriff wants.” The words of advice took even her by surprise.

  Duncan bowed his head and shuddered. Hoarsely, he said, “I cannot continue to hide while people risk themselves defending me.”

  “You’re risking yourself for their children. Do you think that means so little to them?”

  She took the bag from his hand and pushed him down into a chair. To her surprise he didn’t resist, but now that she could see his face, she saw the impassive mask that didn’t hide the pain in his dark eyes. Duncan had never known any kind of peace. He’d inherited terrible problems when he’d become chief, perhaps too young to chart the wisest course in solving them. He’d made mistakes when he’d first tried to save the children, and he’d learned from them. He suffered for what those mistakes had cost his family and friends. She would admire any other man who’d accepted such responsibility, grown in wisdom, and never surrendered. But none of that excused how he’d used and betrayed her.

  With his elbows on his knees, Duncan put his face in his hands and just sat there. She imagined how she’d feel if someone harmed her brother because of her.

  She put her hand on his back. He felt so stiff and unyielding, but after a moment, he let out a heavy sigh. She didn’t know how long they remained like that, didn’t understand her own emotions that twisted between pity and the simmering anger over his betrayal.

  At last he sat up, and she let her hand drop away, tempted to look at her hand as if it didn’t belong to her.

  She had to distract herself. “The sheriff discovered nothing from Winifred.”