by Gayle Callen
“So it seems.”
“Is Winifred’s husband strong enough to protect her?”
“He’s a lawyer for the town council. He has power in his own right.”
“Then that’s what you have to focus on. Winifred wants to protect you and your mission.”
“If only children could feel safe,” he said with frustration. “Then we could live in peace.”
“It will happen. When you’ve caught the sheriff in the act of stealing children, what will you do?”
“Take him to the High Court in Edinburgh, where he has no influence, no support from the magistrates. I have many witnesses, even children, ready to tell their story. Until then I cannot stop—”
“Winifred doesn’t want you to stop.”
Stoically, he said, “I know how terrified the bairns feel; I know what it’s like to think no one can help ye. At least I was fed and housed. To be taken away from all ye’ve known, barely fed, fearing to be thrown into a world without sympathy—” He stiffened. “Aye, I cannot stop. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll make the children of my clan feel safe.”
She knew he’d allow himself no softness, no comfort, no peace until then. But if he took her home, and she told her brother what had happened, Duncan might be accused of yet another crime. The twinge of guilt she felt angered her. She wasn’t going to have him thrown in gaol, but she wasn’t going to let him suffer nothing for what he’d done.
“So what will you do about Winifred?”
She saw his jaw clench, but his voice was almost mild as he said, “I will write to her and thank her for her bravery.” He glanced up at her. “But I won’t risk her sacrifice by going to her. My thanks for your wise words.”
“I said nothing that Ivor did not say, that you did not know yourself.”
It made her feel uncomfortable that her opinion could sway him. Suddenly, she felt strange knowing that she’d seen his father’s papers, that she’d committed her own indiscretion. She wanted to ask if he knew the contents—if he knew he might have some evidence against her father, vague though it was. But it wasn’t her place to talk to him about something so personal. They weren’t going to have that kind of relationship anymore. Awkward and unsure, she left him alone.
She was still lost in thought when she wandered back into the great hall. As if she’d been waiting for Cat, Maeve met her when she crossed the footbridge.
“Well?” Maeve asked anxiously. “Did ye convince him to stay?”
Cat blinked at her. “I don’t think I had the power to do that. He realized the truth himself.”
Maeve let out her breath. “’Tis good that ye’re here.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’ve never seen him react to anyone the way he’s done with you.”
Cat felt herself flushing with heat. “I think that’s overstating things.”
“Nay, ’tis not. Just promise me that if your memory returns, or if ye think ye have to go, try to spare him if ye can.”
The woman was uncomfortably close to the truth, and Cat couldn’t even meet her always direct gaze. Again, she felt the sting of guilt, knowing she was lying to this kind woman, even if it was for the clan’s benefit. But she could get one thing off her chest.
Cat looked past her, to see if they were alone. “I must confess something, Maeve, and I need your advice.”
“Confess?” Maeve echoed, her frown distorted by a scar snaking up from her cheek.
“When I was storing my clothing in his lairdship’s trunk, I found letters to his father.”
The woman’s wrinkled forehead smoothed out. “Ah, yes. Himself had a . . . complicated relationship with his father. It often brings him pain to remember. I urged him to throw those letters out—”
“But it’s good he didn’t. Maeve, they might be proof that the Earl of Aberfoyle was involved. And they also show that his father had known about the missing children, and had been pursuing justice in his own way. He’d died before it could happen, but . . . perhaps Duncan should know that his father wasn’t as weak as he’d thought he was.”
Maeve studied her closely. “Ye care much for our laird.”
Cat wanted to deny that outright, but it would make her friend suspicious. And that was the only reason she stayed silent.
“Why did ye not tell him yerself?” Maeve continued, with a teasing edge to her voice. “Ye were just alone with him.”
Cat hoped she was suppressing a blush. “We’ve both agreed not to pursue this attraction we feel. And to tell him something so personal—not to mention admit I read them . . .”
“Very well,” Maeve said kindly. “I’ll pick a good time to tell him. I’ll even say me own curiosity made me ask ye to read me the letters. I cannot read, ye know,” she admitted matter-of-factly.
“No, I will not let you lie for me.” Cat was aghast.
“‘Twill not be much of a lie. I’ve always been curious. Just let me take care of it.”
“Maeve—”
But with a wave, the other woman walked away.
And Cat let her, because she was far too confused about her own motives.
Chapter 18
Taking comfort from a woman—a woman he’d wronged, no less—only confused and irritated Duncan. Aye, it had been necessary to hear the words of truth about Winifred’s situation, and his own responsibilities, but he didn’t like how easily he wanted to revert to the youth he’d once been, the one who acted first and worried about the consequences later. He thought he’d left that fool behind, but apparently, one threat to his sister and he lost himself again.
Catriona had come to him, offered advice, listened to the worst of his fears, and calmed him. Was it such a weakness that a woman he loved could do such a thing? Especially when he knew she didn’t want to have anything to do with him. But he couldn’t let himself grow accustomed to her counsel. He’d be taking her home, and her family would make certain Duncan never had anything to do with her again.
Walking through the great hall, he saw more than one of his men watching him with wary sympathy, though none bothered him. Finn wasn’t within the cave, and he found the boy at the paddock, brooding as he watched the horses graze.
Though Finn stiffened, Duncan leaned on the fence beside him and said nothing. It was a cold, misty wet day, and even the ruins towering on the cliffs over their heads were hidden within a dreary fog.
“Ye’re disappointed in me,” Finn finally said in a low voice.
“Are ye disappointed in yourself?” Duncan asked.
The boy hesitated. “Do ye want me to be honest?”
“I do.”
“Then, though I disappointed ye, I would not do anythin’ different.”
“So ye’d still make it difficult for poor Mistress MacFarlane to earn her coin.”
Though Finn was in profile, Duncan could see his young brow furrow.
“Nay, I wanted to cause trouble, not harm an old woman,” he admitted in so soft a voice that Duncan barely heard him.
“Then what do ye want, Finn?”
“I don’t want to be foisted off on people who resent havin’ to do ye a favor.”
“Ye don’t think I know what I’m doing? That I’ve found good homes for orphaned children before? That there are families who could not have children, or perhaps only one, and have love to give to more?”
“Is it love, Laird Carlyle? Or is it the need for a laborer?”
“Everyone works in a family, Finn,” Duncan said patiently. “I certainly put ye to work here.”
“’Tis not the same,” Finn insisted. “I want to be here.”
“Ye could want to be in a family, too. Don’t ye want a mum again?”
“No one can take me mum’s place!”
The shout was sudden and cracked with emotion.
Softly, Duncan said, “Just like having another friend doesn’t make the first one any less to ye, ’tis the same with parents. Ye can love them in a different way than your own mum, but it can still be real and im
portant to ye eventually.”
“Not to me. I’m different than other boys.”
“And how is that?”
Finn said nothing.
“Ye like Mistress Catherine, do ye not?”
Mutely, the boy nodded.
“And ye like Mistress Maeve, too. That’s two women ye like, not one at the expense of another.”
Instead of answering, Finn dashed an arm across his eyes and ran back toward the cave.
Duncan leaned back against the fence post and watched. He’d never had such a challenging lad before, and was beginning to fear he’d need to force the lad into a new home for his own good.
And that meant that Duncan had to find just the right home. There was one he’d considered, visited, but they already had four children, and he feared Finn’s assessment of needing another laborer would have been true with that family.
But there was something about Finn that made Duncan feel even more protective than he normally did. Perhaps it was simply because Catriona was so fond of the boy, and he didn’t want to disappoint her.
As Cat helped serve the midday meal, she noticed Finn’s dejection as the girl squatted near the burn, half hidden by the footbridge. It seemed to give her some feeling of safety, and Cat thought again of the bridges in Glasgow that might have once meant the same thing to Finn. Since the other children had gone, Finn had taken to building elaborate little villages out of the stones in the burn, stacking the flat ones as little houses, using sticks as people, and round stones as animals. Cat often saw her lips move, as if she gave voice to her little creations, ruler of their world when she could not rule her own.
When Cat approached, Finn jumped to her feet.
“I saw you run in from outside,” Cat said hesitantly. “Are you well?”
Finn didn’t meet her gaze and said nothing.
“I saw Laird Carlyle head out just before. You spoke?”
“I don’t want to talk about him. He thinks only he knows best, and that I have to do anythin’ he says.”
Cat didn’t point out that those things were most likely true. Instead, she sat on a rock beside Finn and spoke quietly. “Perhaps you’d have better luck reasoning with his lairdship if you told him the truth about yourself.”
Finn crouched back over her little stone village, shoulders hunched, as if she could protect her entire little stone world. “I cannot. He’ll be mad and send me away even sooner.”
“I think he’ll be sad you didn’t trust him sooner.”
“Are ye going to break your word and tell him?” Finn accused.
That angry look pierced Cat like an arrow. “No, I promised I wouldn’t, and I won’t. But the lie must surely be eating at you, and grow more and more difficult to hide. You cannot make water against a tree like the boys.”
“I’ve spent years gettin’ around that,” Finn said with scorn.
“When summer comes, they’ll all swim without their clothes, and you won’t be able to.”
“I can’t swim.”
“You have an answer for everything,” Cat said with a sigh. “But trust me, I have a secret, too, and it’s tearing me up inside.”
Finn stared at her, wide-eyed. “You, mistress?”
“Me. I will tell you, and though I won’t swear you to secrecy, I ask you to allow me to tell everyone in my own way, as I’ve allowed you the same courtesy.”
“Of course,” Finn said eagerly, sitting on another rock across from Cat.
Cat guessed the girl was desperate to find someone else trapped in lies, just like Finn herself. And maybe this was a mistake, but perhaps sharing her own mistakes would help the girl see that lies only tangled a person the longer they went on.
“A couple days ago,” Cat began softly, “all of my memories began to return.”
Finn’s mouth dropped open, and she leaned forward. “Ye remembered yer life!”
Cat nodded.
“But . . . ye told no one.”
“I told Laird Carlyle.”
Finn frowned. “He must be glad for ye.”
With a shrug, Cat said, “It is not so easy. If everyone found out who I am, it might cause . . . hard feelings.”
“But . . . ye’re a woman alone.”
“I am, but I’m of the Duff clan, Finn, and we’ve been enemies of the Carlyles.”
“Oh.” Finn may have lived in town rather than the Highlands, but she obviously knew of the great clan rivalries and the feuds that could last centuries. “His lairdship is protectin’ ye. He’s a good man.”
Protecting her. Cat could have choked. “It’s not just that. Everyone here is doing good deeds for others. Finn, I am the sort of woman who takes the wealth of my family for granted. I have done very little except enjoy my life while others are struggling to survive, or risking their lives on behalf of children.”
“Like Himself,” Finn breathed.
Cat nodded. “It makes me feel . . . ashamed.” She bowed her head.
Finn’s dirty hand touched her knee. “’Tis not yer fault yer father coddled ye.”
“I know, but . . . it’s sad that I did not see it as such, even when I looked out my carriage window and saw that others did not live as I did. I helped my mother with charities, but nothing compared to the sacrifices that the people in this cave make every day.”
Finn said nothing, and Cat was wondering if confessing her own secret had been the right thing to do. She glanced up to see the little girl pondering her village.
“I’ve told his lairdship,” Cat said, “and he doesn’t hate me. You could tell him your secret, too.”
Finn gave her a piercing look, then said sadly, “I’ll be . . . a girl with boys, weak.” Her thin shoulders hunched again. “I don’t know.”
“Think about it.” Bracing her hands on her thighs, Cat stood up. “I’ll leave you to your make-believe. Pretending everything is okay can be a lot easier than facing the truth. We both know that.”
Cat felt a little disoriented as she left the burn. She saw the women working together, and just couldn’t face pretending nothing was wrong. She donned her cloak and went outside. The mist hadn’t dissipated, and the chill dampness made her hug herself. As she always did when she needed to think, she went toward the paddock, but before she reached it, she heard a thunder of horses’ hooves and saw two clansmen duck past the trees and ride into the clearing, pulling up short when they spied Duncan. She hadn’t even realized he was out there. She moved deeper into the trees, intending to leave them alone, when she heard a breathless Angus speak as he dismounted.
“Laird Carlyle, ye’re needed for a newly arrived shipment.”
Cat froze.
“Whisky?” Duncan asked quietly.
Both men nodded.
“I’ll go,” Duncan said. “Get some food and rest.”
Duncan saddled his horse, but instead of going back inside the cave, he mounted and departed. Cat realized that the whisky shipments must not be hidden very far away, if he didn’t even bother with supplies. Feeling bold and deserving of the truth, she quickly saddled the mare she preferred and rode off after him.
Duncan rode several hours, lost in thought about Catriona, about Finn, about the decisions that weren’t so easy to make. But he was aware that a solitary horseman was following him.
As the ground began to level out, and the trees grew thicker the closer he got to Loch Lomond, he led the man away from his true destination and looked for a place to surprise him. The dense trees near the loch made that relatively easy, and soon he was hidden behind a tree, still mounted on Arran, his sword drawn, ready to run down the villain from behind.
The horse cantered past him down the path, its rider leaning forward, obviously looking for him. And then he saw the dark hair of a woman piled high, her cloak falling back from her shoulders to cover the horse’s flanks. Since she straddled the horse, her skirts were lifted, displaying supple calves.
Catriona.
She came to a stop in the clearing beyond the trees,
swiveling her head in confusion.
“Looking for me?” Duncan asked, urging his horse out of the trees.
She twisted in the saddle, her eyes wide.
“Why have ye been lurking behind me for hours?” Duncan demanded.
“Because I wasn’t certain it was you,” she said, her expression an attempt at seriousness.
“Try again,” he commanded coolly.
She wet her lips. “Duncan—”
“Dismount.”
“What?”
“Get off your horse.”
“Are we here?” she asked quickly, looking around.
Through the trees, they could glimpse the smooth surface of the loch, but nothing else.
“Are we where?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “Where did ye think I was going?”
She didn’t answer, just dismounted, her leg sliding over the mare’s saddle, her skirts bunching but revealing only a wool-covered ankle. Where Catriona was concerned, that was almost as tantalizing as bare skin.
He walked his horse closer, still towering above her, and raked her saddle with a withering glance. “You have no supplies at all, not even water.”
“Why would I need supplies? I thought you were just going for a ride to exercise your mount.”
He dismounted and stalked toward her. “Do not be foolish, Catriona.”
She flinched as he used her Christian name, and he thought perhaps it was the first time she’d heard it in a long while.
“Tell me why ye were following me.”
“Because I had something to discuss with you, and I was hoping to do it in private. We seldom have any privacy.”
He stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at her. “Very well, if ye need more privacy, then by all means, let’s have some.” He took her elbow and began to tug.
“Where are we going?” she asked sharply.
“Ye followed me about the countryside, a woman alone, risking yourself. I’m damned sure ye must be out of your mind with curiosity. And we need privacy, of course, as ye’ve so smartly pointed out.”
“Duncan—”
“Be quiet, woman, or ye’ll risk our lives.”
Her mouth snapped shut. At least she could be smart about some things. He gathered the reins of both horses and began to pull them along as well.