Page 12 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Lying! Why would she lie about losing her memory?
She’d been wearing fine clothes, yes, and that marked her as someone from a wealthy family. Apparently, he had something against wealthy people.
Well, he was a chief who lived in a cave, she reminded herself, wincing. It was all such a mystery, one he didn’t want to talk about, and had obviously instructed Maeve not to discuss either. Figuring it all out would at least give her a purpose.
Because otherwise, she had nothing at all except the struggle to regain her memory. She felt like she was floating in a boat without oars, with no idea where she was or how to get somewhere else. She was stuck.
But she didn’t have to feel sorry for herself or be a burden. She wasn’t an invalid; surely she had some sort of skills to help. She’d remembered how to dress herself, after all, she thought dryly. And then perhaps, if she didn’t panic, her memories would come back on their own as her wound healed.
She was sitting in the chair, waiting patiently, when a glow bobbed down the passageway, and the curtain was drawn aside. Catherine narrowed her eyes at the sudden light.
Maeve came to an abrupt halt. “A good morn to ye, mistress. I assumed ye’d still be abed.”
Catherine slapped her hands on her thighs as she came to her feet. “No, I’m feeling much better. It’s time for me to do something to earn my stay here.”
“Earn your stay? Ye’re our guest, mistress,” Maeve insisted.
“That is kind of you, but I simply cannot sit around waiting for my memory to return. Assign me something to do. I’m a quick learner—I think.”
They shared a smile. Catherine was grateful for the other woman’s presence. Maeve made her feel at ease, made her think that at least she had one friend here amidst Clan Carlyle.
“Let me look at your wound first,” Maeve said, guiding her back into the chair by the shoulders.
Catherine waited patiently, only wincing once as the bandage seemed stuck to her forehead. “Is it inflamed?”
“Nay, ye were lucky.” She met Catherine’s gaze. “It must have been terrible.”
Catherine shrugged. “It was mostly just the pain and confusion that I remember. I don’t think I wandered long before your laird found me.” She put a hand to her forehead tentatively. “There is a giant lump, though.”
“It already looks better. Except for your eyes, o’ course.”
“My eyes?” Catherine said, aghast. “But they don’t hurt!”
“They look like someone took a fist to both o’ them. Purple, blue, green—very attractive,” she teased.
Catherine winced. “Maybe I’m vain, because I don’t like the sound of that.”
“We all want to look our best. No shame in that.” Maeve applied more salve, then began to wrap a clean bandage around Catherine’s head.
“We still need the bandage?” Catherine asked.
“We’re in a cave, mistress. Surely ye don’t want bat droppings falling in it.”
“What!”
Maeve gave a hearty laugh. “I be teasin’, mistress. We chased out the bats long ago.”
Grinning, Catherine shook her head. “How long have you lived here?”
Maeve sighed. “Ye know I cannot speak of it.”
“Do you have your own home somewhere else?”
“I did.”
“Meaning . . . you don’t anymore?”
Maeve didn’t answer.
