Page 13 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“I’m sorry if I’m prying,” Catherine said with a sigh. “When you don’t remember anything, you’re filled with questions about . . . everything. I hope something I ask will trigger my own memories. I imagine where I lived, see myself going through a door, or looking out a window, or turning down a bed.”
“Is it workin’?”
“Not yet. So if I keep asking questions you aren’t allowed to answer, just tell me to stop.”
“’Tisn’t that I’m not allowed, mistress,” Maeve explained. “Laird Carlyle is not a tyrant whose fist we live beneath. I made me own decision to support him and what he’s doin’. Perhaps he will answer your questions.”
“That won’t happen,” Catherine said with faint bitterness. “He thinks I’m lying about my memory loss.” She hesitated. “Do you?”
“Nay,” Maeve said kindly. “But his lairdship has had reason in his life not to trust most people.”
Catherine shook her head. “Then he must live a very miserable, lonely life.”
“Aye, that he does,” Maeve said. “He trusts us with most things, but his inner thoughts and feelings? Nay.”
Catherine could believe that. She remained silent as the woman tied off the bandage and helped pull her hair back to secure it in a simple knot at her neck.
Maeve stepped back and examined her.
“I’m presentable?” Catherine asked.
“I believe so.”
“Please thank whoever loaned me their gown,” she said, spreading wide the plain brown skirt. It was tied over a stiffened petticoat. She knew she’d been wearing a hooped petticoat when she’d arrived, but it had probably been damaged beyond repair.
“’Tis mine,” Maeve said almost shyly. “I made it meself, so ’tis not as fine as ye’re used to.”
“It is perfect, and all the better because you worked on it yourself. Thank you. I’ll take good care of it.”
Maeve blushed and bobbed her head, the edge of her cap dipping to cover her eyes.
“And who knows what I’m used to?” Catherine added. “For all I know, I’m a thief who stole that gown.”
“Och, that is certainly not true!”
“We don’t know that, do we?” Catherine asked bitterly. She took a deep breath. “But thank you for your belief in me. I cannot dwell on my hidden past. All I have is the present. Let me find a way to be of assistance. You’ll be helping me fill my day, as well.”
“If ye insist,” Maeve said doubtfully.
She was staring at Catherine’s hands.
Catherine held them up. She’d scrubbed them as well as she could in the basin. “Is something wrong?”
Maeve shrugged. “Those are delicate hands, mistress, not used to hard work.”
“Then it’s time they were of use.”
Maeve bowed her head and held her lantern to lead the way back down the passage. The “great hall” opened up before her, the ceiling dark above, with a haze of smoke from the several fires. The entrance to the cave was the only natural light, so the torches were surely kept lit most of the day. The odors were a mix of charred wood smoke, too many bodies, and something cooking.
A few men still lingered over their breakfasts, eyeing her suspiciously as Maeve made her sit down at an empty table to eat. An older woman, her bosom big, her hands well worn, slapped a plate down in front of Maeve, said something in Gaelic, then went back to the girdle on the fire to put on more oatcakes.
Catherine watched her go, then asked Maeve, “Does she know I don’t speak Gaelic?”
“I’m sure she does. But Mrs. Skinner does not speak English.”
Catherine’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I see.”
“She’s the mother of one of our youngest clansmen, and is a widow, come to make sure her laddie eats well.”
