Page 17 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“There’s a plan, is there? I think the best plan would be to leave her in the nearest village, where people might know her.”
“Nay, I cannot do that. That would be abandoning her. We’re all she knows.”
“Ye aren’t responsible for every person in the world, Duncan Carlyle.” Ivor let out a tired breath, his mouth crooking up on one side within his bushy beard. “And if ye just wanted a woman, I don’t believe ye’d have slept out here with the men last night.”
“That’s not what this is about.” But he could not lie to himself—he found Catriona Duff far too desirable. His body didn’t care that she was the daughter of his enemy—he had a cock-stand every time she got too close. He wasn’t helping himself by touching her, even to examine the blisters on her hand. Was he using concern to stay close to her? She’d be wise to be wary—he’d be wise to never let himself be alone with her. This weakness was something he hadn’t imagined he’d feel, not after all these years of trying to protect and support his people.
“Laird Carlyle!”
Duncan rose to his feet as young Torcall rushed toward him from the cave entrance. His men’s easy smiles died, their voices quieted to hear what Torcall had to say.
“There’s a shipment, yer lairdship,” he said, his breath coming fast as if he’d ridden hard.
“Say nothing more,” Duncan ordered. He wanted details, but not in front of Catriona Duff. Raising his voice, he said, “Let us go.”
As if choreographed, the men spread out to their respective corners of the cave to arm themselves and prepare for whatever might be needed. Duncan was proud of how well trained they were, how seriously they took this mission.
He glanced at the women, who were frozen, solemn, and concerned, forgotten towels or dirty plates in their hands. Catriona’s wide-eyed gaze went from the women to the hurrying men, and at last to Duncan. He saw her questions, knew he had no time to make excuses. He simply assigned two men to stay behind and guard the encampment, and the rest saddled and mounted their horses to follow Torcall.
No one would speak to Catherine about where the men were going. The easy camaraderie between the Carlyle women changed to a tense silence only broken when orders were given by Mrs. Skinner or Maeve. Many glances were cast at the entrance to the cave, outside which Catherine assumed the two guards stood at the ready.
They prepared a simple meal that could be offered at whatever hour the men returned. Then the women sat beside the cooking fire and sewed silently, mending clothing that had been well worn. Catherine asked for a chance, figuring every woman learned to sew; surely she knew how. None of the women looked confident in her abilities, but to her relief, she was able to mend a frayed cuff and attach a torn sleeve at the shoulder. Who had she sewn for in her past life? She concentrated hard on the needle going in and out, trying to imagine sewing in a different room, with different people. Nothing.
“Mistress Catherine,” Janet began tentatively, “ye truly have no memory of a time before?”
Catherine looked up in time to see Maeve frowning at the girl.
“I don’t mind answering questions,” Catherine hastily said. Surely by being open, she would put the women at ease enough so that they’d eventually return the favor. “Please, ladies, call me Catherine.”
Janet and Sheena exchanged a smile as Sheena said in a false whisper, “She even sounds like a highborn lady.”
Catherine tried to relax—at least they were teasing her with good nature. “I have no idea if I’m a lady.”
“Yer mind,” Janet began, eager curiosity shining through her words, “’tis just . . . blank?”
Catherine nodded. “It’s obvious I know what things are called, how to talk and sew, but . . . when I try to imagine my life before I woke up next to those two dead men”—Janet and Sheena gave twin shudders—“there’s nothing but emptiness. I should know the men I was traveling with. Their poor faces keep coming back to me, but they are still strangers to me.”
The women were silent, barely moving, their sewing forgotten in their laps.
“Perhaps . . . they died trying to protect me,” Catherine whispered. Was one of them her husband? She shivered. Her mind shied away from that idea. How could one mourn a man one didn’t remember?
“Or perhaps they were villains who’d kidnapped ye!” Sheena said enthusiastically; then, eyes suddenly wide, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
Maeve had been quietly translating for Mrs. Skinner, and now both older women gave the younger one thunderous frowns.
“I only meant,” Sheena continued weakly, “that without any memories, it can almost be like a story that ye can make up as ye please.”
Catherine cocked her head. “You mean . . . create something for myself?”
“Why not?”
After Maeve whispered in Gaelic, Mrs. Skinner looked at Catherine with grudging compassion.
“I don’t know if making up the past would help me, but I’ll remember your kind advice, Sheena.” Catherine attempted to sound positive as she said, “It could have been worse. Imagine what would have happened if your laird had not found me.”
“He’s a good man,” Janet said solemnly. “He cares about even the lowliest of people.”
“And I am certainly one of those,” Catherine agreed.
