Page 18 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Janet blushed. “I didn’t mean—”
“But it’s true.” Catherine reached to touch the young woman’s hand, then changed her mind. “I am not a Carlyle. He could have left me to fend for myself.”
“He would never have done that,” Sheena insisted.
Janet and Maeve exchanged a sympathetic smile, as if they understood Sheena’s adoration.
“Surely you need to take care of yourselves, not feed another mouth,” Catherine continued.
Sheena set her sewing in her lap. “We don’t see it that way. We help people. ’Tis what we’re here for and what our men are riskin’ their lives for.”
“Sheena,” Maeve scolded gently.
Catherine had been hoping Sheena would keep going, reveal more of the Carlyles’ secrets. But Maeve was in control. Catherine would probably find more answers by approaching Sheena or Janet alone.
“’Tis time for bed.” Maeve got to her feet, and the other three women followed her lead.
The women set up the screens that separated their pallets from the men’s.
“Might I wash myself at the pool?” Catherine asked. “I haven’t had a chance since I arrived.”
Maeve searched her face worriedly. “Are ye feelin’ steady enough? I should go with ye.”
“No, I don’t need to inconvenience you. I promise I won’t go in deep. I just need to feel clean.”
Maeve hesitated, then sighed. “Let me find ye soap and towels. And call if ye need me. With the men gone, I should be able to hear ye from here.”
“Thank you.”
After Maeve had given her what she’d promised, as well as a fresh chemise and nightshift—and admonished her not to wash her hair until she no longer needed a bandage on her head—Catherine wished the women a good night and left. She felt a little guilty still being the only one with her own chamber. She’d lingered in the passageway to peer back into the great hall, watching as Sheena and Janet removed pallets from the stacks to lie beside one another, continuing to talk quietly. Catherine ducked away, and knew that she’d probably keep the private chamber until Laird Carlyle demanded it back. Did that make her a selfish woman?
After remembering to leave her shoe outside the waterfall cave, Catherine undressed by the light of a single lantern. Now that she was alone, the water seemed dark and mysterious. She couldn’t see the depths. The rock face where the water fell glistened blackly. Catherine didn’t know if she was a superstitious woman, but if so, this cave would scare her.
She was exceedingly careful stepping down from the ledge into the pool. The water only reached mid-calf, but she gasped at the chill that was surely left over from winter. She realized she didn’t even know what month it was. For a moment her head spun. She felt . . . unmoored, adrift, as if time was a current dragging her to an unfamiliar land.
Then she shook herself free of such fanciful musings. Since she had no idea when the men would return, perhaps filthy from their ride and desperate to bathe, it was best to hurry. She felt carefully with her foot, realized there was another rock ledge deeper, and stood on that one, up to mid-thigh, to quickly wash her body with the facecloth. She couldn’t imagine immersing herself into the unknown depths—could she even swim?—so she squatted to rinse herself off, shivering all the while.
Only when she was wearing the clean nightshift did she tiptoe down the passageway, slip past the curtain, and into her little chamber. It felt safe, as if it cocooned her, though she knew that could never be true. It was her mind trying to find a way to accept what had happened to her.
She crawled onto her pallet and pulled the blankets up over her head. Where were the men, and what was involved in this particular shipment?
In Catherine’s dreams the rain was falling, soaking her, seeping into her skin. The dead men were moving about as if desperate for her notice, for her to remember them. The sound of male voices shocked her awake. For a moment, she huddled beneath her blankets, forlorn that her dream hadn’t told her who the men were.
She realized she’d never really fallen into a deep sleep, anxious about what might happen. Without a dressing gown to wear, she was forced to pull on her petticoats and skirt, along with sliding into the bodice and lacing herself in. All the while she hurried, she kept expecting the men to settle into sleep, frustrating her ability to find out where they’d been.
She froze as she moved aside her curtain. Was someone crying?
At the entrance to the great hall, she paused to take in the scene before anyone saw her. All of the men had returned, and the women had stoked fires and were boiling water and heating cold food.
But not Maeve; with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, she was standing with Laird Carlyle and the other men, all of them gathered around . . . children. Catherine gaped. There were five or six of them, and the youngest boy, perhaps five years old, was the one who was crying. Maeve bent and put her arms around the child, who resisted, obviously frightened by the strange surroundings, and perhaps by Maeve herself.
The oldest boy, who could have only been ten or so, rested his hands on the little one’s shoulders and said something near his ear. The little one nodded, put a thumb in his mouth and tried to settle his heaving shoulders.
And then another child sobbed.
Catherine couldn’t just hide away and do nothing. The children were obviously frightened and in shock. She swept out of the passageway, ignored Laird Carlyle’s frown and boldly approached them.
The men looked at her with wary distrust. Two moved to the cave entrance, as if she’d make a dash for freedom. Freedom to go where? Didn’t they understand she was helpless, dependent on them for everything? Just like these children.
