Page 21 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Her mouth went dry. Low in her stomach she felt a tension she couldn’t understand, though she knew it had to do with him. Maybe she was the one who’d ruined their discussion by thinking too much about him as a desirable man, when she had no right to do such a thing.
Chapter 6
Duncan watched highborn Lady Catriona Duff help to serve grimy, defensive children, who didn’t have money or fine manners. He didn’t know what to think as she cleaned up a cup of spilled ale without complaint, sliced apples into pieces for the children to devour, smiled at them with the confidence of a woman assuring them that all would be well.
He was relieved by the thaw that had occurred between her and the other women. The cave was already so small that any arguments would distress every resident. Catriona was different, and there was no hiding that fact. She scrubbed her hands repeatedly as if she wasn’t used to dirt under her nails. She even questioned the translation of Mrs. Skinner’s orders. Catriona was a woman used to being in charge, even if she didn’t remember that.
But she’d blended in quickly, just by being willing to work and help the children. The women had accepted her, and soon the men would, following his own lead. He’d confided in her more than he meant to. But the rescued children couldn’t be explained any other way. Detail after detail had poured out of him, lured by her sympathy. Those golden eyes had shone with approval.
And she’d touched him, and he’d had the overpowering desire to pull her into his arms. He hadn’t been able to stop watching her mouth, had imagined kissing her, caressing her, laying her down on his pallet and taking her.
What kind of chief was he, to let the daughter of his enemy affect him so? He shouldn’t want her understanding, just her acquiescence.
But she bustled about almost authoritatively, asking for whatever food she thought the children needed. He knew she wasn’t used to being subservient. Anyone could see that she was a woman who’d been trained to run a household; she was a lady.
He suddenly had a sobering thought—would behaving in her old manner trigger her elusive memories? He studied her too closely, looking for a sign that her mind was releasing the truth, a sign that she didn’t belong here.
But it didn’t happen. She seemed lit by an inner fire of resolve, of determination to help the abused children. She treated them with gentleness and good nature, and when their steps grew weary, their heads drooping, she worked with the other women to find them pallets to lie upon near a warm fire.
She did not leave their care until all were asleep, including the silent orphan who spoke not at all, but whose eyes were windows of both wariness and fear. Catriona sat beside him until he fell asleep, and only then did she speak a soft good-night to Maeve.
He continued watching her until she was at the entrance to the passageway into the next cave. She looked over her shoulder one last time and saw him staring, then blushed and turned away. What had she read in his expression? He’d worked so hard to overcome his impetuous youth, to become a leader to be trusted, a man who expressed impassivity, not emotion.
But he wasn’t thinking with his brain when he looked at Catriona.
Catherine didn’t sleep well, unable to shake her concern for the children. She rose and dressed swiftly, this time in a dark plaid gown, with her chemise apparent at her neckline and shoulders and at the laces that attached her sleeves. She wasn’t wearing a fichu, and trusted that the chemise distracted from her cleavage. She hardly wanted to display herself before the men.
Unwillingly, she remembered the way Duncan Carlyle had watched her when she’d retired for the night—retired to his chamber, his bed. She had no memories of any bed at all, she reminded herself with sarcasm, but that didn’t matter. She hadn’t been able to gauge his expression, but she’d felt . . . hot, as if it were high summer instead of sliding into autumn. Her legs had felt weak, and between them—good God, she could not let herself remember how restless and yearning she’d felt in his bed.
She scolded herself for such weakness. He’d rescued her, been kind to her, even as he’d harbored natural suspicions about something so outlandish as losing all of one’s memories. This was gratitude she was feeling, nothing more.
It didn’t help that he was handsome in a rough, masculine way, with his unruly auburn hair that seemed to want to escape his queue, high cheekbones, the stubble of a day’s growth of beard, and dark eyes that hid the weight of the world.
No, she was done thinking about him. There were helpless, lost children to focus on. She entered the great hall when the cave entrance was still awash with gray light. Without thinking, she crossed to look out upon the dawn, only to find one of Laird Carlyle’s men silently stepping into her path, blocking her.
“Oh, my apologies,” she murmured, giving him an embarrassed smile before turning away.
He didn’t smile back. But she was starting to learn people’s names. He was Melville, Sheena’s father, and it was obvious he didn’t like her—and trying to go outside had probably increased his suspicion.
But she’d almost forgotten what the outdoors even looked like. There were few men in the cave, and she imagined the rest were outside, feeding animals, gathering wood, or hunting.
After washing her hands in the burn, Catherine walked to the cooking fires and greeted the four women. “Good morning to you.” She glanced past them to see the five little boys, all still sleeping soundly, some wrapped tightly in their blankets, others sprawled with abandon. “At least some of them feel safe at last,” she said wryly.
Maeve translated for Mrs. Skinner, then smiled. “Some had nightmares, but I was able to console them.”
Catherine stiffened. “Oh, I could have been helping you.”
“Nay, ’twas an easy task.”
“Then at least allow me to help with breakfast.”
Soon they had cauldrons of porridge and boiling eggs to be consumed with fresh buttermilk, and Catherine’s mouth watered. The scents awakened the children, who looked frightened again, as if they hadn’t remembered the rescue. While the clanswomen set a table for the children, she guided them to wash up in the stream. The little orphan boy, Finn, seemed frightened of the water—of perhaps everything. He resisted much washing, and since she didn’t want to push him, she settled for making certain that at least his hands were clean. When Maeve announced breakfast, and the children rushed to the table, Finn hung back.
“Are you not hungry?” Catherine asked gently.
Eyes downcast, he only shrugged. So he did speak English, she thought with relief.
“I am Catherine. I understand you’re Finn.”
