Page 23 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Smiling with relief, the young woman darted away. Catherine gently touched the king, surprised to see three crowns, one on top of the other. But she imagined every artist had their own particular style. These pieces, with their stacked rounded disks, were tall and slender, as if they’d tip over if one became too excited during the game.
Who could she play with? She looked around and saw the women talking quietly near the children. The only other person was the guard at the door—the one keeping her from stepping outside. It was Angus, the young man newly married to Janet who had said he played chess. Catherine could tell he was trying to focus on keeping them all safe, but he kept watching his wife with longing. There was a man who needed to be distracted, and whom she needed to befriend if she was ever going to be trusted to see the last heather on the moor before autumn chased it away.
When she marched up to Angus, he stiffened and eyed her warily.
“Angus, I’ve been told you play chess.”
He looked around as if for moral support before giving a tiny nod. “Aye, I do, but—”
“Will you play with me? Your wife just showed me the chessboard.”
“Laird Carlyle’s board?”
“Is that a problem? Has he forbidden its use, considering he left it out in the open?” As if there were cupboards in a cave where he could have tucked it away.
“Nay, but—”
“Have pity on me, Angus. It’s something I remember knowing how to do. We won’t even leave the entrance. I’ll bring the board to you, and you can even stand while we play.”
She didn’t wait for a reply, just returned for the crate, and then the game board, setting them along the cave wall near the entrance. She caught a whiff of the outdoors, of heather, earthy and herb-like, and could have swooned.
Angus still eyed the women and then the entrance, like a small boy who worried about being caught doing something naughty. But she ignored him, sat down on a stump, and lifted the first piece, a horse’s head, from the box.
“The knight is lovely,” she breathed, the ivory so translucent she could see the carving strokes.
But she couldn’t waste time admiring the set when Angus might balk at any moment. She set up the pieces without even thinking about it, then stared in wonder at what she’d remembered. She tried to think of playing the game before, of who might have been across the board from her, but nothing came into her damaged brain. She was growing accustomed to feeling defeated where her memory was concerned.
She moved a white pawn two squares, then looked up at Angus expectantly. “Your turn,” she said brightly.
He glanced away again, and she saw that Janet was regarding them curiously. But when his wife nodded, Angus reached down and moved a black pawn, before standing up straight next to the entrance again.
By his first move, Catherine could see he was not an advanced player—how did she know this? she wondered—and adjusted her strategy accordingly. It didn’t take long before she let him win, and he actually smiled at her with happy triumph. She smiled back. Maybe it wouldn’t be that long before she could gain a few minutes’ freedom outside. It wasn’t like she would run from her escort; she was just starting to feel closed in, as if the ceiling sank lower every day. And it had only been a few days! She couldn’t imagine the months and years Laird Carlyle had been here.
And then the chief himself walked through the entrance and right past them. Angus stiffened and shot her a frown. She quietly pulled the little crate away from him along the wall, to keep from implicating him. Laird Carlyle’s gaze swept over the cave and settled on her, making her blush. She wasn’t going to feel guilty for playing a game. More men arrived, milling between her and him, so she quickly put the pieces back in the box and left them on top of the game board. She didn’t bother moving the crate back where it had been—she had plans to play with every guard she could. But for now, there were hungry men to be fed and they all sat down, waiting to be served.
She took up a pitcher to fill the men’s tankards with ale. Many spoke in their own language at first, then switched to English when she was near. Had she finally earned their reluctant respect?
When she leaned past his lairdship’s shoulder to serve him, feeling all embarrassed as if she’d never been near a man before—and for all she knew, she’d been raised by nuns—he met her gaze and didn’t look away. She didn’t want to give him a chance to ask about the chess game.
She took a deep breath. “Shall I bring you something else, Laird Carlyle?”
“Nay, the ale is fine,” he said, his manner full of his usual gruffness. “How were the bairns this morn?”
She tried to will the tension from her shoulders. Everything was fine. “They wanted to be outside, of course, but since they couldn’t, Maeve was quite ingenious suggesting they build boats in the burn.”
“She’s had practice,” he said dryly.
Her smile faltered. “It’s a shame she has had so many stolen children to help. Or do you mean having children of her own?” she added, frowning.
“Nay, she’s never married.”
Catherine glanced at Maeve, whose gentle manner made her a favorite among the clan. Did no one see past her scar to court her? Or did living in a cave make one put off marriage? she guessed.
“How long does it usually take to return the boys to their parents?” Catherine asked.
“Anywhere from days to weeks, depending on how much information the child is able to supply. We’re lucky that the youngest is brother to the second oldest. Their parents’ village is relatively close. We’ll return them on the morrow, making less work for ye ladies.”
“We don’t mind,” she said absently, then frowned as she looked for Finn, who was sitting at the children’s table, staring at one of the fires rather than talking with the others. She lowered her voice. “I’m worried about Finn, the one who rarely socializes.”
