Page 24 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“Och, the quiet one, aye. Once rescued, some of the bairns forget quickly what happened to them. Others . . .’tis some time before they move on.”
“Who can blame them?” she murmured sadly. “I saw the rope marks on their little wrists.”
“Aye, they’re tied up day and night so they don’t escape.” His voice grew thick. “I’ll not see that done to a child. I understand too well how it works on the mind.”
She stared at him in surprise, but he said nothing else. Ivor called for more ale, and she went back to work. Had something been done to Laird Carlyle as a child?
She continued to think on it as the women ate their own meal and cleaned up. Catherine watched the laird say something to Ivor, then head down the passageway, she assumed to his chamber, the one he’d not yet taken back from her.
The women settled into sewing, while Maeve spun wool from a handheld distaff to a spindle. Catherine chose a rather large shirt, with embroidery on a torn cuff. She set about repairing it without even thinking about it.
“Ye know fine embroidery work,” Maeve commented.
Catherine looked up, then glanced at the cuff in surprise. “And so I do! I hadn’t even realized.”
“’Tis the shirt of Himself,” Maeve said.
“How did he damage such a fine piece?”
“He wears what he has to wear, like all of us do,” Sheena said.
Catherine held it up, and noticed the strained shoulder seams.
“’Tis many years old,” Maeve said. “Take it to Laird Carlyle for fittin’.”
Janet and Sheena glanced at each other, wide-eyed, and Janet smothered a giggle. Sheena only frowned.
Catherine willed herself not to blush. “I’ll return quickly,” she said, and took the shirt to the passageway.
Outside the curtained-off chamber, she hesitated, but there was no wooden door upon which to knock. She leaned closer, wondering if she could time her disturbance, but all she heard was the shuffling of paper.
“Ye’re breathing mighty loud,” he said from the other side of the curtain.
She jumped. “Forgive me, Laird Carlyle, I didn’t know if it was a good time to interrupt.”
He swept back the curtain so suddenly that she started. She found herself looking up into his shadowed face, the lantern behind him making his features even more remote and intriguing.
“What do ye need?” he asked.
She held up the linen. “I’m mending your shirt, where you’ve strained the shoulder seams.”
He stepped back and motioned her inside. “Come in.”
The chamber looked different and it took her a moment to realize why—he’d folded all of her clothing and set them in piles on the pallet. It had all been in his way, of course. She never thought about why she left things about; it was just something she did, something natural. She wondered if she was simply messy, or used to servants. And if she had servants—which she might, wearing such a fine gown—she seemed to have no problem giving them a reason to do their job. She flushed with embarrassment.
She could see papers set in neat piles across the table, a book nearby, and for a moment, she panicked, before saying faintly, “I don’t even know if I can read.”
He eyed her. “Pick up the book and see.”
She opened the leather cover and gave a sigh of relief when she read, “The Defects and Remedies of English Husbandry, by Robert Child. Oh, thank goodness.”
“’Tis hard to fake that kind of relief,” he said dryly.
It was her turn to eye him. “I don’t understand.” Then she stiffened. “Ah, back to my supposed lying again.”
Folding his arms across his broad chest, he leaned casually against the rock wall. “For what it’s worth, if I didn’t believe ye were telling the truth, I wouldn’t have told ye about our mission.”
“Well, aren’t I grateful I’ve suddenly become trustworthy.” She didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm.
