Page 27 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“Although my clanswomen are competent seamstresses, I believe this was a gift several years ago from a Carlyle chieftain’s wife. If it is irreparable, then use it for rags.” He shrugged her off.
“I didn’t say that.” She draped the shirt over her arm. “I’ll leave you to your letter, Laird Carlyle.”
He gave her a quick look, as if he might say something. Did he want her to call him by his Christian name? Duncan. But all he did was wave her off, as if she were his servant rather than a woman he’d just passionately kissed.
She pulled the curtain shut behind her and held back a groan at her behavior.
Chapter 7
When Catherine retired to the little cave bedchamber that night, she saw that Duncan had left the table with only a neat stack of papers and the book to one side. Her garments—the ones he’d picked up from the floor and folded, she thought with a wince—were still on the pallet. She had to make more of an attempt to keep the chamber as neat as he preferred, so she opened the lid of the large trunk he’d told her to use. There were folded shirts, stockings, and another length of plaid, and it felt far too intimate to be touching them. She carefully stacked them on one side of the trunk, and was surprised to uncover a sheaf of papers.
Frowning, she lifted them up. Though very old and brittle, the top paper opened easily, and she realized it was a letter addressed to the laird, but the inscribed date had to be for Duncan’s father. It was simply business, discussions of crops and cattle and seed. Feeling curious, she read the second letter referring to a land dispute from a generation ago. It was a window into a world where the chief wasn’t an outlaw, where the Carlyles were average Scotsmen with the normal problems of farmers and landowners everywhere. She was touched by the thought of Duncan keeping them as a memento of his father. Knowing she shouldn’t be reading something so personal, she was about to fold the third letter away when the words leapt out at her in a strong hand, with a bold “A” as the only signature. This man seemed to be threatening Duncan’s father to keep silent about . . . something. Threats? She frowned, confused, then read closer.
“A” assured Duncan’s father that a missing child he’d asked about had died. Had the old laird been looking into the missing children, too? Rifling through the rest of the letters, she found more correspondence from chieftains about the kidnappings. It hurt her to think that this had been going on so long.
She was glad to know that Duncan was going to make sure such evil stopped. He’d dedicated his life to this, risked everything to keep the children of his clan safe. His father would be proud.
But this was none of her business. She was starting to feel guilty for even having read the letters. She was at the mercy of Clan Carlyle; she didn’t want them to think she snooped where she didn’t belong. She quickly folded away the letters, then put her clothing on top, before someone discovered her.
For the next three days, Catherine couldn’t help noticing that Duncan was avoiding her. Oh, he didn’t leave the great hall when she came out of her chamber, but he avoided speaking with her unless he had to, avoided eye contact. It wasn’t that he was a social charmer with anyone else either, of course. When he was with his men, he often spoke in Gaelic, another way he was reminding her to stay away. She knew he had a lot on his mind, and she felt guilty that she’d added to his worries. Here he was, taking her in, providing for her, and now the kiss had made things terribly awkward between them.
And caused her to toss and turn far too often in his bed each night. She kept waiting for him to ask for his privacy back, had tried to keep the chamber neat for him. More than once she’d quietly asked Maeve if she should offer to give it up, but Maeve had continued to insist that Catherine was a guest of the clan.
So Catherine was left to lie awake and imagine the laird sneaking into her chamber and wondering what she’d do. She didn’t like feeling so . . . obsessed. Did other women have this problem? Thankfully, her days did not leave much time for eyeing the chief of Clan Carlyle. Two of the rescued children had been returned home, and one more had his family contacted. The fourth child had given enough details that Maeve was confident the men would find his family soon.
And that left Finn. Catherine felt an affinity for the boy from Glasgow who protected himself by keeping his distance. He seldom spoke, didn’t know the most basic of manners, resisted cleanliness as if it were a threat. Once he realized people said “thank you” for receiving something, he began to mumble those words. Although the other boys had been talked into a bath in the cave pool, Finn utterly refused to join them, and Catherine worried what terrible scars from his life on the streets he might be hiding. They did persuade him to change out of his filthy clothing by offering him privacy at the pool. Catherine stood in the passageway and listened to make sure he was all right, since she assumed he couldn’t swim. Except for the occasional splash, he was utterly silent, obviously unable to enjoy being clean. She brought his filthy clothing to Maeve, who took them outside to boil, holding them far in front of her with only two fingers. Maeve later confided that she was surprised she didn’t discover lice.
But when he emerged, Finn looked even more fragile without all the dirt, his skin pale, his clean hair hanging ragged to his neck. For a day, he retreated even more into himself, turning his face away from people, as if he was naked without all his dirt. Catherine kept trying to draw him out with offers to teach him chess but he was uninterested. Hoping Finn would watch the game while she befriended another clansman, she challenged the guard, Torcall, when most of the men were away. Torcall shifted from foot to foot with uncertainty, looking past her.
She glanced over her shoulder but saw no one but Finn nearby. Finn squatted on the ground, playing with stones, acting as if he was ignoring them. She didn’t believe it.
“Do you play chess or not, Torcall?” she repeated.
He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Angus strode by, on his way outside. He looked at them both, and at the box of chess pieces she held in her hand, and said, “Aye, go on and play her, Torcall. She could use the practice.”
Catherine held back her amusement. She’d apparently succeeded in making Angus believe she was a terrible chess player.
So Torcall nodded and pulled over the crate with the chessboard on top. Soon they were hunched over it, eyeing each other competitively. Finn crept closer to watch, still pretending he was more interested in his rocks than what they were doing. Again, Catherine could tell immediately that she was the better player, and found herself enjoying the challenge of outwitting the poor man by losing to him. How had she learned the game so well? As was her habit lately, she kept trying to form a mental image of herself in some other place, learning from a chess expert. Nothing.
“Checkmate,” Torcall said with satisfaction.
She didn’t have to pretend surprise—she’d let her thoughts briefly drift away, after all. “Well done,” she said, smiling up at him.
He smiled back with good nature, then seemed to recollect his duties, and glanced at the cave entrance with guilt.
“No one slipped through, I promise,” she whispered.
“’Tis not your duty but mine,” he growled.
She didn’t take offense. She only hoped she’d begun to win him over, she thought, glancing outside with longing.
Apparently she hadn’t hid it well, for Torcall said gruffly, “’Tis dangerous in the wilds of the Highlands, Mistress Catherine. Ye’re safer here.”
She nodded as demurely as she could. Glancing at Finn, she said, “Did you understand some of the game, Finn? I could teach you more.”
But without a word, he ran to the stream, keeping his back to the cave.
She sighed. “That poor boy has been through so much.”
