Page 3 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Chapter 2
She came awake to the slow rocking of a horse’s gait. For just a moment, she felt safe and almost warm. Hard arms supported her, held her close, and the ache in her head had dulled a bit, after resting against the warm masculine chest. Beneath her ear, she heard the steady beating of a strong heart.
Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared up at the man who’d rescued her. Everything about him was dark—hair drawn back in a queue beneath his cap, the stubble shadowing his strong jaw, even his eyes, so dark she could barely see his pupils. She wasn’t sure why she felt safe—he was a stranger after all. He could have left her behind, could have robbed and beaten her, but instead, he was helping her. And as for being a stranger—well, she was a stranger to herself.
She had hoped sleep would bring back her memory, but it hadn’t. It hurt to search through what seemed like cobwebbed corners of her mind. It was easier to think about this man she was utterly dependent on. He spoke gruffly, as few words as necessary, it seemed. But to her surprise, his touch had been gentle as he’d bandaged her head. Though his clothes were plain and sturdy, he talked as someone who’d been educated. He seemed . . . noble to her, a man down on his luck. Her own clothing was far finer than his; apparently she came from a wealthier family.
Keeping his gaze straight ahead, he said, “Ye’re studying me hard.”
She was so close to his neck that she could see the movement of his Adam’s apple above his neck cloth. Her cheeks felt suddenly hot as she grew all too aware of the intimate way he held her.
He glanced down at her, those dark eyes piercing. “Do ye remember something?”
She shook her head. “No, nothing. Where am I?”
“Scotland.”
“I . . . am I Scottish? I speak differently than you do.”
“Ye sound English to me.”
“Oh, I see. The English and the Scots do not always get along.”
He arched a brow.
“I remembered that!” she cried, then winced again. “This is the strangest feeling, to know unimportant things—”
“The animosity between England and Scotland is unimportant?” he asked, his voice growing colder.
“No, I wasn’t talking about that,” she said swiftly. “I meant I know the proper names of things, but absolutely nothing about myself, not even my proper name. Do you think it will all return?”
She searched his face, looking for comfort, but finding none at all. He only shrugged and said nothing. She imagined that he would probably leave her in the nearest village—and she wouldn’t blame him.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, her voice sounding small and hesitant.
He looked at her again. “To my clan.”
For a moment, gratitude made her feel weak. “I—I don’t even know your name.”
“Duncan Carlyle.”
As he said his surname, he eyed her closely, obviously awaiting a response. But it meant nothing to her. The blankness inside her brain made her feel helpless and dependent, and she sensed that she wasn’t used to feeling that way.
“Thank you for your help, Mr. Carlyle.”
She could not let her fears rule her. Her memory would return; she just needed to be patient.
There were so many questions she wanted to ask, but she stifled them at the forbidding expression he wore. He was obviously not a man of idle chatter. If he was taking her to his clan, there would be plenty of people to question.
Gradually, she drifted into a doze, but twinges of pain kept her from deep unconsciousness. She must have truly slept, however, because the next thing she knew, she felt him lower her to the side and release her into other arms. She came awake with a gasp, but she couldn’t quite open her eyes. Another man spoke in an unfamiliar language, but she understood none of it.
“Let me go!” She felt panicky that Mr. Carlyle had changed his mind and meant to abandon her.
The man tightened his grip, and suddenly he was speaking English. “Eh, listen to that fine voice.”
It didn’t sound like a compliment.
“Laird Carlyle, what are your orders for this Sassenach?”
