Page 32 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“Nay, very deliberate.”
Her stomach roiled with nausea at the thought of someone burning another’s flesh. No, not “someone”—his mother. “But . . . why?”
Duncan glanced at Maeve, still out of hearing range. “It wasn’t because of Maeve, but her mother, our housekeeper. My mother felt threatened by the woman.”
“But Lady Carlyle was the wife of the laird, the most powerful woman in the clan. Why would she be threatened?”
“She was a selfish woman who’d been forced to marry by her family. And she could not let anyone forget it. She wanted a husband with more power and ambition. My father was a weak man, who tended to retreat rather than confront. He wasn’t much respected, most especially by her.”
Though he disparaged his father, his mother’s conduct was far worse, in Catherine’s opinion.
“He and our housekeeper had a bond of friendship. To this day, I don’t believe it was more than that. She was a sympathetic, friendly woman. Her daughter Maeve was one of the companions of my childhood. Everyone doted on her, and her mother loved her. To punish our housekeeper—and my father—my mother burned Maeve’s face with a clothing iron fresh from the fire.”
Catherine gasped—she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t wanted to draw his attention, stop that far-off look in his eyes as he remembered and confided in her. Now he shot her an impassive glance.
“Aye, that was the kind of woman she was. And ’twas the final cruelty for my father, who’d put up with her abuse of the servants, her children, and himself.”
Her children? Catherine thought. Did he understand the plight of the children he rescued because he’d been treated badly himself?
“What did your father do?” she asked faintly.
“He killed her.”
Chapter 8
That night, all was silent as Catherine slowly swam up out of the inky blackness of sleep. Confused, still dazed, she was suddenly vaulted into awareness by the rush of air, of movement.
Suppressing a gasp, she came up on her elbow but could see nothing.
Someone was there.
Her heart slamming against her ribs, she was mentally cataloging everything on the table that could be used as a weapon, when a man said, “I didn’t mean to disturb ye.”
Duncan. Letting her breath out in a rush, she lay back and tried to breathe normally, but it was hard to be normal around the man who held her life in his hands, who made her remember their arousing kiss every time she simply looked at him.
And now they were alone in the darkness.
“You have every right to be here,” she murmured. “This is your chamber.”
“I’m not taking it back. The men and I are leaving, and I needed something from my trunk. I’d have brought the trunk out before now, but space is tight in the great hall.”
“You’re leaving? In the middle of the night?” She hated how vulnerable she sounded.
“’Tis just before dawn, hardly the middle of the night.”
His voice out of the darkness seemed close, intimate—especially since she was lying in his bed, wearing nothing but a nightshift. She’d never thought of clothing as protection, but the layers of chemise, petticoats, stays, and gown had always served that purpose.
And there was that kiss. Oh yes, they’d kissed. She probably should not lie here in the dark, listening to his breathing, remembering. But her awareness of him was becoming so thick it felt like she couldn’t take a deep breath.
“You can light a candle from the brazier,” she said. “I don’t want you to trip. I’ve tried to keep things neat for you, but it seems to be . . . difficult for me.”
He lit a candle, and the flare of light illuminated the harsh, handsome lines of his face, stark cheekbones and grim mouth. He set the candle on the table and didn’t look at her.
“Is it another shipment?” she asked.
“Perhaps.” He bent over his trunk, lifted the lid and rummaged within.
More children stolen away from all they knew. She shivered and prayed that Duncan and his men rescued them with great success and no loss of life.
