Page 33 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“How long will you be gone?” There was that foolish vulnerability again.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. “Ye may be sleeping in my bed, but ye shouldn’t ask me such things as a wife would.”
Arousal curled warm within her at the thought of being a wife to this man. The feeling was heightened because he seemed to be thinking the same thing. By candlelight, she could see the set of his jaw, the way his fists clenched and his breathing increased. She reminded herself that he was obviously fighting such thoughts. But they were alone in the shadows, and the kiss hovered between them with a tension she’d never imagined.
It was wrong to want to kiss him, when she could not offer him a single detail about herself.
He let out a breath and straightened after closing the trunk. She could see his big body turning toward her out of the shadow.
His voice soft, he said, “I cannot blame ye for thinking we are more intimate than we should be. I’ve told ye things about my family that I never speak of.”
The tension that had been growing between them dissolved into sorrow. She shivered, remembering the revelation that his father had killed his mother. She’d spent all day imagining his childhood with parents who hated each other, a mother so vindictive she took out her jealousy on a child, and then that terrible crime. No wonder he was so sympathetic to the children he rescued—he’d want to protect them from what he’d gone through.
“Perhaps you needed to say it aloud,” she said. “I was grateful to help you in some way after all you’ve done for me. I will not abuse the knowledge.”
“Everyone here already knows.”
“Was your father arrested?”
“Perhaps ye don’t remember the way of the Highland clans. My father was chief. He could decide life or death for his people, even his wife. She’d committed a grave sin, harming a child. None challenged his right to decide her punishment.”
She didn’t ask for details—it must have been terribly painful for him. She couldn’t imagine the horror of one parent killing another, regardless of the justification.
Reaching out, she touched his arm. He was in his shirtsleeves, and he felt so warm against her palm. “I’m so sorry for what you suffered.”
His muscle tensed beneath her hand. “I do not need your pity.”
“You have my sympathy, Laird Carlyle. Or may I call you Duncan? ‘Mistress’ and ‘laird’ are so awkward between two people who’ve”—she was about to say “kissed,” but realized it would be best not to bring it up—“discussed what we’ve discussed.”
He moved his arm away from her. “We should remain formal.”
She knew that was for the best, but in her mind he was already “Duncan.” “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
At the door, he paused with his hand on the curtain. “We will return when we can. I’ll not leave the cave unprotected. Ye’re safe here.”
Then he was gone. Safe? How could she feel safe when she didn’t know who she was, when every attempt to regain her memory had failed? She blew out the candle, then rolled over on her stomach, hugging the pillow against her cheek. He cared about her, though he didn’t want to show it. Were all men like that, trying to be so gruff and imposing, hiding any softer feelings?
He didn’t want to care about her—she couldn’t fail to realize that. He was an outlawed chief, doing his best to protect his clan. He didn’t have time to dally with a woman he could never have.
But she could imagine being held in those strong arms, feeling safe and desired.
With a groan, she rolled onto her back and put the pillow over her face, as if she could smother such fantasies. What man could ever risk caring about someone like her, when every important detail of her life was unknown?
The pack train of horses seemed to appear out of the predawn mist, one after the other. Casks roped across their backs juggled inelegantly as they found their footing down the hillside and the narrow dirt path. Duncan and his men waited silently, until he had a rough estimate of two dozen whisky-laden horses, and a half-dozen mounted guards. The Duffs had added two more guards to this shipment’s journey, had planned a new route south, but the earl or his men obviously underestimated Duncan’s determination. Duncan had let several shipments go unharmed, until once again the Duffs were lax about the danger, as if Duncan might have abandoned this enterprise. That wouldn’t happen. He wanted the earl to know that another batch of whisky would bring him no illegal profits.
The mist sank low in the glen as the pack train descended, the packhorses picking their way down a sloping path. Duncan and his men hid beneath a fall of rock, and at his whistled signal, they rose up, the mist swirling off them. The packhorses in the lead reared, and one man fell from the saddle, while Ivor knocked the other to the ground. Duncan took care of the first with a blow to the head with the hilt of his claymore. The lead horses tried to run, their neighs like screams, but they were all tied in a long line. One horse fell on the uneven path; a cask of whisky cracked open and splashed across the rocks in a pungent explosion.
Several mounted guards on either side raced toward them. Two dozen Carlyle men used swords and cudgels to bring a half-dozen men down, overwhelming them with no loss of life.
Only when the men lay groaning along the path did Duncan wipe down his claymore, sheath it, and say to his men, “Bandage the worst of the wounds and then tie them together.”
They left the Duff men without horses, where they’d eventually help untie each other and have to wander for help.
But the whisky—the whisky and its profits were for the Carlyles. As Duncan led the pack train south toward the River Clyde and their hiding place, in his mind he was already making plans to signal the ship captain, who regularly came into the Firth of Clyde, and unload this cargo.
And Duncan realized he would continue thinking about these things he’d done a dozen times, anything to keep from thinking about Catriona, whom he’d left sleepy and warm in his bed.
Damn his traitorous body. He should have been focused on retrieving his clothing, but instead, he’d had to grasp every ounce of control just hearing her breathe. And when he’d lit the candle, her gold eyes had looked so ethereal and luminous. Much as she’d kept herself covered, just knowing she wore so little had been erotic. He’d wanted to draw her up against him, free her long plait of hair and spread it through his hands.
