Page 38 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
This was ridiculous; she had to go speak with Duncan, apologize, come to some kind of understanding.
After she lit a candle, she washed and began the process of dressing. To distract herself, she remembered last evening, and the way the men had seemed to accept her in their midst, making her feel totally comfortable for the first time. They’d spoken some English, and some Gaelic. Since Maeve had been teaching Catherine, she’d begun to recognize a few words now and then. But something about the men’s discussion seemed . . . off. It was something about the whisky itself. She knew most of the whisky distilled in the Highlands was illegal, to avoid the high taxes on malt. It was so common that everyone knew about it. The British didn’t often come to do anything about it. So the men were probably just hiding knowledge of their illicit stills.
There was something more important she needed to do. After she finished dressing, she went to the great hall. Many men were still rolled up in their plaids or beneath blankets on their pallets. Naturally, the women were awake, gathered near cauldrons and at the work tables. Catherine looked but didn’t see Duncan anywhere, so she left the cave. The sun had just risen above the horizon, though mist still obscured it in the glen. Duncan wasn’t at the paddock, and with Angus watching her, she knew she dared not go anywhere else.
As she approached the cave entrance again, she saw Duncan coming from the opposite way, bare-chested and damp, but for the plaid wrapped around him. His wet chestnut curls dripped to his shoulders. He must have bathed outdoors, instead of using the cave pool. Had he not wanted to awaken her? When he saw her, he came up short, face freshly shaven, his brows deep in a frown. She tried to keep her gaze on his face, but it was difficult, with so much glistening skin.
“There you are,” she said with determination.
“Ye’ve been looking for me?”
“I needed to talk to you about last evening.” She glanced at Angus, who stiffened and hurried back inside the cave.
“Do ye want me to apologize?” he asked.
Her lips parted. “Of course not! If anyone should apologize, it’s I. I know we’re attracted to each other, but that doesn’t give me the right to encourage you.”
The faintest of smiles touched his lips. “I’m not certain I’ve ever heard a woman speak so boldly.”
“Women should say what’s on their minds, just like men.”
He came closer, eyeing her with interest. “And what do ye feel ye must say?”
“Why . . . what I just said. There’s something between us, but I believe it’s best not to complicate things by acting upon it—right now.”
He cocked his head. “Right now? So there’ll be a time when ye snap your fingers, and I’ll understand we’re to start courting?”
“Yes—no! That sounds so cold-blooded.”
To her surprise, he boldly looked down her body, then said, “I’m no feeling exactly cold-blooded about ye.”
Flustered, she tried to look anywhere but at his wet chest, where the hair grew in damp swirls, and made her want to . . . touch it. Touch him. She took a deep breath. “I understand feeling . . . heated. But . . . we don’t know who I am,” she finished softly.
Her life was a void stretching out behind her. To not know oneself was frightening and overwhelming. It took all of her mental strength to keep her anxieties at bay. But every time she kissed him, those anxieties later rose up as if to drown her with all she did not know about herself, all she could not offer him.
The warm look in his eyes disappeared so fast, she almost thought she imagined it.
“Aye, ye have the right of it,” he said, beginning to move past her into the cave.
And all she could think was that she didn’t want to be wise or sober. She wanted to be young and wild, testing her wiles on a tall, handsome Scottish outlaw.
After Catriona’s confession, Duncan’s day only got worse. His messenger returned with missives from two different noblemen from whom he’d requested help convincing the magistrates to end the bounty on his head. But the two men had no wish to associate with Clan Carlyle, and had rejected him. Disgruntled, he went to the one place where he knew he’d never be rejected—his sister’s home.
His oldest sister, Winifred, had married a lawyer who’d been raised in Clan Carlyle and moved to Glasgow. His second, Muriel, lived nearby, in the village of Ardyle, married to a clansman who owned cattle and a bit of farmland.
When he arrived, Muriel was working in her vegetable garden, her youngest on a blanket in the shade. Duncan casually sat on a bench near the blanket, and eyed the sleeping babe as if it might jump at him like a spider.
When Muriel still didn’t notice him, he said, “Where are your other terrors, sister?”
She gave a little shriek, came off her knees, and collapsed onto her backside when she saw him. “Duncan Carlyle, why must ye give me a fright every time ye visit?”
He gave her a faint smile. “Because ’tis so easy to do.”
Muriel looked around with a frown. “I told Robby to fetch a pitcher of water to drink, but that was some time ago. Robby!” she called.
The four-year-old appeared out of the bushes as if awaiting a summons. His face was filthy, his dark hair wet with sweat. “Aye, mum? I was followin’ a worm.”
“The water?” she said patiently. “Perhaps your uncle would like some, too.”
