Page 4 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Sassenach? She stiffened, knowing that word meant an Englishman. For some reason it offended her. She opened her eyes to face the man who would decide her future.
But it was Duncan Carlyle standing there, hands on his hips, eyeing her. He was so broad through the chest, as she well knew, his muscled arms evident in the form-fitting coat he wore over shirt, waistcoat, and plaid. Above his stockings, his knees were bare and powerful-looking. She didn’t think she was used to seeing a man’s naked legs.
“Do ye feel well enough to stand, mistress?” he asked.
“You’re Laird Carlyle?” she asked. “Why did you not say so?”
Laird Carlyle arched a dark brow. “I didn’t think it necessary.” He looked at the man who held her in a stiff, awkward grip. “Try setting the lass on her feet, Ivor. But hold tight. The head wound is serious.”
When her feet touched the ground, her legs felt shaky, and she kept her grip on the man’s coat. She turned her head, expecting to see a cottage or manor or something near the trees that now protected her from the rain. But instead, she saw an uneven wall of a rock, extending above her head and toward the sky. Directly in front of them was a dark opening that looked like a mouth into the side of the mountain. She didn’t know what to make of any of this. She glanced at Ivor, the bearded man who steadied her, his hair a dark blond and nearly touching his shoulders. No neat queue for him. But he wore the same black, red, and yellow plaid as Laird Carlyle did.
“This is Ivor, my war chief,” Laird Carlyle said.
Ivor winked at her. “And who might ye be, lass?”
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. A name was the first thing you granted a stranger, and she had nothing to give.
“She’s taken a blow to the head,” Laird Carlyle said, “leaving her confused.”
Ivor’s bushy eyebrows lowered; he stared at her as if she were on display. All she could do was raise her chin and force a pleasant expression. But it was difficult. Now that she was standing, the mild ache in her head was beginning to throb again. Ivor tightened his hold on her arm just as she realized she’d begun to sway.
And then her world spun again as Laird Carlyle swept her into his arms. She didn’t protest—after all, his embrace was the only safety she had known in this world that seemed so new to her. He walked directly to the hole in the cliff and went inside. She gave a little gasp, expecting complete darkness, but to her surprise, the cave opened up, with a ceiling she couldn’t even see. Torches lined the rough walls, illuminating a little community of people. There were several small fires, with roasting spits or cauldrons suspended over them. Rough wooden tables were encircled by flat tree stumps in place of chairs. To the right, pallets and blankets were stacked, in the rear, trunks and crates. Along the wall to the left, she saw a small stream running the length of the cave. There was even a flat, wooden bridge crossing it, leading into another dark entranceway.
It was in that direction that Laird Carlyle strode, carrying her as if she were a feather. The half-dozen or so people, mostly women, stared at them in surprise. Her cheeks blushed with heat at being carried in front of people, but what else could be done?
“Laird Carlyle?” called a woman.
He didn’t pause, only spoke over his shoulder. “Maeve, bring your healing potions. The lass is injured.”
He crossed the flat bridge, which bounced with his steps. The water beneath gave off the smell of damp earth. The cave passageway continued to the right, but he took her left, into a small, rough chamber. There was a pallet on the floor, two trunks, and a chair at a table stacked neatly with books and papers. Pegs had been driven into the stone and were hung with a man’s clothing.
Laird Carlyle bent to lay her down on the pallet, and she felt the comfort of a stuffed mattress.
“Where are we?” she asked as he straightened.
“Scotland,” he answered briskly.
She would have thought he teased her, but he was so serious, she wasn’t certain. “You know what I mean.”
There was someone in the passageway behind him, but he didn’t turn. His narrow-eyed gaze studied her. He had the darkest eyes she’d ever seen; the pupil seemed to disappear within.
“This is a place of safety my people use when necessary.”
“It looks well used,” she said. “Is there a war I’ve forgotten, one you need to hide from?”
“Nay. Stop asking questions and allow Maeve to see to ye. We’ll talk in the morning after I’ve buried your men.”
She drew in a sharp breath. “That is kind of you. Those poor men—I can’t even offer them true mourning without knowing who they are. Their poor families . . .” She broke off, feeling tears threaten.
“Mistress, ye were in a tragic accident through no fault of your own,” he said gruffly. “When your memory clears, we’ll see to their families.”
She sniffed. “I’ll never be able to thank you enough for your kindness.”
He looked away as if her gratitude made him uncomfortable.
“I don’t know enough to even tell you where they are,” she said.
“Ye couldn’t have walked far. I’ll find them.” With a nod of the head, he left the little cave.
