Page 44 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
For a long moment he simply frowned at her. She thought all was lost until he suddenly spoke.
“Very well. But I lead, and we won’t be going near windows.”
That ended up being easier said than done. But grateful that he’d given in, she didn’t push her luck much. They wandered through several floors of empty rooms that had been stripped of everything long ago. The longer they looked, the sadder she became. She felt like she could see the ghosts of children running through these corridors, mothers chasing them, fathers looking on with pride and love. The eerie wailing only increased her mournfulness. No wonder people stayed away.
It must be far worse for Duncan, knowing his ancestors built this castle, and he and his clan could no longer live here. She didn’t ask if he’d considered restoring it—of course he had. She imagined being an outlaw didn’t allow for such funds. She’d heard the men talking, knew how difficult it could be to survive in the Highlands. And Duncan was unable to speak on behalf of his people without risking gaol.
Instead, he helped the most vulnerable, the children, when he could have remained safe in this glen. She looked at his impassive face, as he studied the remains of a dais down below them in the great hall, where once his ancestors had reigned. He was not a man who dwelled on the past, which she thought a very noble trait.
She had to be careful, or she could feel too much for this lonely man.
Moving from ghost room to ghost room, Duncan felt a sense of unreality. This castle had been made for the Clan Carlyle, to house them, protect them, bring them together in joyous celebration and to console them through the trials of life. A woman like Catriona was made to oversee such a place—he knew her father the earl must surely have plans to marry her to another nobleman with lands and castles and thousands of dependents.
Would she remember that soon? He’d actually felt a chill when she excitedly told him about having a brother. Every day was one day closer to her memory returning, one day closer to her eventual departure. His plan to teach the earl the lesson of a child’s absence was backfiring on Duncan—someday he himself would know the loss of her bright spirit in his life.
Ever since his sister had mentioned marriage, he’d been able to think of little else, even though he knew it could never happen with Catriona. Here in this castle, a symbol of the wreckage of Clan Carlyle, she seemed lovely and ethereal, a ghost of all that might have been.
When at last they began the descent down the steep path, Duncan was forced to touch her, though he’d been doing his best to keep his hands to himself. He reached back and helped her down a particularly rocky slope. Once she lost her balance and slid right into him. The tangle of their limbs, even impeded by her skirts, preyed on the weakness of his desire, harming his resolve to remain unaffected. Though she began the descent in cheerful spirits, by the end even she seemed strained and couldn’t meet his eyes. All this touching obviously did not lend itself to her vow either.
At the bottom, she took a deep breath and said, “Well, I thought that would be easier going down than it had been going up. It’s a good thing you were here.”
She smiled up at him, and for a long moment their gazes met and held. The unusual golden color of hers kept him captive. He didn’t know what he was looking for but he knew he could never find it with her.
Chapter 11
Over the next couple days, Catherine tried to honor her promise to keep her distance from Duncan, grooming horses, making soap as she learned Gaelic, trying to draw Finn out. She and Duncan were doing a dance of avoidance, and she worried it was becoming so obvious that it would focus even more attention on their attraction. She had to treat him like everyone else.
One evening, while he was drinking a dram of whisky and frowning as he watched Finn playing alone with his rocks, Catherine set the chessboard on the table next to him.
“Shall we play, Laird Carlyle?” Calling him by his Christian name in front of his clan seemed far too intimate.
He seemed to take a long time to lift his gaze from Finn. She wanted to talk to him about the boy, about the absence of any new memories, all of her frustrations. He wasn’t her confidant, she reminded herself sternly.
Duncan eyed the chessboard and spoke dryly. “Ye wish to let another man defeat ye at chess?”
“Perhaps I shall win,” she said with confidence, even as she knew she wouldn’t do that. It would unravel all her efforts to win the acceptance of his clan.
“Ye can certainly try.”
He set up the black pieces, while she set up the white. Several people eyed them with interest, but no one came too near, for which she was grateful.
She held up the king. “Why does this have three crowns?”
He picked up the black king and studied it. “Some say it represents James Stuart, the rightful heir of both England and Scotland until almost forty years ago.”
“I may not remember the personal details of my life, but I seem to remember the animosity between England and Scotland—although we’re supposed to be one country now.” She hesitated. “I know that part of the reason King James was denied the throne was because he was Catholic. Are you?”
“Aye.”
“Do you believe in the Stuart right to the throne, and call yourself a Jacobite?”
“Not aloud, if I value my neck.” His mouth quirked in half a smile as he moved a pawn. “But I already risk my death in other ways—such beliefs can hardly make it worse.”
She moved her own pawn. “I believe there was an uprising against England when I was younger. And don’t ask why I can recall history but not my own name.”
“The Fifteen, aye, named for the year.”
“Were you part of it?”
