Page 45 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
He frowned and moved his bishop. “Nay, I was too young.”
“You seem to regret that.”
“I do. After the Union, England denied vows they’d made, refused Scottish peerages in the House of Lords when they’d promised otherwise, taxed the citizens more than they could bear. A man has to stand up for his country.”
They remained silent for several moves, testing each other in the game. She deliberately made a mistake or two, wondering if he noticed.
“For a woman without personal memories,” he said, sitting back, “ye seem to remember much of history.”
“I told you not to ask about that,” she said wryly. “And what does it matter, when I know not which side of the war my family belonged to. In my mind, history is as if I’ve read about it, not lived it or even heard mention of it. I try to picture a father telling me his experiences with the Fifteen, but there’s . . . nothing. I don’t know if I’m English or Scottish. But of course, there’s my accent, which might indicate the truth.”
“Perhaps. Or perhaps it shows ye were educated in England.”
She smiled even as she shook her head. Concentrating on the board again, she realized she had him in check. Damn. She would have to move away before he noticed.
“Ye have me beat, lass,” he said.
She glanced at him, wide-eyed, trying not to stare at his full mouth as he smiled. “That can’t be true. It must be an accident.”
He stood up. “Never sell yourself short. And I’m not a man who minds losing to a beautiful woman.”
He walked out of the cave and she watched him go, unable to take her eyes off the sway of his perfectly pleated plaid, his strong calves, the breadth of his shoulders. She dropped her forehead to her palm and groaned.
The next day, a redheaded stranger appeared in the mouth of the cave, a woman who seemed known to everyone, Catherine thought. The woman and Maeve embraced and talked together softly, excitedly, as if long parted.
Maeve motioned for Catherine to join them. Catherine had been sewing a new shirt for Finn, but she put it aside and came forward, curtsying to the stranger, who looked her over with open interest, even as she herself curtsied.
“Mistress Catherine,” Maeve said, “this is Mistress Muriel, sister to Himself.”
Catherine studied her with far more interest. This woman had been at Duncan’s side through a terrible childhood, had known the same sorrows. Now she smiled at Catherine with all the warmth and joy that Duncan could never show.
“Mistress Catherine, Duncan has told me all about your plight,” Muriel said. “I thought ye should know that right away, since I came to meet ye.”
Duncan had talked about her, Catherine thought in surprise. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or intrigued. “I hope he didn’t bore you to tears with my travails.”
“I confess to the utmost curiosity. I’ve never met anyone who lost their memory.”
“Me neither—oh, wait, I don’t know if that’s true.”
They smiled at each other.
Catherine glanced around the cave. “I feel that my first instinct would be to invite you for tea in the parlor, but . . .” She trailed off, feeling embarrassed.
“I can bring ye both some tea,” Maeve said. “Go sit outside on the bench.”
“Make sure to bring yourself a cup to join us,” Muriel said with mock severity.
Catherine thought it was going to be easy to like Duncan’s sister.
As they waited for Maeve on a hand-hewn bench under the shade of a tree, Muriel studied her.
“For such a great blow to the head that ye received, glad I am to see that the worst of it has faded.”
Catherine put a hand to her head, where she was still tender. “There’s but a small bump.”
“And the lovely shade of green still rimming your eyes.”
Catherine winced and touched her cheeks. “I didn’t realize. Everyone here is kind enough not to mention it. They’re very good people—as you must know.”
