Page 46 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“These are some of the younger, wilder men of the clan, anxious to spite the redcoats and defend their laird. I wasn’t certain how they’d treat a lady.”
“We don’t know that I’m a lady, do we?” Catherine asked wryly.
“Of course we do.” Muriel’s gaze quickly dropped from hers. “Even in your plain wool gown, ye walk and speak and behave in a way that sets ye apart. I can tell that from just meeting ye.”
“Oh, dear.” Catherine hated to think it was obvious that she felt . . . different from the other women.
“Ye can’t help yourself, of course, and I’m thinking no one is offended. Ye’ve just seen and experienced more of the world than this wee glen.”
Had she? Catherine was growing used to not dwelling on what she couldn’t change. That strategy had brought her the memory of her brother, after all. She put a smile firmly back in place. “The men have been quite considerate to me.”
“I hear ye help serve them—they’d better be kind to ye.” Muriel shook her head.
“I don’t mind. What else should I do, sit in a corner and do nothing while others work? If I’m a lady, perhaps I do too much of that. Although I do seem to know how to take care of a horse, so that’s helpful.”
“What are your plans?”
Catherine took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I have none. Your brother has patrols looking for signs that someone is searching for me, and so far . . . nothing.”
Muriel set her hand gently on Catherine’s arm. “I’m sorry. Try not to worry. When ye discover the truth, it’ll all make sense.”
“I tell myself you’re right.”
Muriel’s sympathy and comforting words made her feel like a friend. With perfect timing, Maeve arrived with a plain tea set on a tray.
“You have everything in that cave,” Catherine said in disbelief.
“We’ve lived here for a while now.”
Maeve and Muriel glanced at each other and back at the teapot as Maeve poured. They had the ease of friends, and Catherine imagined there was a wealth of unsaid things between them. She’d try not to pry, but she couldn’t let this opportunity go.
“How long has it actually been?” she asked.
Maeve stirred her tea. “I’ve been here with his lairdship for three years, but Himself has been an outlaw for five.”
“Duncan was alone here for two years?” Catherine asked, aghast.
“Duncan, is it?” Muriel said. “Quite informal of ye.”
Catherine felt her face growing heated. “‘Laird Carlyle’ just seemed so long, after a while. It was my idea; he did not give me leave.”
The two other women actually smiled at each other, and Catherine was on fire with embarrassment.
“Ye’re bold,” Muriel said. “I like that.” Her smile faded. “For almost a year after he escaped gaol, they hunted for him in large numbers. He moved about constantly, and certainly never came near his own land, for fear of risking the lives of his clan. I hated to think of him alone night after night, never letting himself trust anyone.”
“How did he end up here?” Catherine asked.
“He became ill,” Maeve said. “At the time, he’d only been in the next glen. In the middle of the night, I found him at my cottage door, near dead of fever.”
“He was thinking of my children,” Muriel said solemnly, “and refused to come to me, foolish man.”
“Considerate man,” Catherine insisted. “He has such a fondness for children, he’d never forgive himself if something happened to yours.”
Both women eyed her, Maeve with amusement, Muriel with speculation. Could Catherine not think well of the chief, without giving them ideas of an impossible relationship?
“Laird Carlyle only remained in me barn for a night,” Maeve continued. “He retreated to the caves to finish healin’, and eventually he just . . . stayed. One by one, the men followed him in their quest to aid the children.”
“He has spoken to me of his childhood,” Catherine said. “Mistress Muriel, do you believe he feels so strongly about helpless children because your own mother was not kind to you both?”
