Page 47 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“‘Not kind’ is quite a polite thing to call our mother. And it’s Muriel, please. If we’re all mistressing each other to death, we’ll never finish a conversation.”
“That is generous of you,” Catherine said.
“Nothing generous about it. If Duncan has told ye such secrets from our past, then it seems I can feel comfortable enough to answer your questions. Aye, we were all scarred by our mother’s hatred of her life. She had not wanted to marry Father, and never let him or anyone else forget it. She was cruel, impatient, sharp-tempered, and miserable. Ye could almost feel sorry for her, if she wasn’t so uncaring about anyone but herself. Father . . . now he was a pitiful soul, just as miserable as Mother in his own way.”
“Though he’d never take it out on anyone,” Maeve said solemnly.
“But he also never stood up to her—or to anyone,” Muriel said. “And that, Duncan could not forgive. Father didn’t lead our clan into battle against the British in the Fifteen, and Duncan was too young to go himself. Mother caught him trying to sneak off once to join the other clans and . . . let me just say that he couldn’t sit for a week. Duncan could never see beyond his disappointment that Father wasn’t a warrior, a bold leader of men. He couldn’t see that Father had his own strengths: intelligence, compassion. Or if Duncan saw them, he cared little.”
“He was young and headstrong then,” Maeve said.
Muriel nudged Catherine. “Wild, they called him.”
Catherine looked from one woman to the other, wide-eyed and intrigued.
“Many thought he’d never make a good chief, he rebelled so much,” Muriel continued. “He kissed the maids, played pranks, rode about the countryside with the other lads. But after Father died, he had the scare of his life.”
She made no mention of their father killing their mother, but Catherine wasn’t surprised.
“They almost did not elect him chief,” Maeve said quietly. “The fact that he hadn’t earned their respect, that they only gave him the honor because he was the only son of the chief, changed him, forced him to become a man quickly.”
“And he was so young,” Catherine said sadly.
“But he proved himself,” Muriel said with pride in her voice, “as those of us who knew him best, knew he would. He stood up to the magistrates and sheriff on behalf of the most helpless of our people, and even now he continues to provide for the Carlyle villages, so that we do not starve in the winter.”
Catherine perked up. “He provides for the villages—from here? How does he do that?”
Muriel wouldn’t meet her eyes. She pressed a hand to the upper slope of her breast. “Oh, dear, I’ve been away from my bairn too long, and she surely needs to nurse. I’d best be on my way. ’Twas such a pleasure to meet ye, Catherine.”
Baffled and growing more curious by the minute, Catherine said, “But didn’t you want to wait to see your brother?”
“Nay, I came to meet you.” Muriel smiled, then gave Catherine’s hand a squeeze. “And I’m glad I did. I know we’ll see each other again soon.”
Muriel kissed Maeve on the cheek, then took the reins of the horse Torcall brought her and mounted. She waved good-bye as she trotted away down the narrow path.
Catherine eyed Maeve, who continued to smile long after they could no longer see Muriel. “You’re close to her, I can see.”
As if startled out of her thoughts, Maeve blinked and turned to look at Catherine. “Aye. I worked in their home my whole life. She started out as my mistress and became my friend.”
“And Laird Carlyle is your friend.”
Maeve’s gaze turned penetrating. “Nay, not in the same way. He is my laird, my chief.”
“And yet the two of you are close like friends,” Catherine persisted.
Smiling, Maeve shook her head. “If ye have a question, ask, mistress.”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine.”
It suddenly seemed so important that Catherine have friends too, that she find a way to not feel so alone.
“Maeve, how does Laird Carlyle provide for the villages?”
Maeve didn’t look stricken, as Muriel had. “Ye’ll have to talk to Himself for those answers.”
Catherine sighed. “I thought you might say that.”
