Page 52 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Tension and excitement moved from person to person. Catherine felt Finn tense beneath her hands. Many glances of skepticism were cast her way, and she knew most didn’t know she knew all of the truth.
She raised her voice. “Children or whisky?” she demanded.
Maeve stared at her wide-eyed, as did many of the men. Ivor frowned.
“Laird Carlyle told me about the whisky smuggling,” she admitted.
That turned Ivor’s frown fiercer. “’Tis none of your concern, mistress.”
“If children are to be rescued, we have preparations to make,” Maeve said calmly.
If the woman was trying to smooth things after Catherine’s inappropriate questions, Catherine didn’t think it was working.
But Ivor nodded to Maeve. “Children, ’tis believed, perhaps several of them on their way from Stirling to the coast. Prepare to leave,” he announced to his men.
As the men dispersed to prepare, Finn broke away from Catherine and hurried toward Ivor. She followed in time to hear the boy plead.
“Let me come with ye.”
“Nay,” Ivor said brusquely. “Skilled men are needed, not boys.”
“But who will convince the lads that ye mean them no harm?” Finn asked softly. “When ye rescued me, I didn’t believe ye any better than the other men. They might feel the same. I could help.”
Ivor’s expression softened and he put a hand on Finn’s head. “Lad, yer bravery is to be commended. But we’ve been doin’ this for years without ye. No need to go riskin’ yer life.”
Finn said nothing, just fisted his hands in his coat and watched the men. When Catherine bent to speak to him, he ducked away and raced outside. She couldn’t find him right away, and as more and more of the men saddled their horses and gathered to leave, she began to fear Finn had run off, perhaps in search of Duncan. She went back into the cave for the cloak Maeve had lent her, and by the time she came back out, the men had all mounted and were trotting away.
It was easy for her now to see Finn struggling to saddle an older mare who continued to chew grass unconcerned. Catherine approached, but didn’t try to stop the boy. It took three tries for Finn to put the saddle on, only to have it fall onto the far side.
Finn cursed well, in the manner of the clansmen he’d spent so much of his time with.
“Finn,” Catherine began gently.
Finn briefly rested his forehead on the mare’s flank, saying fiercely, “I should be there! They’ll be frightened.”
She put a hand on his shoulder and he shrugged it off, retrieving the saddle to try again. He got it on this time and began to tighten the girth.
Over his shoulder, he said, “Ye’ve done yer best to help me, mistress. Can ye not help me do the same for the others? Help me repay the kindness of Clan Carlyle.”
Biting her lip, she looked down the trail where the men had just gone, then back toward the cave. Angus wasn’t watching her—he’d gone with the men. No one seemed to have remembered to look out for her. And there was Finn, staring at her earnestly with big blue eyes, so sensitive to the plight of others, when he could have turned inward, angry and defensive at all he’d experienced in his life.
“Very well,” Catherine said firmly. “I’ll accompany you. The children need us. But we must hurry if we’re to follow them!”
Castle Kinlochard was the main seat of Clan Duff, home to the Aberfoyle earls for generations—except the current earl, who normally preferred to meddle in Scottish politics and line his pockets from a distance, at his English estates. But to Duncan’s surprise, the earl’s banner flew atop the castle, signifying the earl’s presence. Duncan stared up at the towers and walls, knowing he was about to enter the home of his enemy. At one time he might have feared losing his temper over the deeds of Aberfoyle, but his mission to discover the mysteries of Catriona overrode his anger.
The castle looked as impregnable as if it had been built this decade, rather than centuries ago. But dozens of people and several horse-drawn carts came and went beneath its open gatehouse, so Duncan crossed the arched stone bridge spanning the moat. To the guards, he claimed himself a McDonald, a traveler seeking hospitality for the night. He hadn’t been sure his ruse would work, but apparently even Aberfoyle still believed in the generosity that Highlanders were known for.
Duncan caused no great concern, since he only wore a sword and dirk—the Disarming Act passed by the British after the last uprising had made them all hide their firearms away. He felt naked without his pistol, but was glad not to call attention to himself. He was an outlaw, after all, with a price on his head. He wasn’t certain who would know his face after these years in hiding, but he had to proceed with caution.
The courtyard was large, with a separate training yard where men fought with swords, protecting themselves from blows with a targe, a round shield on their arms. It seemed a routine practice day, men drinking from ladles in buckets, talking among themselves and laughing. Other men and women moved between workshops and barracks, going on about their errands as if nothing was amiss. It seemed . . . strangely calm, and only increased Duncan’s unease and curiosity. He asked for a night’s stabling for his horse, Arran, and was shown a corner stall where he could curry and feed the chestnut gelding.
He’d timed his arrival well, and when he entered the double doors at the far end of the great hall, servants were already preparing for supper. Above a massive hearth at the far end was a warlike display of claymores and targes. More than one person gave him a skeptical look at his threadbare coat.
He found a bench to sit upon at a table not too close to the dais. He didn’t expect Lord Aberfoyle to be in attendance in the great hall, with all the “common” people, but Duncan wanted to be certain he could overhear any conversations without being too obvious. Someone brought him a tankard of ale without lingering to answer questions, so Duncan sipped and studied the people around him. There were good-natured expressions upon almost everyone he saw—how was that possible when living beneath the thumb of one of Scotland’s most hated chiefs?
Several other people sat down at the far end of his table, no one close enough for conversation, as bad luck would have it. He would bide his time.
A serving woman brought around a platter of bannocks, and as he took one, she eyed him from beneath the cap perched on her frizzy gray hair. “I don’t think I’ve seen ye before.”
