Page 55 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“I . . . well, nothing much,” she conceded. “I just see them talking together, and she’s happy.”
Duncan squeezed his eyes shut. Happy. As if he could ever give a woman that.
“Happy to be with a McDonald?” Lord Aberfoyle said, then added with amusement, “Now there’s no need to get physical.”
“And who’d have ever thought ye’d be happy with a McCallum, Chief of the Duffs.”
“Aye, who’d have thought,” he murmured.
And there was a conspicuous silence.
“I think we’ve missed Mr. McDonald,” Lady Aberfoyle said with regret. “I wanted to ask if he knew Cat.”
“He’s on his way to Glasgow—perhaps he’ll meet her there.”
“I’ll write to her about him. Och, don’t be giving me that look. I’ll not interfere. She doesn’t need to know there was a dream involved.” She paused. “I’ve not received a letter from her since she’s been gone. Have ye?”
“Not yet, but she loves her parties and balls. Too busy to write to us, I imagine.”
“Hmm.”
And then there wasn’t a sound for a long few minutes, except a shovel’s scraping. Duncan slowly got to his feet, peering around his horse. They were gone. He crept out the stall gate, only to see them walking arm in arm across the courtyard, their heads together as they spoke. There was an ease between them, a sense of love and acceptance that seemed foreign to Duncan.
He saddled Arran and rode sedately across the courtyard, letting out a sigh of relief when he passed beneath the gatehouse. As he crossed the arched stone bridge over the moat, he passed several dozen people on their way inside the castle.
“Your lairdship?”
The tension that had slowly been leaving Duncan’s body now surged back. He knew Aberfoyle hadn’t left the courtyard, and how many lairds could there be on the bridge? He was tempted to gallop wildly away, but the man had used a hissing whisper, as if trying to draw little attention to himself. Duncan couldn’t help pulling up and looking back.
A roughly dressed man stood alone, clutching the bonnet from his bald scalp.
“I don’t know ye, sir,” Duncan said coldly, hand on the hilt of his claymore.
“Nay, ye don’t, your lairdship, but ye saved my sister’s child, and I wanted ye to know I’d never forget it.”
Duncan nodded, uncomfortable about being thanked for something any honorable man should do. “Have you spread the word about what evil is being done, so that families are on guard to protect the children?”
“We have, your lairdship. ’Tis a terrible thing that a man such as yerself is being hounded for doin’ what’s right.”
Duncan thought one of the guards was looking at them with the beginning of suspicion. “I must go.”
“Fare well, your lairdship.”
Duncan didn’t look back as he trotted away. Everything in him wanted to gallop as if chased by redcoats, but that would only prove suspicious.
Throughout the day, he resisted the urge to push his horse harder than he needed to. He was unsettled by his meeting with the earl and countess, confused about Catriona’s role in his life and what he was supposed to do about her.
And yet part of him longed to be with her, with an urgency that was foreign to him.
When he arrived at the cave by one of his many circuitous routes, long after dark, he saw most of the horses gone. He unsaddled Arran, gave him the most basic rubdown, then hurried past the guard and inside the smoky cave. There were only a few men, the four Carlyle women—and no Catriona.
Maeve greeted him with a calm reserve that ratcheted up his worry.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
“We had word of a shipment of children last night,” she said. “The men set out as quickly as possible.”
“Last night? And they haven’t returned?”
