Page 6 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“She needs to stay abed,” Maeve said. “I brought her soup.”
The four women continued to serve the men, but the men eyed him curiously. Most were young and unmarried. They were plain-speaking and rough, used to the hardships of the Highlands, which suited Duncan well. One of the men, Angus, had a wife but no children, Melville had a grown daughter he refused to leave alone at their cottage, and Mrs. Skinner, a widow with a son in Duncan’s camp, wanted to cook their meals. The women had come to live with them and help, for which Duncan was grateful. And then there was Maeve, unmarried and likely to remain so since she kept herself distant with men because of her disfigurement. But she’d been a friend since his youth, and he would not deny her the chance to help the rescued children.
“So ye’ve brought a wench to yer room,” Angus called from his place at the table.
There was some chuckling, but most were probably concerned that he’d broken the rules he’d given them. No one was to bring anyone to the encampment without a discussion. Much as Duncan had final approval, he knew his men appreciated being consulted.
“I’ve not brought the lass for myself,” Duncan said. “Ye saw the bandages on her head. She was badly wounded, and I couldn’t leave her wandering the road. She was unconscious for the journey here—have no fear she knows anything that can harm us.” And he would keep it that way.
“Ye could have brought her to the village,” Melville mumbled into his drink.
Duncan wasn’t certain that comment was meant to be heard by him, but he answered it anyway. “I could have, but I didn’t. She claimed there are two dead men near where I found her. I’ll go look for them in the morn, and then I’ll know more of her situation. She was too near the cave for my comfort.”
Maeve gave the clansmen a frown, and Duncan knew she would not remain silent. She was the mother hen of this encampment, and everyone respected her. Sometimes he felt like the two of them oversaw this little pocket of the clan together. He appreciated her help, common sense, and companionship. He could never make right what his family owed her, much as his father had tried.
“The lass is lost and wounded,” Maeve explained. “Laird Carlyle did the right thing.”
Duncan eyed Maeve. “Did she remember anything else?”
“Nothin’, not even her name.”
More murmurings floated through the group. Duncan felt a touch of guilt for lying to his clan about Catriona’s identity, but he wouldn’t make them complicit in his crime. Because it was a crime, holding a noblewoman captive, even though she didn’t realize it, even though her father deserved whatever anxiety Duncan caused him.
After swallowing a bit of trout and a mouthful of ale, he said, “Until we know more, Ivor, I’d like ye to see to extra patrols, in case someone is looking for the woman. If ye see them, don’t approach. Return to me.” He let his gaze take in the rest of his people. “And when ye speak to the woman, tell her nothing of our purpose here.”
“How long will she stay?” Ivor asked.
Duncan regarded his war chief impassively. He deserved as much truth as Duncan could give. “I know not. She’s injured, and needs to heal. And there is the problem of her memory loss. We’ll take it day by day.” Then he glanced at Maeve. “Do ye have an extra pallet for me to sleep on out here?”
Angus snickered. “Ye don’t want to share yer room with the lass?”
Duncan was glad to give his men something to laugh about, but it wasn’t easy for him to join in. He arched his brow and said dryly, “None here would force themselves on an injured woman—and that includes me.”
He went back to his fish, and let the conversation swirl around him. He’d leave at dawn to go find the dead men she’d told him about, and if he was lucky he’d know more about why she’d been traveling so near his encampment.
He thought about Catriona, asleep in his chamber, and wondered where her father thought she was. Would the man pace over his frustration, his helplessness, his fear? Duncan had spent many an evening with a grieving woman who’d lost her child forever to the kidnappers. The earl would never suffer that unending pain he’d caused so many families; his daughter would eventually be returned to him. Though Duncan seldom allowed himself to feel content, he did so now at the thought of the earl’s worry.
Chapter 3
It had been awkward for Duncan to leave the encampment alone to deal with burying bodies. Ivor had seemed skeptical when Duncan had turned down his offer of help and asked the war chief to oversee a hunt for fresh game. But Ivor was a loyal man and had made no protest.
Because Catriona couldn’t have walked far in her condition, it only took an hour or so for Duncan to find the place she had described—a steep ravine, a burn overflowing its banks. The two dead men were still there, their bodies broken in the fall. They were plainly dressed, obviously guards rather than a new husband or betrothed. Though they had died tragically, he could not alert their families. Eventually, when Catriona returned to the Duff clan, he’d make sure she knew where her guards were buried.
He stared up at the path they must have taken in their fall, shrubs uprooted, earth gouged. It was amazing that Catriona had lived. The storm the previous day had been ferocious, and horses could have flung off their riders in a panic—but all three of them? He couldn’t believe that. More likely they’d come too close to the edge of the hilltop in the storm, slid down themselves, then bolted in fear. But the steepness of the drop made him think the horses had certainly not gone unscathed. And if they had run off, it wouldn’t be long before they were found and people came looking for Catriona—something he didn’t want, not until he figured out why she had been so close to his encampment.
It wasn’t difficult to find and follow the bloody trail of wounded animals. None of them had gone far, and he was able to put them all out of their misery, though he wouldn’t be able to bury them. The tragedy was a waste of good horseflesh.
It was the baggage that gave him the most consternation. The men’s needs had been few, a clean shirt, weapons, ammunition, food for the journey. They’d been dressed in breeches for traveling, not a clan-revealing plaid. But Catriona had obviously meant to be gone for a while, as there were gowns and shoes and undergarments. He didn’t want all of this found—it would cause too many questions and could lead right back to the Duff clan—but he wanted to be able to get his hands on it when needed. So Duncan buried it with the spade he’d brought, marked with an unusual rock so that he could find everything again. Next he turned to the men themselves and did the same. During the backbreaking work, he planned what he would tell Catriona.
Catherine awoke in near darkness, but for the guttering of a candle. She didn’t know what had awakened her, or if it was even morning. She lay still, tense, until she heard the sound she’d thought was only in her dreams—a high, keening wail that didn’t sound human. It raised gooseflesh on her arms. She came up on her elbows, wincing as her muscles protested, but the sound was already so distant, muffled by rock and earth. Or she’d imagined it. After all, she could hardly claim that her mind was acting soundly.
Because much as she’d gone to bed hopeful, this morning she still had the same blank slate in her mind. Her memories only started yesterday, when she’d awakened in the rain beside two dead men. Her men, she assumed, and she wasn’t even able to mourn them properly. She didn’t know what had happened, except somehow they’d ended up in the bottom of a ravine. Had it been an accident? Or had someone forced them over and left them for dead?
Now she was being ridiculous, inventing enemies to explain an accident. She closed her eyes and lay back again, and the terrible ache in her head eased somewhat. The rest of her body felt bruised and sore. She glanced at the clothes Maeve had left, but she wasn’t sure she could dress herself, considering how weak she felt. The urge to use the chamber pot only grew stronger. She had to brace herself on the table to combat the dizziness, and her head pounded so hard she closed her eyes. But she was able to take care of her needs. Rising back to her feet, she swayed again, grabbing the chair, just as she heard footsteps in the passageway.
Maeve swept the curtain aside and entered, carrying a tray. She took one look at Catherine—who was so weak that black spots were floating in her sight—then put the tray on the table and a bracing arm around Catherine’s waist. Together they made it the couple steps back to the pallet, where Catherine collapsed with relief. The two women smiled at each other.
Maeve put her hands on her hips. “Good mornin’, Mistress Catherine. I see ye felt up to gettin’ out of bed yerself.”
