Page 61 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
As each new memory unfolded, she at last began to remember that final journey, taken with the two clansmen who’d always traveled with her, more like friends than guards. Her eyes welled up as she remembered the storm’s approach, the way they’d been caught off guard at its intensity, her men trying to get her to safety—the collapse of the ground beneath their feet. She didn’t remember anything right after that, including waking up to find her friends dead. But waking up in Duncan’s arms—that she remembered. It seemed her brain was either damaged, or trying to protect her from the trauma of her friends’ deaths.
Duncan.
She took a deep breath, wiping away the sad memories, and absorbing the knowledge that she knew who she was, that she was free of doubts and indecision. She wasn’t married, she wasn’t betrothed. She could come to Duncan with honesty, and surely she could find a way to help him escape his past. They could be together, they could marry—
And then she stared down at the brooch still clutched in her hand, as doubt and growing fear assailed her. Something was wrong. The brooch—it had been in Duncan’s saddlebag. She always wore the brooch when she traveled, a mark of her clan, of her pride.
Duncan . . . he must have taken it from her, hid it away. She feebly tried to tell herself that perhaps he meant to research it, discover where she came from.
She covered her mouth with her free hand, tears welling up. She moved farther into the trees, away from the cave, from what she knew to be true.
She could no longer make feeble excuses for Duncan. He wouldn’t have forgotten something so important as a clue to her identity. He had deliberately hidden it away, kept her from knowing her true self. Her breath was coming fast as she fought not to sob, bracing her arm against a tree to hold herself up beneath this terrible weight of shock, disappointment, grief . . . and anger. Oh God, she let that anger well up inside her, burn hotter and hotter, blasting to cinders any thoughts of affection and love.
She’d nearly fallen in love with a man who was holding her captive, scheming against her and her family. He wasn’t just a smuggler—he was a thief and a kidnapper!
And she’d helped him.
She felt sick, and leaning back against a tree, clutched her stomach and tried to quell her nausea. She knew her father was guilty and deserving of punishment—he’d been a cruel man who’d let her innocent cousin Riona be kidnapped so Cat wouldn’t be surrendered in marriage to a “savage Highlander”—she remembered those words well.
And it was her father who’d profited off the sale of innocent children, torn from their families and abused. She’d seen the sorrow and fear in young, innocent eyes, the rope marks on their wrists. Finn had been unable to find words at the terror he’d experienced. She leaned against the tree, heaving up her breakfast in horror.
At last she wiped the back of her hand against her mouth and sank down against the base of the tree. She’d known the extent of her father’s cruelty. She would have done anything to make up for that, would have helped Duncan, but he hadn’t given her the chance. He’d kept the truth from her, had seduced her into caring about him. She shuddered.
She would have given herself to him if he hadn’t stopped her. She didn’t know if he’d felt guilty, or had worse plans for her. It didn’t matter. Her grief and disappointment seemed too great a load to bear.
What was she supposed to do now?
Duncan wasn’t surprised when, after most of the men had left the cave that morning, Ivor came and stood before him.
“Aye, Ivor?” Duncan said.
“I have news. One of the villains implied that there might be other children ready to be transported.”
Duncan cursed. “Did he know specifics?”
Ivor shook his head. “He might have just been saying what he thought we wanted to hear, to keep me from breakin’ his other leg.”
“Perhaps. Tell the patrols to be extra vigilant.”
When Ivor continued to stand before him, shoulders stiff, expression sober, Duncan frowned. “Is there something else?”
“I went against yer orders, Laird Carlyle.”
Duncan arched a brow. “Which orders?”
“To keep Mistress Catherine safe.” Ivor let out his breath and met his gaze. “I should have sent her back immediately once we discovered she and the lad followin’ us.”
“Why did ye not?”
“We had the kidnappers in sight, and I feared we’d lose them, if I sent men to escort the lady away.”
Duncan put a hand on the man’s shoulders. “Ye did what ye had to, my friend.”
He felt the tension leave Ivor, who ruefully shook his head. “She’s a willful lass, that one.”
“Aye.” Duncan could have joined him in the head-shaking.
“Ye sure ye ken what ye’re doin’ with her?”
