Page 77 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
His expression didn’t change, although he did look away.
And she felt childish, though she had a right to her anger. She felt a pang of sorrow that he could do this to her—that her father could have started it all by allowing children to be stolen.
Duncan sighed. “Then let us witness the punishment.” He gestured for her to lead the way.
Finn and Logan were ordered to fetch water from the well in many trips and bring it to boil in a cauldron that they first had to wrestle over a fire. While that was going on, they used rags to clean up the mud that spattered not just Mistress MacFarlane’s booth, but many others. The afternoon dragged on, the “boys” were the object of much teasing, and Cat thought at least Logan had learned a valuable lesson. She wasn’t so sure it had taught Finn anything. The girl seemed far too pleased to be on public display as a scamp.
As if the two children were the evening’s entertainment, the men brought forth a barrel of whisky to share, and the merriment increased. Duff whisky, she thought tiredly. Duncan was stoic as the whisky was distributed, as if he knew it reminded her of what had happened the last time she’d over-imbibed, how she’d let him kiss her.
Since she didn’t want the clan to know anything was different, she accepted the dram they urged on her. It burned just as much this time. A clansman laughed and nudged her into Duncan. She was his “fancy lass” after all, and she couldn’t jump away like she wanted to. Sadly, touching the warm length of his arm muscles did not inspire revulsion, much as she wished it would.
Chapter 17
On the ride home, the last climb was in the darkness, and Duncan’s horse knew the path as well as he did. Finn slept slumped against his back, and Duncan felt another stirring of sympathy. The boy had worked hard to make his mistake right—although it hadn’t begun as a mistake.
What was Duncan supposed to do with Finn?
He’d never had this problem before. Children were always so grateful to be rescued, and if they were orphans, pleased to have a home. But the longer Finn stayed, the more he’d think of this dank cave as home, and that wasn’t fair for a little boy to grow up as a fugitive.
Duncan carried Finn into the great hall of their cave complex, where some of the men were subdued after a long day, and others were still gregarious from too much drink. Catriona, who’d been ahead of him with Maeve on the way back, was nowhere to be seen. Probably preparing for bed, he thought, inwardly grimacing as he remembered she slept on a cave floor in a room with dozens of men.
He lowered Finn to his pallet, then tucked the blanket in around him.
Tonight Catriona had pretended there was no distance between them, for the sake of his clan. She’d sat beside him in the village, sipping her whisky as the gentle September wind brought the scents of fish frying and the laughter of his people. Her arm had briefly been against his, and it had taken tenuous control not to slip his arm around her shoulder and bring her more fully against him as he wanted to.
But she wasn’t his wife, she wasn’t a woman he was courting—she wasn’t his “fancy lass.” She’d been tipsy when she’d told him Mistress MacFarlane had called her that. He’d been furious, while Catriona had given him an accusing look—he didn’t need her to point out that this was his fault.
There didn’t seem to be room for any other thoughts in his head but for Catriona, all of them tinged with both guilt and desire. It wouldn’t be long before he’d be escorting her home—and she’d be lost to him. Ye’re drunk, he told himself, disgusted.
Preoccupied, he left the great hall and headed down the stone passageway. There were several boots at the far end, signaling the pool cave was well occupied. He heard deep laughter and splashing and hoped no one was too drunk to swim.
At his bedchamber, he swept the curtain aside—and froze.
Catriona, bent over his trunk, rose up swiftly to face him, her face pink in the lantern light. They were alone, and he couldn’t help boldly looking down her body. He’d spent the entire day trying not to stare at her, at the way the laces across her bodice seemed to bring her breasts together and lift them up as if on display. It was nothing overt, but the creamy skin of her cleavage hinted at what was below. Her waist was delicate, and the flare of her skirt only emphasized her round hips.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said stiffly.
When their gazes met and held, he reached behind him and slid the curtain closed. He saw her eyes widen.
“Did ye want people to see us alone together?”
She shook her head.
“Why are ye here?” he asked, hearing the roughness of his voice.
He wanted her. The anger and frustration of that made him take a step closer. Lifting her chin, she didn’t back away.
She licked her lips. “I thought I left something in the trunk, but . . . I can’t find it.”
“What was it?” He was another step closer, and he could have touched her if he reached out. It was a daring game he played with himself: touch her or not, test his powers of control or back away.
But she smelled so good. On her, the plain soap the women made seemed somehow enhanced by mingling with her skin. He wanted to bury his face against her neck and inhale.
“It’s not your concern,” she insisted. “And you’re drunk,” she added accusingly.
“And ye’re blushing.” Without planning it, he reached to cup her cheek.
They both inhaled at the touch, warm skin to warm skin. Then she pushed his hand away, but there was no room to step back.
