Page 78 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
“’Tis just a chemise,” she said with exasperation.
He tilted his head. “I do not remember seeing such a feminine garment in my trunk after you moved out.”
“It’s not there. I’m going to leave now.”
He didn’t step aside, and she didn’t push him away.
Words he didn’t mean to say tumbled out in a husky voice. “I know what I’ve done to ye, and though I’ve asked your forgiveness, ye haven’t granted it, as is your right. But I cannot stop thinking about how it was with ye in my arms. I’ve never wanted to kiss a woman as I’ve wanted to kiss ye, never wanted to touch a woman as badly as I want to put my hands on ye.”
Her eyes widened more and more with each word he said. For a frozen moment, he didn’t have any idea what she thought of him. And then without a word she pushed past him and fled.
Duncan had once deluded himself into believing he could have her; he’d let himself sink under her spell until she was all he could think about. But now that she knew all he’d done to her, there could never be forgiveness between them.
He pounded his fist hard into the rock wall, little caring that he bloodied his knuckles. It was less painful than the way his heart felt, torn up knowing that he’d hurt her, that he could never have her—that he’d fallen in love with her.
He had to take her home the first chance he got. After the assembly, he’d sent even more men to search out this missing child, to see if at last the sheriff had run out of men and was doing his own foul work. The lust for money was apparently too powerful for the man to lie low.
But after that, it was time to take Catriona home and accept her brother’s punishment.
Cat stood in the passageway, fighting to control her racing pulse, her uneven breathing. She was disgusted with herself and the way Duncan’s words had even momentarily tempted her into forgetting everything he’d done and exploring that dark world of pleasure she’d only ever glimpsed. What kind of person so easily forgot betrayal? Apparently, she did. She’d thought she could control her reactions to the dazzling sensations he invoked in her—she was lying to herself. Regardless of what he’d done, her body still wanted him.
She had to forget about her weakness and think about what she’d uncovered in the trunk—proof of her father’s guilt. But there was also a revelation about Duncan’s father. After what he’d said of his father’s weaknesses and mistakes, she didn’t think he knew about the letters. In some ways, even her captivity was because of how Duncan had shaped himself to be nothing like his father. She found herself more curious about the dead man than she wanted to be.
It wasn’t until the next morning, when Duncan left the cave with Ivor and many of the men, that Cat slipped back into his chamber. Dropping to her knees beside the trunk, she carefully moved aside his clothing until she found all the letters. Wrapping them into her towel, she ducked back into the passageway with her lantern, left her shoe on the ground and slipped into the empty pool cave. No one would disturb her there for a while. She had to begrudgingly give him credit; he’d kept his men loyal and in line. She sank to the ground, her back against the rough wall, and found the letter she was looking for.
She stiffened as she recognized her father’s handwriting. She’d been right; he was “A,” making threats he didn’t bother to veil against Laird Carlyle and innocent children. Of course, he didn’t put it into incriminating words, damn him. He’d always been too smart for that.
Duncan had assured her that his father was a weakling. But if his father had been investigating the missing children, had even connected it to the Earl of Aberfoyle, but had died before he could finish the work—then he was more than the pathetic chief Duncan thought him to be.
Duncan’s father had had the same goal as he did. Had Duncan known? She shouldn’t care, but . . . she did.
And there was her father, his spidery penmanship reminding her of the evil he wreaked in all the lives he touched. Tears stung her eyes but she wiped them away. Though Duncan had made his own poor choices, he was only desperate to save his people because her father had made everything worse for them.
At a commotion echoing down the passageway, Cat lifted her head and froze. But no one called her name, and the shoe she could see at the edge of the shadows remained undisturbed. She gathered the letters back together, and after tying them up, crept down the corridor, dropped them in Duncan’s chest, and emerged into the great hall attempting to look untroubled.
Duncan and Ivor were standing face-to-face, glaring at each other, the rest of the men watching with either curiosity or worry.
“I must go to her,” Duncan said coldly. “My sister needs me.”
“Muriel?” The name left Cat’s lips without her even being aware.
None of the men looked at her, but Maeve hurried to stand by her side.
“Muriel?” Cat whispered again in fear, searching Maeve’s face.
Maeve shook her head. “Nay, not Muriel. His lairdship’s other sister, Winifred. She sent word that she’d been interrogated by Sir Brendan Welcker, the sheriff of Glasgow, for the whereabouts of Himself.”
Cat caught her breath, her gaze rushing back to Duncan. If his sister had been hurt, he’d blame himself forever. “Is she . . . ?”
“She says she’s unharmed, that she told the sheriff she’s estranged from Himself, and he finally believed her. She wants her brother to continue his work for the children. But he . . .” Maeve’s words faded away, her eyes full of helplessness.
“But he blames himself and wants to go to her,” Cat finished for her.
Maeve nodded.
Duncan suddenly strode past her without glancing her way, crossed the footbridge and disappeared up the passageway. When no one followed him, Cat did. She didn’t know why; it wasn’t her place, but—
She found him packing a saddlebag, stuffing things in without even paying attention to what he was doing.
