Page 8 of Love with a Scottish Outlaw
Catherine gasped, and laid a hand on Maeve’s arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“’Twas a long time ago and best forgotten.” Maeve finished tying the bandage in place and rose. “I think ye should sleep some more. I’ll check back on ye later.”
Because Maeve’s smile was as friendly as always, Catherine hoped she hadn’t been offended by her curiosity. The woman left a fresh candle in the lantern and departed. Hearing a boisterous laugh from the “great hall,” Catherine found herself wanting to be out there, but dreading it as well. Everyone would stare at her with suspicion, with pity, maybe even with hatred, since she seemed to be English—at least her accent was.
Then why had she been traveling through the Highlands? Wouldn’t she have visited Edinburgh, perhaps, in the Lowlands?
And that made her think about Laird Carlyle. Had he been of age to fight during the rebellion, when the Jacobites had claimed victory on the field, but hadn’t won their cause? Could that be part of the reason he and his people hid in caves?
She seemed to know historical things, but not her own name, which was very frustrating.
Aloud, she whispered, “My name is . . .” and hoped the right words would fall from her lips. “My name is . . .” Nothing.
Her mind was spinning, and that wasn’t helping the throbbing behind her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she tried to wipe away her doubts, her very thoughts, to let sleep claim her. It wasn’t easy, but at last she escaped the pain down the dark well of unconsciousness.
During a meeting of the men before supper, Duncan gradually lost their attention as, one by one, they went silent, staring past him. He turned around to see Maeve helping Catriona across the footbridge. Even the women cooking over their cauldrons looked up, before whispering among themselves.
Though Catriona still had a bandage wrapped around her head, the fall of her dark hair hid some of it. He could see that he was not the only man to realize her beauty. Even in the simple garb of his people, she was riveting, her waist slim, her breasts pressed up to overflowing by the stays, though she did try to cover herself with a fichu. Her expression showed determination, even as she allowed Maeve to steady her arm.
Not all of his people’s expressions toward Catriona were admiring or curious. They’d heard her speak with her English accent, and he saw Melville wearing a skeptical frown. But Duncan was their chief, and his word was law.
Maeve brought her to the first table and helped her find a seat on the end of a bench. One man got up and left; another slid to the far end. All watched her warily.
Catriona only gave a brief wounded look, before raising her chin with an arrogance that was inbred in her, a subconscious memory—unless of course she was feigning her memory loss, a possibility Duncan had not yet dismissed. She’d only been with them for a day.
“Mistress Catherine requests permission to eat with the clan, Laird Carlyle,” Maeve said.
Duncan hid his startled response to that name. “She has remembered who she is?”
“You don’t have to talk as if I’m not here,” Catriona said.
She spoke politely, but the men murmured regardless, most likely at the way her English accent made her seem foreign. No one but he knew that she was Scottish.
“I have remembered nothing,” she continued. “But I had to have a name.”
Yet she’d chosen to use one that was the English version of her own name, Catriona? It seemed suspicious. His men, abused by the English for too long, could see that she was no ordinary lass; Duncan hoped he wouldn’t have to guard her from their justified anger.
“We discussed many names,” Maeve said, giving the group of men a frown.
“And I liked the sound of Catherine,” Catriona said. “You also should know I have no memory of Gaelic either. I assume that is the language in which you speak to your men.”
He nodded. He couldn’t even take reassurance in that. She could be lying, or if she was telling the truth, why would an earl’s daughter, who spent most of her time in London, know any Gaelic at all? Still, he would be careful to reveal nothing too important in her hearing, regardless of which language he used.
She looked around. “Might I wash up before eating?”
“We wash in the burn.” He nodded his head at the little stream. “Wash just where it leaves the cave, beyond where we take our drinking water.”
“But I’ll bring ye a basin while ye’re recoverin’,” Maeve called, giving him a stern look Catriona couldn’t see.
Duncan crossed his arms over his chest. He wanted Catriona to know the rules and abide by them like everyone else—but he didn’t mean to be unsympathetic to her injuries.
“I can do it,” Catriona insisted.
“And so ye will—eventually,” Duncan said. “Maeve is right.”
Maeve brought a pot of soap and the basin, then helped her wash.
“Ye look pale, Mistress Catherine,” Duncan said, emphasizing the name she’d chosen for herself. She didn’t react as if she remembered she had another name. “Should ye not be abed?”
