Chapter Thirteen
Georgina stepped into the great hall of Llynmore Castle with her hem three inches deep in mud, wet shoes, and bedraggled hair. She’d walked the moors for two hours. These solitary wanderings used to bring her some modicum of peace, of contentment, had once calmed her restless spirit. But in the fortnight she’d been home, her mind remained far away—with a group of men who stole sheep and lived off the land, who liked fiddle music and took shinty far too seriously.
She found herself thinking about them, more than she should.
She found herself missing them.
“George!” Annabel was in front of her, waving a hand in front of her face. “Where are you? You’ve been so preoccupied this last week. Did something happen during your visit?”
“My visit…” Oh, of course. Her visit. To see Eleanor. An encounter that had never actually occurred.
Theo had railed at her for an hour when she’d gotten back. At first, she’d feared he might suspect…but no, Georgina had returned in time to prevent that, and Eleanor’s letters, albeit vague, had alluded to Georgina’s appearance in Edinburgh. Theo was simply upset that she’d traveled so far alone.
She couldn’t imagine ever telling him the truth.
Oh, by the way, Theo—I was never actually with Eleanor. I joined a group of Highland outlaws because I wanted to retrieve Mama’s music box. I shared a kiss or two with the leader. Let him touch my naked back.
I still dream about him doing more.
Good Lord, Theo’s head would probably explode. She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for fratricide by head exploding.
Georgina took a seat in an armchair near the fire and waited for Maria to stumble toward her on wobbly legs.
“Gee!”
She lifted her up and set her on her lap.
“Cat!”
Something inside of Georgina flinched before she realized Maria was literally referring to a cat, and then she felt ridiculous. Not to mention frustrated with herself. How long would it take her to stop thinking about the past few weeks?
She glanced toward Willoughby, who eyed them distrustfully from his warm spot by the hearth.
“I don’t think the cat wants to play,” Georgina said. She wrapped Maria up, tickled her feet until she giggled.
“When I was in Oban the other day, I heard rumors that some thieves attempted to steal a flock on Stonehaven’s land,” Annabel said. “The shepherd claims he was shot at.”
Georgina carefully didn’t look up. She kept her head bent, wiggling Maria’s little toes. “Was he hurt?”
“No—” Georgina released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “He came out unscathed. I do wonder if they’re the same thieves who targeted us.”
She shrugged, keeping her face impassive. She hated lying to her family, but she didn’t see an alternative. “It’s possible.”
“Well, they’re making plenty of enemies. I hope they stop while they’re ahead.”
Georgina glanced at her sister-in-law. Annabel was embroidering a pillow for Maria, but it was a rather, sad, lumpy thing—she wasn’t much for the feminine arts. “I’m surprised you care.”
“Come now, George. I’m not heartless. I might not be happy about getting stolen from, but I don’t know if any of them deserve to swing at the end of a rope, and you can bet some of these landlords would be more than pleased by that outcome.”
A chill went through her. She’d known, of course, that what Mal and the others were doing was dangerous. She’d encountered the danger firsthand. But hearing Annabel state so plainly what would happen to them if they didn’t stop thieving…
She knew Mal wanted to make enough for his men to have a future, but what about Mal himself?
Would he ever stop?
And why did she care about his fate? She would never see him again.
She would never see him again.
The thought was a stiletto to the heart.
“Let’s shoot something,” Georgina said abruptly.
“Erm…what?”
If Lachlan coped with life by setting things on fire, Georgina typically coped by doing one of three things—long, strenuous walks on the moors, playing music until her hands hurt, or shooting practice.
“It’s been a while since I’ve practiced. I’m rusty.”
“Very well. Frances might like to come along, too.” Annabel scooped Maria from Georgina’s lap. “Shall we go visit Papa?”
Georgina hid a smirk. It was so odd to hear Theo called Papa. She wondered if her brother found it odd as well.
About twenty minutes later, the three women met in an open spot outside the curtain wall where bags of straw-filled white cloth stood on wooden posts. A target was drawn onto each canvas bag.
The sky above was gray, the wind slight. A cool breeze touched Georgina’s face and bare hands while she tore open a little packet of black powder and poured it into the muzzle of her pistol.
“Did I tell you the schoolteacher left yesterday?” Annabel said, jamming in her bullet with more force than necessary.
“Did he?” Frances asked.
“Ran off with one of the crofter’s daughters to elope, and gave me no notice whatsoever. The nerve of the blasted man. I thought this school was a good idea—”
“It is a good idea,” Frances reassured her. “A few bumps in the road don’t change that.”
“A few.” Annabel snorted. “The first teacher left because the students were too rambunctious. This one could handle them fine and simply didn’t stay. And I already had to convince some of the tenants to let their children be taught at all. This certainly won’t give them confidence in me.”
“You’ll find someone else,” Frances said.
“I suppose I’ll continue lessons while I ask around and send out advertisements. But I can’t do it all myself.” Annabel looked at them hopefully, pistol dangling from her fingertips.
“I should have known this was coming,” Georgina said.
“It will only be a temporary arrangement. Just until I find someone.”
Frances and Georgina glanced at each other. “I suppose we must,” Frances said.
“It is for the children,” Georgina added, dubiously.
“That’s right. Think of the children.” Annabel aimed, fired, and hit a bull’s-eye. She smiled at them through the cloud of gun smoke. “Not bad.”
“Beginner’s luck,” Georgina muttered.
“What was that?” Annabel asked sweetly.
Georgina lined up her shot, cocked the hammer. Her memory flashed back to a little isle and her heart pounding and Mal’s smile, fireside. And the way he looked at her, like she was more than she’d ever realized, more than she’d dreamed she could be. She remembered another night, racing across the moors, the cold bite of steel against her fingers, shooting blindly to save Mal.
It wasn’t that long ago, but it felt like a dream. Another life. Another person entirely.
“Georgina?” Annabel asked.
She’d paused, finger on the trigger, breath still caught in her lungs.
She exhaled.
“I’ll help you.”
She could use all the distractions she could get.
…
The problem with carving out the things that hurt you, Mal thought later, was that some things simply refused to let go. Every time he told himself not to think about Catriona, he inevitably thought of her. Wondered if she was with a husband somewhere. If she was telling stories about them, laughing at how foolish they all were.
They left Colin’s cottage when Mal had healed enough to move. Left behind the memories.
Or tried to.
It wasn’t until he’d had some time and some distance, when his anger changed from fierce and pounding to more of a dull ache, that he began to think more clearly.
And realized something wasn’t right.
Catriona had stayed, had done her best to fit in with them, until they’d gotten to the crofter’s cottage.
Had she been scared off by the raid?
It was possible.
But then he remembered how she’d cradled the music box in her hands, careful, almost stiff, like she didn’t want to hurt it. He remembered her words—How do you know it didn’t mean something to her?
At the time, he’d overlooked it. But why did Catriona care about someone who meant nothing to her?
Unless…unless…unless…
She knew who it belonged to.
Was she a servant of the Arden estate? A lady’s maid?
Why had she risked her life to get the music box back? It might fetch a decent price, but it wasn’t as though it was worth a fortune. Had she been compelled? Did she care about her mistress that much?
Why?
Every new discovery only brought new questions, like he was trapped in a spiral with no end. And above all else was one question, beating at his skull, tearing at his heart, unwilling to let him go:
Who are you, Catriona MacPherson?
Who are you?
“What’s our next move?” Lachlan asked one night as they sat beside the fire.
Mal stared at the writhing flame. He’d nearly cost his men their freedom, their lives. He’d watched that shepherd before they’d carried out their plan, even looked through his things. But the pistol the shepherd carried must have been kept hidden…tucked into a boot, probably.
Mal rubbed at his face tiredly.
Going on another raid so soon would be suicide.
Since Stonehaven, Mal’s failure was always at the back of his mind, a constant sting. What was he worth if he couldn’t even save the few people who’d come to rely on him?
His mind ran in circles—Catriona, their close call, the lost sheep, his failure—until he could barely think.
“Lachlan,” he said, one weary morning after one more restless night. “There’s been a change of plans.”