by Lily Baldwin
He wrapped his arm around her. “Have ye met Florie?”
Isabella reached out and tapped Florie’s nose, earning a giggle in response. “I have. We were just breaking our fast together.”
He rested his chin on the little girl’s mop of blond curls. “I am glad ye’re feelin’ better.”
Isabella cleared her throat and straightened her back before she dared to meet his midnight eyes. He wore a plain linen tunic over simple brown hose. Black curls grazed his shoulders and fell across his eyes. He flashed a smile that forced her gaze to drop yet again. He was gorgeous, so raw and masculine and so very strong. She chewed her lip while she studied his hands. They were large and calloused. It was no wonder none of the men at court had been able to set her heart to race when there were men such as Jack in the world.
A breeze swept the glen, lifting her unbound hair from her shoulders. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the new sensation. Normally, if she were to venture outside, her hair and neck would have been confined by a fitted wimple. Only her face would have been exposed to the sun and wind. She laughed outright when the breeze quickened. “This is lovely,” she said.
“’Tis a beautiful stretch of earth,” Jack said.
“Indeed it is,” she said, quickly. “But I was speaking of the wind. You know what I am accustomed to wearing. Feeling the wind on my skin is a rare pleasure. It feels like freedom.”
A sad smile curved his lips. “Freedom? I see little freedom surroundin’ us. We’re all exiles, and ye’re a lady bound by convention.” He lifted Florie from his lap and turned her toward the other girls who were throwing rocks into the river with Ian. Then he stood and reached out a hand to help her up. “Freedom is an illusion—all anyone has are moments in time.” He smiled and winked at her. “And more often than not, those moments must be stolen.”
She smiled, feeling the power of his words. “Freedom is stolen moments.” She took a deep breath, reveling in the ease of her clothing. “Look how easily I’ve become a thief.” Then she put her hand in his. He pulled her up and stepped close.
“Would ye care to steal another moment?” he said.
Her heart fluttered as she met his gaze. She nodded.
“Join me for a walk along the river, Princess?
Isabella looked down at her homespun dress. “I do not look the part of princess anymore.”
His appreciative gaze traveled the length of her figure. “Nay,” he breathed. “Ye do not.”
“Call me Bella,” she blushed and looked away embarrassed by her boldness.
He stepped closer still and crooked his thumb beneath her chin, forcing her gaze. “Shall we…Bella?” Her name he said in a whisper.
She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
They walked for some time while Jack pointed out which herbs were best to flavor a stew and which had healing properties. She listened, savoring the sound of his deep voice. The sun slanted through the trees. Bird song filled the air, mingling with the distant laughter of Jack’s family. Long had it been since she experienced such easy joy, and it filled her heart to the brim. They had walked in silence for some minutes when she looked at him sidelong. “I learned a little about you this morning.”
He threw his head back and laughed. “Och, Rose is a good one for conversation.”
“We may speak freely, may we not?”
Again he laughed. “Aye, that we may.”
“You are not truly a thief, are you?”
“I most certainly am. There are many who have stared down the length of my sword and handed over a bag of coin on fear of death.”
She arched her brow at him. “I do not believe you would actually make good on your threat.”
He winked at her and the simple gesture made her breath catch. “Ye’re right,” he said. “But they don’t know that.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “If your victims could see you surrounded by little girls, they would, no doubt, fume over being duped into believing you were a villain.”
“What do ye think of my lassies?” he said.
“They are lovely girls.”
“They are kept hidden in the monastery while I continue to find them homes.” A shadow of worry passed over his features. “It has been five years. Many of these girls came to me as babies. I fear they will spend the remainder of their youth with the abbot, and likely will go to a convent when they are old enough.”
She stopped then and turned to look at the water rushing past. “It really has been five years, hasn’t it?”
“It has,” he said.
“It feels as though it has been only five minutes.”
He grabbed her arm and turned her about. Brows drawn together in a frown, he said, “Ye were there? Ye were in Berwick durin’ the Massacre?”
Confused by his sudden harshness, she tried to yank her arm free, but his grip tightened. She winced. “I was. Now release me.”
He looked down at his hand squeezing her arm. His eyes widened, and he let go. He stepped back and raked his hand through his hair. “I thought ye’d come to Berwick after Edward had claimed the city for England.”
She shook her head. “I was born there. My mother and father met among the market stalls.” She turned away and cast her gaze towards the trees alongside the stream. Their small spring leaves shone in the sun, and she wondered how such destructive hate could exist amid such wondrous beauty. “I loved Berwick.” Her voice broke. “It was a great city.” Tears stung her eyes. “No!” she shouted at herself. Fighting to ignore her aching heart, she stormed away, but he caught her arm and once more swung her around. Her hands covered her face. “I don’t want to cry anymore.”
He had glimpsed the barren ache in her eyes the instant before she hid her pain behind her hands. His own eyes squeezed shut against the reminder of loss. When his mind had quieted, he once again looked at Bella, but it was as if for the first time. He no longer saw the spoiled daughter of a lord. He saw her desperation and the yearning echoed by his own heart. It was a struggle to move beyond the rubble and blood, to find a life worth living again. He reached out and grazed his fingertips down her hands still covering her face. Then he gently pulled her into his arms. “Who did ye lose, Bella?”
Her hands fell away. She pressed her lips together tight and swiped at her wet eyes, but she still did not meet his gaze. “My mother,” she whispered. And then her eyes locked with his. “And my father.”
“They were both slain in the chaos?”
She shook her head. “My mother was stabbed through the heart and her head split open.” A sob tore from her throat, and she covered her mouth with her hands. “My father survived those days, untouched by blade or fire. His body lives, but he does not reside inside of it. Every day I lose a little more of him to his grief. He shuts out life and me along with it.” She sagged in his arms. “Five years have passed, but it has not truly ended. The world is still on fire.”
He lifted her into his arms and carried her further down the bank of the stream to a slope, shaded beneath a large oak tree. He sat, cradling her in his arms and rocked her gently. Then he pulled away just enough to see her face.
“Our youngest sister, Roslyn set out that morning to help my mother sell apples.” His voice cracked. “My parents were also slain.” Expelling a long, slow breath, he rested his head back against the tree and stroked her soft waves. The song of the stream surrounded them. He swallowed the remainder of his lament and waited for the familiar numbness to return. After a time, she sat up and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her tunic. Still holding her in his lap, he grazed his hand down her thigh, touching the tattered fabric. “Forgive me for givin’ ye such an ugly tunic to wear.”
She shrugged. “If it is so ugly, then you won’t mind if I never give it back.”
“Could an English lady used to silks and lace truly be happy in homespun wool?”
She smiled and breathed out a heavy breath. He could see the tension ease from her shoulders. “I already am.”
/> His eyes passed over her olive skin as he studied her face. “We aren’t so different,” he breathed.
Pale green eyes locked with his. “It would seem not.”
For a moment, he almost believed he had found himself in her heart, but then truth raised its ugly head. Suddenly, he was staring across an endless, uncrossable gray chasm, to where she stood, draped in wondrous colors that his rough hands could never hold. His heart sank as he forced the truth from his lips. “Except that ye’re a noblewomen and I, a commoner.”
To his surprise, she reached out and cupped his cheek. “I am the daughter of Lord David Redesdale but also of Annunziatta Santospirito.” Tears once more filled her eyes, but she smiled through them. “And she was the daughter of an Italian merchant. She was a commoner, but there was nothing common about her. And I see nothing common about you, Jack MacVie.”
A rush of fire exploded in his heart. He cupped her face between his hands and lightly pressed his lips to hers. She trembled. Then her arms came around his neck. He dug his fingers into her thick hair, and she leaned into him. Their lips and tongues moved in unison as the world faded away. Chest heaving, she tore her lips free. “I do not understand what is happening.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “Neither do I,” he said, breathlessly.
“Jack!”
He jerked around. Quinn raced toward them.
“’Tis Bishop Lamberton. He just arrived and wishes to speak to ye and the lady.”
His chest tightened. He looked down at her. Slowly, he pulled her arm from around his neck and brought her palm to his lips. Then, he dropped her hand and stepped back, putting space between them. “Our stolen moment is over, Lady Redesdale.”
Chapter Nine
Jack had first met Bishop Lamberton on the open road shortly after the massacre. Having concealed dozens of newly orphaned children in the woods, Jack and Quinn had set out to hunt. After all, empty bellies needed to be filled. When the bishop’s carriage approached, they had tossed their bows and full quivers into the brush to conceal that they had been hunting on monastic land. The bishop had been kind. He bade them not be afraid and gently pulled the truth from Jack. It did not take Jack long to realize he had made a powerful ally. Jack led the Bishop through the woods to where he had hidden the children. Together, they called on Abbot Matthew at the monastery and obtained permission for Jack and his band of youthful exiles to hide in the woods. On another visit, the Bishop had arrived when the MacVie brothers had been practicing swordplay with sticks, their favorite pastime since they were lads. He had left soon after only to return again later that day with swords for each of them.
“You have the skill, my son, which the good Lord has given you,” the Bishop had said when Jack solemnly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his new sword. “Now, you have the tools, which I have given you.”
On his next visit, the bishop had brought five black masks and five shirts of gleaming black mail. And so the Saints were born. Jack and his brothers became highwaymen for a higher cause. By robbing the English nobility riding north into Scotland, Jack provided for the children in his charge and contributed toward Bishop Lamberton’s first concern—fighting for Scottish independence.
As Jack and Isabella approached the bishop, he made the sign of the cross and blessed them both.
Bishop Lamberton smiled at Isabella. “Are you well, my lady?”
“I am, Your Excellency.”
“And I trust, my friends have shown you every due respect.”
Jack cringed when he remembered Alec’s suggestion to throw Isabella into the hole with Quinn’s approval. He also remembered his stolen kiss and sarcastic addresses. He closed his eyes waiting for Isabella to confess all to the good bishop, but she merely smiled. “They have all behaved like perfect gentlemen.”
He looked down at her. Her eyes locked with his and did not waver.
Bishop Lamberton cleared his throat, snaking Jack’s attention. “We have a situation. You were right not to leave the lady defenseless in the wood, but she cannot stay here any longer.”
Jack pressed his lips together. He wished it otherwise, but he knew the bishop was right. An English lady gone missing in Scotland meant trouble for everyone. “What is yer plan?”
“We must return her to her father,” the bishop stated.
Jack nodded. “I will take her.”
“You, an exile and thief? That is a truly dreadful idea. The only thing worse would be to include your brothers in your folly. Then, you can all be captured and hung together. Aye, I’m sure Rose will be thrilled by your idea.”
Quinn stepped forward then. “The good bishop does make a point, Jack.”
“Abbot Matthew will take her. He will tell Lord Redesdale that the lady was found by them in the wood and kept safe and guarded within the monastery, which, by the by, is where she will sleep tonight.” Bishop Lamberton turned to Isabella and smiled. “The less the good abbot has to lie, the better. Although to combat the tyranny of men, even the godliest must bend the rules,” he said with a wink. Then he offered Isabella his arm. “Come, Lady Redesdale. You may bid farewell now to your valiant rescuers. I shall take you to the monastery myself. You leave tomorrow at first light.”
The Bishop had a firm grasp on Isabella’s arm as he walked toward his carriage. Panic seized her. She jerked away.
“Is there something the matter, my child?” the bishop said, turning back to look at her with questioning eyes.
Her mind raced. She had no answer for the bishop. Certainly, she knew she should be relieved. She wanted to go home—did she not? Then she met Jack’s dark eyes and knew it was he who had fixed her feet to the ground. He was like no man she had ever met. She thought of the children he had saved and how much he had suffered. He was still a thief, a commoner, and a Scotsman, but he was also a hero. Her hero.
“Lady Redesdale,” the Bishop said.
She tore her eyes from Jack’s and looked at the bishop. “We must away,” he urged. “No good could come from you staying here a moment longer. No good for anyone,” he said with a knowing look at Jack.
She nodded and bit her lip to fight back the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. That was it then. She was to say goodbye and never see Jack again. She would return to Berwick, trapped within the walls of her home where she would wait for her wedding to Hugh. She was Lady Redesdale after all, and English ladies did not marry thieving Scotsman—no matter how compelling or forbidden.
“Lady Redesdale!”
She jerked her eyes once more away from Jack’s. “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” she whispered. Then she turned back to Jack and dipped into a low curtsy. “Thank you,” she said before she turned and followed the bishop.
Bishop Lamberton climbed inside his carriage and offered her his hand. She reached out, but then her breath hitched as someone grabbed her from behind. She jerked around and saw a flash of Jack’s black eyes the instant before his lips claimed hers and the world fell away. Her soul cried out, knowing it had found its mate. His lips molded to hers. His scent engulfed her. She longed never for the moment to end. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to him. She did not doubt at that moment that the angels had put her in Jack’s path, but they were not in heaven. And men made rules that controlled her life.
Jack tore his lips away. His breath coming in great heaves.
“That will have to be enough,” the bishop said behind her, not unkindly.
It could never be enough.
Jack stepped away, his black eyes burning through her soul. She sat beside the bishop, all the while never breaking eye contact with Jack. She watched him as the carriage pulled ahead. She traced every line of his broad shoulders and strong features into memory.
“Drink your fill, my lady. You will never see him again.”
Chapter Ten
Isabella followed behind a tall, lanky monk with a stooped back. Despite his gangly appearance, he walked like a swiftly moving cloud, soundlessly
gliding down the narrow halls of Haddington Monastery. They passed through a maze of shadowy corridors lit by torches. She felt as though they were burrowing into the dark belly of a mountain. The silent monk turned down yet another hallway. Along each side were roughhewn wooden doors. At the end of the hallway, he opened a door, revealing a small but clean cell. The furnishings consisted of a narrow wooden platform, which had a folded blanket on top of it, and a small table with a candle and wooden rosary beads.
Bishop Lamberton had warned her to expect modest accommodations. She was not bothered by the poverty of her surroundings, but the gloom was hard to bare. With a heavy sigh, she spread out the blanket upon the hard planks and laid down. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows upon the low stone ceiling. Her eyes moved over the stones, and they became a bare canvas for her to paint her dreams. She easily conjured Jack’s image as though he were above her, just out of reach.
Ye know I shouldn’t be here, Princess.
“I know, but who could find out,” she said aloud. “There is no one here but us.”
Actually, Princess, ye’re alone. I am only a fantasy.
“I know that, but now I do not feel so lonely. So why don’t you just cooperate and call me Bella?”
As ye wish, Bella.
She smiled and blushed despite knowing she talked only to herself and not to him.
“I love how you kiss me. It is so different from Hugh’s kisses.”
Her imaginary Jack scowled. Who’s Hugh?
She shrugged her shoulders. “He was my best friend. Now, he is my betrothed.”
Were ye not goin’ to tell me ye’re to be married?
“There was hardly time between you rescuing me, offending me, and then sweeping me off my feet.”
Don’t change the subject, Princess. Who is he? A stuffy English lord with pasty skin and soft hands.
She nodded. “He is soft compared to you, but he is also a good man.”
If he is so wonderful. Why am I here, and not Sir Hugh?
