The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “He is a lord actually.”

  Jack’s scowl deepened. Fine. Why am I here, and not Lord La di da.

  A sad smile curved her lips at her imagined jest. “He doesn’t stir my soul,” she whispered.

  Jack flashed his sideways grin. And I do?

  “Yes.” Her hands flew to cover her face. Then she took a deep breath and dropped her hands. He smiled at her, his eyes full of feeling.

  I wish ye could be mine, Bella.

  Brows drawn, she shook her head. “Surely, there is a way.”

  His smile diminished, and his eyes grew dark with yearning.

  Nay, lass. I am a Scotsman, and ye’re my enemy.

  Her heart sank as his image faded. Blinking back tears, she stared at the cold, hard stone. If she could not make a romance with Jack work even in her dreams, then surely it was hopeless. More than ever, she wished she had never set out to visit her sister. Before she had felt listless and wanting, but she had no taste of desire, no face to imagine. Now she would have to walk through life trapped by a wimple and a passionless marriage, all the while knowing the feel of strong hands on her skin.

  She turned on her side, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes. Again and again, she relived her last kiss with Jack.

  Chapter Eleven

  A soft rapping on the door stirred Isabella awake. A dull ache throbbed at her temples. She stared at the stone ceiling overhead. The weight of her heavy heart pinned her to the hard platform bed. She drew a shallow breath and closed her eyes, wishing to retreat into slumber, but the knocking grew louder. Whoever waited outside her cell was not going to leave her to her misery. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she stood and pulled open the door. The tall, stooped monk who had been her guide the night before stood with eyes downcast. Once again, he did not speak but motioned for her to follow. After twisting back the way they’d come, he led her down another dark, cool hallway that let out into a small courtyard.

  Shadow still hung heavy in the sky. She filled her lungs with fresh, warm air, glad to be free from the confines of the cloisters, but her relief was short-lived. She expelled the breath with distaste. It was a treacherous lie, as potent as any betrayal. Within the tantalizing, crisp spring air one breathed life’s beginnings, its very origins, but her life had been stagnant before she had even taken her first breath. It was the same as countless women who had come before her: Women with voices unheard. Women with passions left to wane until all desire faded. The space afforded her life was a fraction of the size of the monks’ starved cells. She was crammed into a dark hole, and the world ignored her screams. Her fists clenched. She would relinquish every luxury of the body to feel the richness of soul that only love could provide. She would rejoice in the feel of rough wool on her skin if the hands that swept her tunic from her body stoked her passion.

  “My lady?”

  Her head jerked up and she met Abbot Matthew’s kind, patient eyes. She cleared her throat and uncurled her fingers.

  “The wagon is ready.” He gestured toward the open gate. Monks with hoods pulled low over their faces waited, as if in prayer, for her to join them on the benches lining the sides of a rough-hewn wagon. Their solemn reception mirrored her life—disciplined and stark, void of the pleasures that ignite the spirit.

  Freedom is stolen moments. Jacks words hit her hard in the gut. She was no thief. If freedom was stolen, she was doomed to be chained.

  She had tasted rapture. Her blood had ignited. Her soul struck deep with a yearning but now left cold and hollow. How could she return to the echoing grandness of her lonely fortress? She pictured the vast, empty rooms full of lost dreams and teeming sorrows. Very soon, she would leave behind one prison to join Hugh in another. The towering walls became waves, high and fierce, crashing around her, swallowing her youthful heart. She was not meant to be caged. With word and deed her parents had taught her that love was as essential to life as water or food. It sustained one’s soul.

  Her tall, gangly monk bowed to her before taking her elbow and helping her climb into the wagon. None of the monks already seated moved from their pious positions while she claimed her place on one of the benches. As they passed through the gates, their carriage pulled by a team of donkeys, she glimpsed the sun peeking out from beneath the horizon. She gave her despair over to the soft pink light. It tinted the morning fog, which writhed and shifted across the surface of a distant lake, but its sensual dance made her long to feel Jack’s lips on her skin. She closed her eyes against the dawn and allowed the countryside to pass unseen. Their journey could never be long enough. Too soon they would be in Berwick. The city walls would be higher than when she left, blocking her view north into Scotland where love dwelled.

  Pounding hooves caused her eyes to open. She stood. A dozen knights approached on horseback, carrying banners bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms. Hugh rode lead.

  “Bella!”

  He had seen her. Her heart pounded in her ears. She took a deep breath and prayed for strength. She could not deny her truth. She was Lady Isabella Redesdale. She swept her unbound hair away from her face and knotted it demurely at the nape of her neck. “Abbot Matthew,” she said, her voice steady, though beneath the surface of her calm facade, she struggled against the inevitable. “Stop, please. The lord approaching is my betrothed.”

  “Yer what?” She heard a voice say.

  She sat down and stared at the monk in front of her. His body was still, his head solemnly bowed. Her eyes followed the outline of broad shoulders. Could it be? She clasped her hands in her lap to conceal how her fingers shook and leaned forward in her seat. Narrowing her eyes, she strained to see through his ink black hood.

  “Isabella!” Hugh’s voice jarred her from her trance.

  “I am here,” she called, though her eyes remained fixed on the monk.

  “Praise be to Mary and all the Saints, you’re alive.” The wagon shook as Hugh climbed onto the back.

  She had no choice but to look at her betrothed. He stood with open arms. Forcing a smile to her lips, she rose but shifted her gaze back to the monk in front of her. It had to be him. His closeness stole her breath. All she had to do was reach out and she could once more wrap her arms around his neck. Throw back your hood, her thoughts commanded. Claim me as yours. Still, the monk did not break his solemnity.

  Hugh crossed to her side. “Are you hurt? Can you not walk?”

  Mayhap her heart played with her mind. Mayhap the man across from her was a monk and in desperation she imagined Jack’s voice. She swallowed her hope and turned to face Hugh. His fine, blue eyes held nothing but tenderness and concern. She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her dry throat.

  “My flask,” Hugh said to his footman who hastened to carry out his bidding.

  She closed her eyes and allowed him to tip the flask to her lips. The rush of liquid brought her throat back to life. At last, she found the will to answer his question. “I am well, my lord.”

  He smiled with relief. “You cannot imagine my fear. Word of the attack arrived just this morning.” He stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I thought I would never see you again.” She dropped her eyes in shame. Hugh was all things decent and good, her dearest friend from youth. Why could she find no love for him in her heart?

  “Come, my darling,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I will take you home.”

  She nodded, allowing him to draw her forward. As she stepped past the monk, she let her handkerchief drop from her fingertips at his feet. Gaze downcast, she watched strong fingers dart out from long, black sleeves and grab it.

  Jack.

  Her chest tightened. She could not breathe. Her legs trembled, ready to give way. Hugh’s arm came under her knees and lifted her, holding her close. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I am here now,” he whispered. “You need not fear, not anymore.” He passed one of his guards. She listened numbly to his command. “Take four men and ride with the monks to Berwick. Lord Redesdale and I will hear their testimony.
The rest of you ride with me.” He set her on the saddle, then swung up behind her. Their horse leapt forward as they galloped away.

  Hugh held her close. “I know your heart as well as my own, Bella. I will take you away from here and back to Berwick as fast as my horse will ride.”

  Fresh tears filled her eyes. Regarding the contents of her heart, Hugh could not have been more wrong.

  ~ * ~

  Jack remained still, his head bowed as if in solemn prayer, despite how he yearned to cast aside the monk’s cloak and chase after Bella and her betrothed. His chest tightened. That fiend of a lord had called her Bella. His fingers curled into tight fists. Of course she was betrothed. After all, she was a lady with title and duty. What had he been thinking? Well, that was just it—he hadn’t been thinking, only feeling, yearning for a woman who had no business even talking to the likes of him. Despite her mother’s humble birth, she was still an English lady. He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand. His thumb stroked over the “B” elaborately embroidered with silver thread.

  “So, Saint Peter is now Brother Peter.”

  Jack’s shoulders stiffened. It was Abbot Matthew who spoke. He lifted his head and cast off the black hood. Cool, spring air swept over his neck and ears, exposed now by his newly shorn hair.

  “Good morrow, Abbot.”

  The older man gestured to the seat beside him. Jack stood and climbed onto the driver’s seat. The abbot snapped the reins, and they set off toward Berwick with the English guards in lead.

  “How long have ye known it was me?” Jack said.

  The abbot smiled. “I know every member of my order at a glance, even with their hoods drawn.”

  Jack raised his brows and dipped his head to show that he knew he had underestimated his old friend.

  “Anyway, ye’re twice the size of any monk I’ve ever known,” the abbot said, chuckling. “So which of yer brothers is back there?”

  A smile tugged at Jack’s lips. “Quinn.”

  “I suspected as much,” the abbot said. “Saint Augustine is now Brother Augustine.” He shook his head. “Ye ken Bishop Lamberton will not like this.”

  Jack shrugged. “It could not be helped.”

  “Then ye’ve decided to fight for her?”

  Jack looked the abbot hard in the eye. “I’m not leavin’ Berwick without her, even if I have to kidnap her again.” His gaze shifted. He looked at the road ahead and then at the tired team of donkey’s easing them forward at a snail’s pace. “Could we go any faster?”

  The abbot pulled a little on the reins, slowing their progress. “The wait is yer penance for lyin’ to me and stowin’ away on my wagon.”

  Jack grabbed the reins from the abbot’s hands and snapped them hard against the donkeys’ backs. “I’ll go to confession.” They surged forward. “Forgive me, old friend, but I’ve a prize to steal.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jack’s eyes passed over the comforts of the Redesdale solar. A massive hearth filled one side of the room. Colorful tapestries covered the walls. Elaborately carved, high-backed chairs, like the one he sat in, dominated the room’s center. Doubt gripped his heart. He would never be able to give Bella such comfort, not in ten lifetimes. Exhaling a quiet breath, he bowed his head and forced himself to relax. In front of him sat Lord Hugh Trevelyan, Isabella’s betrothed, and to his left, Lord Redesdale. Isabella’s father had glanced their way when Jack, Quinn, and Abbot Matthew had first entered his solar, but that was his only acknowledgment of their presence. His gaze remained fixed on the low burning fire. Given Lord Redesdale’s apparent apathy, Jack was not surprised when it was Lord Trevelyan who first addressed the abbot.

  “Lady Redesdale’s carriage was discovered by Lord Widdrington who was marching to Dunbar. His messenger rode first to Berwick Castle where King Edward sits in residence. At once, the king ordered dozens of guards north to recover my lady and to find the beasts who butchered her guard; however, Lord Redesdale and I did not receive word of the attack until this morning. As far as I know, none of the villains have been caught.” Lord Trevelyan leaned forward in his seat and stared hard at the abbot. “That is all we know. Now, it is your turn. How came you to find Lady Redesdale?”

  The abbot straightened in his seat. “Brothers from my order witnessed the attack.” He gestured to Jack. “Brother Peter was included in their number.”

  Jack raised his gaze from the floor and locked eyes with Lord Trevelyan. Jack was a good judge of character, and as much as he wanted to despise the English lord, Jack could not deny his display of honor. Lord Trevelyan had treated the Scottish monks with every due respect. He was attentive to Lord Redesdale. He had even shown kindness to the servants who had arrived moments after they had entered with trenchers of food and ale.

  Jack glanced at Quinn. He could not tell Lord Trevelyan the truth of Bella’s rescue. After all, they were supposed to be monks, not warriors able to charge on horseback through bands of criminals.

  Jack cleared his throat. “We heard the attack from further down the road—”

  “Why were you so far from your monastery?” Lord Trevelyan interrupted.

  Jack fought the sudden urge to shift in his chair.

  Abbot Matthew spoke before Jack could. “The road cuts through the outskirts of monastic lands, my lord. My fellow brothers were still within our boundaries.”

  Lord Hugh nodded and gestured for Jack to continue. “When we heard the clash of blades, we circled back and hid among the trees, observin’ the struggle. The lady was pulled from her carriage, but she managed to escape into the woods. We rushed to her aid and retreated deep into the forest. They never found our trail.” The image of Bella’s near rape flooded his mind, but he forced the memories away. Neither her father nor her betrothed needed to know the great danger Bella had been in. “We returned to the monastery with Lady Redesdale. She was blessed to be free from harm. After she had rested, we set out to bring her home.”

  Lord Trevelyan nodded. “She is subdued, I’m certain from the shock of the ordeal, but she is uninjured.” He frowned. “But I am afraid greater harm has been done. Rumors abound, claiming the attack was not the act of common thieves, but rebellious Scottish peasants. I fear this incident will be used to renew border violence.”

  Jack pressed his lips together in a frown and thought back to the attack. “Their number surpassed twenty men, my lord. I must agree that this was no common raid.”

  Lord Trevelyan shrugged. “But twenty is not so great a number if they were exiles. I’ve heard of such camps existing, outcasts and outlaws who’ve come together.”

  Jack nodded. “Hidden within the northern forests are small villages of people as ye’ve described. Still, they would not tinker in so large a number, at least not in the day time—too many to hide away.

  Lord Trevelyan expelled a long breath. “Then the rumors are true. Damn,” Jack heard him mutter. “Our borders have been peaceful for some weeks. I for one welcomed the respite from war.”

  Jack moved to the edge of his seat. “I said it was no simple raid, but I can also tell ye they weren’t Scottish peasants.”

  Brows drawn, Lord Trevelyan leaned back in his seat. “Are you suggesting, they were English?”

  Jack shook his head. “Whether Scottish or English, I cannot say. But I’ve one certainty—they weren’t peasants.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  Surprised, Jack turned to look at Lord Redesdale who had been the one to pose the question.

  “The men who attacked your daughter’s carriage showed every physical sign of good health. They were men used to an abundant table. And the skill with which they fought belied their meager dress.”

  Lord Redesdale did not reply. Once more, he shifted his gaze away from Jack to stare at the flames. A sadness stole into Jack’s thoughts. He remembered Bella telling him that following her mother’s death, her father had shut life out and her along with it. It was clear to Jack that Lord Redesdale had retreated into himsel
f. But why? Jack knew the hardship of grief, but grief alone could not have taken Lord Redesdale from the world. Only shame held that power. But what shame did Bella’s father carry?

  A knock at the door stole Jack’s attention.

  A young maidservant opened the door after Lord Trevelyan gave command. She announced that the hour for supper had arrived.

  ~ * ~

  Jack had never been inside one of the large fortresses within Berwick. When he had resided in the city, he had lived in a one room, wooden home, shared by himself, his parents, and his six siblings. Until now, he had never known that one could be inside and yet feel so entirely unconfined. The ceilings might have grazed the heavens they were so tall. Flickering candlelight resembled stars studding the night sky. After his captain’s ship would make port, he had often slept on board beneath the stars rather than returning to their cramped home. He closed his eyes and for a moment he was out there, once more on the sea, moving to the rhythm of the waves. His eyes flew open and followed ribbons of smoke coiling up from the central hearth, then out a vent in the roof. Already Bella had the sky—what could he give her? He fought to chase the self-doubt from his thoughts, but his heart felt heavy as his gaze shifted to the mantle place above the hearth, which bore a large shield with the Redesdale coat of arms. For a moment, he felt as though the grandness were closing in around him. He had no title to give Bella. He could not even offer her an honest name—Jack MacVie was a thief. He reached into the deep pocket of his monk’s habit and felt her soft handkerchief.

  Quinn nudged him. “’Tis like a tomb in here.”

  Jack raised a skeptical brow. “Ye’ve lofty aspirations for yer final restin’ place.”

  “Look around ye,” Quinn whispered.

  Jack’s shoulders stooped a little further. “Trust me. I have.”

  “’Tis barren and cold.”

  At first, Jack did not know what Quinn meant, but then he considered the empty tables and strange, almost eerie, silence. At the high dais sat only Lord Redesdale who had not looked up from his plate since first taking his seat. Despite the warm fire and bright tapestries, the room was as Quinn had described, cold. Oppressive gloom pushed out life and laughter.