The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  Her muscles tensed. She swallowed and darted forward, lunging to grab the blade. He whirled about, surprise widening his eyes when she thrust the gleaming tip at him.

  “You are no monk,” she hissed. She could barely draw breath. Her heart pounded her head.

  Slowly, he stood up. Her eyes traveled the length of his wide chest, chiseled stomach, and narrow waist. Power exuded from every inch of his wet body.

  His arms remained relaxed at his side. “Ye do not need that, lass,” he said, his tone soft. “Ye need not fear me.”

  Her stomach twisted as she stepped back, still keeping her weapon trained on the stranger. “I am not your lass,” she said, despite the fear mounting in her mind. “I am your lady.”

  His black eyes held hers. “Yer husband is dead, yer father a traitor to the crown. Ye’re no lady just as I am no monk.”

  “I knew it.” The words rushed from her throat. She backed away. Her eyes darted left than right, taking in the length of river. She had to get away. Whoever this man was, he had lied to her. Then her eyes widened. “What else have you lied about?” Panic sunk its claws into her quaking heart. “You have lied about it all. Haven’t you? My father and sister. Everything. Who are you?” she cried. “Who are you really?”

  He reached out his hands. “Breathe, my lady. I’ll not hurt ye. My name is Quinn MacVie. And ye’re right. I’m no monk, but that doesn’t make me a bad man.”

  He took a step toward her. She sucked in a sharp breath and scurried back, waving the dirk about. “Stay where you are.” Desperation made her voice shrill.

  “Yer father and sister bade me come, to protect ye, to keep ye safe. What I told ye about yer father is true. I am sorry it is so, but that won’t change what’s happened nor will yer doubts.”

  “But why did you lie to me? Why did you pretend to be something you are not?”

  “I pretended to be Brother Augustine to gain entry into Ravensworth and to get close to ye.”

  Tears stung her eyes. In the matter of a day the safe and satisfying life she had led had been snatched away.

  “I am yer friend,” he said softly.

  She looked at him through a blur of tears, wanting so much to believe in him. “How can I trust you?”

  His black eyes bore into hers. “Because, by now Rupert has assumed consciousness and turned yer people against ye.”

  She faltered. The dagger shook in her hand.

  “Ye’ve no choice but to trust me.”

  The dagger dropped with a dull thud on the ground. The trees and bushes spun around her in a dizzying blur of brown and green. She could not breathe. Whoever this man was, he was right. She had no choice but to trust him. Her hand snaked out for something to hold. “I cannot breathe.” Her heart thundered in her ears. Then strong arms and a richly masculine scent surrounded her.

  “I’ve got ye, lass.” His words sounded distant as if he were across the glade, but his strength and the heat of his body cocooned her. She still could not draw breath. She grasped for him just as her legs gave way. A rush of air cooled her face as he whisked her into his arms. Her own arms flung around his neck, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the horror of her reality.

  “I’m still the same man.” He said, quietly in her ear. “Look at me, my lady.”

  Slowly, she opened her eyes.

  “I ken that robe represented something to ye,” he said softly. “I ken it made ye feel safe. Trust me—it feels terrible to tell ye that I’m not a monk.”

  She allowed his gentle words and warm embrace to soothe her. But when her world stopped spinning, she looked him hard in the eye. “What are you then?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “What are you then if not a monk. You are not a nobleman. Therefore, you must have some profession.”

  She saw the hesitance in his eyes. “I used to be a fisherman,” he said.

  “Go on,” she said pointedly.

  He cleared his throat and set her on her feet.

  “Before that I sailed with a merchant ship.”

  “Interesting, but what do you do now?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck and pressed his lips into a thin line. Then he threw his hands up. “I’m done lying to ye. Do ye promise not to panic?”

  She shook her head. “No.”

  He spun away from her, raking his hand through his hair. Then he turned back. They locked eyes. After several moments, where the only sound she heard was the pounding of her own heartbeat, he said. “I’m a thief.”

  Her hand rushed to her heart. “Oh God,” she gasped, turning away.

  He grabbed her arm from behind and tugged her back around. “I’m not a bad man, my lady. I do not steal for selfish gain. We’ve the support of Brother Matthew of Haddington and Bishop Lamberton himself. I fight in the name of freedom, against King Edward whose sword claimed both our mothers’ lives and countless lives more. I’m here, leagues from home, on the run with ye. I’m standing by ye when no one else is.” He stepped closer. “Ye’re not alone. Trust in me, Catarina. Quinn is every bit the man Brother Augustine was. I’ll prove it to ye. Trust me as yer father and sister trusted me. I’ll not lead ye astray. I’ll take care of ye.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I’ll make sure this has a happy ending.”

  Bone-weary with fatigue and heartache, her knees once more grew weak. Perhaps it was exhaustion clouding her judgment, but at that moment, staring deep into his black gaze, she believed in the strength of his conviction. All evidence showed his goodness. Never had a man treated her with such care and respect. And was that not what she hoped her people would do for her—remember her goodness? She had been a kind and fair lady. She pressed her lips together against the fullness of her emotions. And when she could, she took a breath and whispered, “It is good to meet you, Quinn.”

  A slow smile stretched wide across his lips. “’Tis fine to meet ye, my lady.” He drew closer still and rested his hands gently on her shoulders. “’Twill all be alright in the end. I promise ye.” He took her hand then and led her the short distance back to camp where he spotted the kirtle and tunic bunched on the ground. “Now that we’ve settled that, I will finish making preparations for our rest. Ye must change out of yer gown.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the garments in his outstretched hand and shook her head. “Out of the question.”

  Not expecting a refusal, he faltered for a moment, but then thrust his hand out. “Yer gown is covered in blood. Take these.”

  She glanced down at herself then met his gaze. He noted the stubborn tilt to her chin. “I shall wash it.”

  “’Tis a lot of blood.”

  “There is a whole river beyond those trees as you well know.”

  “My lady, I really must insist…” he began to say, but she thrust her hand up to stop him.

  “Save yourself the trouble of arguing. My refusal is final. I am still a lady.”

  As a matter of fact, she was not still a lady, but he would not remind her of that. Anyway, title or no title, the woman standing before him was clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Ye may be a lady, but ye’re also my responsibility. Ye and yer son are in my care. Let me remind ye, they will be looking for a noblewoman.”

  She lifted her chin. “And?”

  He pressed his lips, trying to hold fast to his patience. “Well…ye see, my lady, it might behoove ye to not appear to be a noblewoman.”

  She threw her shoulders back. “A lifetime of learning and good breeding cannot be disguised.”

  He could not help but roll his eyes. “It can if ye wish to live.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. “What do you suggest then?”

  “I thought I made that clear,” he said, holding up the maid’s clothes. “Ye must change yer tunic.”

  Looking as if she grasped something that had been dragged through refuse, she slowly reached out and pinched the tunic from his hand with two fingers and held it out in front of her. “Truly, you ask too much,” she grimaced.

 
Quinn snatched it back and held it up. He saw no rips or stains. The tunic was old and had seen better days, but overall it was a serviceable enough garment. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

  She shook her head. “It is ugly and rough to the touch. It will wreak havoc on my skin.”

  Quinn pressed his lips together again while he offered her the kirtle to feel. He thought of how different Catarina was from her sister, Bella. Bella had never given them this much trouble. “Here,” he said, shoving it toward her. “Ye’ll not feel the tunic at all over this kirtle. ‘Tis soft as Nicholas’s bottom. I promise ye.”

  She crossed her arms and looked away.

  He released a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, my lady, but let me put it this way. Ye’ll go behind those trees there and change, or I will change ye myself.”

  She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He took a step forward, holding out the bundle of clothes. “Ye’ve one more chance to make the right decision, or else I’ll make it for ye.”

  “I am not a child,” she snapped.

  “Prove it.”

  Her eyes narrowed on him. Then, at last, she reached out and snatched the bundle from his hands and stalked toward the tree, disappearing behind it.

  When she was out of sight, he leaned back against a nearby tree and expelled a heavy breath while he slunk to the ground, letting his head rest against the trunk. This was going to be harder than he had first thought. Not one minute had passed when she came back out from behind the tree still clad in her soiled but fine attire.

  He groaned. “Ye can’t be serious.”

  “No,” she snapped. “It is not that.” She looked away, seemingly unable to meet his gaze. “I cannot change without assistance.”

  His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and stood. She eyed him warily as he slowly walked toward her. “Do not fash yerself, my lady,” he said. “One does not have to be a gentleman to know how a lady need be treated.”

  First offering her what was meant to be a reassuring smile, he turned her about and set to work on her laces.

  “You certainly do not untie laces like a monk,” she blurted.

  He smiled at her insinuation that his fingers appeared well practiced but resisted the many jests that came to mind, and, instead, worked quickly to loosen her surcote. Gently, he eased the fabric from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She stepped free from the folds, but kept her back to him. He reached for her headdress, unwinding layers of gauzy silk. Next, he removed several pieces of stiff fabric and netting.

  “Turn around,” he said.

  She pivoted on her foot, presenting herself to him but kept her eyes closed. He reached for the pins near her temples. “I ken ye’re in here somewhere,” he said, as he unpinned the layers of fabric fitted around her chin. When he pulled the silk away, his fingers grazed her velvety neck. In every detail, she had been made to tempt, from the exquisite lines of her face to the fullness of her red lips to the richness of her ebony hair. Still tightly wound at the nape of her neck, he could not help wishing to see her hair unbound. His eyes swept over the swell of her full bosom and womanly curves. Unable to resist, he leaned close, inhaling the scent of her hair. “My lady,” he whispered.

  Her eyes jerked open. She drew a sharp breath. A slow smile curved his lips before he retreated several steps. “I believe ye can manage from here.” He bowed low and turned on his heel to head down to the river. She needed her privacy, and he needed to douse himself in the cold water.

  ~ * ~

  Catarina’s eyes followed after Quinn. She stood there, still staring even when his strong, bare back had passed from view. Ignoring her racing heart, she crossed to where Nicholas slept. She knelt to brush her fingertips across his forehead, but her hand shook. She balled her fingers in a tight fist, hiding the evidence of her fluster. “I hardly know what to think anymore,” she whispered.

  Remembering herself, she stood, her spine poker-straight, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she lifted the hem of her tunic and circled around the tree where she set to work removing the remainder of her finery. The wind rustled through the trees carrying the scent of bluebells. She inhaled deeply and listened to the forest. How odd it was to be naked out of doors. She felt like Eve standing amid Eden, but who did that make Quinn—her Adam? Her skin tingled, and her heart raced. A short distance away, Quinn likely crouched near the river, beads of water cascading off his strong shoulders. She could still feel his calloused fingers brushing her skin. His touch, so fleeting, had felt more intimate than any of her couplings with her husband. Laying with Henry had been simply another duty not so different from ensuring clean rushes lined the great hall or that the larder was fully stocked. She had hoped Henry would grow to be more loving, but he never did.

  Remembering her dead husband stole the heat from her body. Cold and full of sorrow, she dressed quickly in the borrowed garments. Smoothing out the tunic, she had to admit the wool did not feel as harsh as she had predicted. More than that, it felt divine to be free of her headdress, although she could not help feeling self-conscious. She reached behind her head. Thankfully, her long hair was still pinned in a coil at the nape of her neck. She took a step forward, her fine slipper peeking out from beneath faded wool. Her heart sank—she was a commoner. For a moment, self-pity consumed her, but then she glanced over at Nicholas, her precious child, asleep on the forest floor.

  She headed through the trees. “Are there slippers?” she asked when she came up behind Quinn. He turned, his chest still bare. Her eyes traveled the length of his muscled torso before she met his gaze. “These will not do.” She lifted the hem of her worn tunic, revealing sky blue, pointed-toe slippers, embroidered with white flowers and marred by drops of Henry’s blood. He grabbed for his tunic and pulled it over his head. She chewed her bottom lip while she glimpsed his muscles shift and decided it was a pity to cover something so fine.

  “Here,” he said, producing a pair of simple, leather slippers from the bundle.

  She reached for the plain shoes. A shiver shot up her spine as their fingers touched. “Thank you,” she said and turned to retreat, but then she paused and looked back. “I spoke through pride before.”

  He raised a questioning brow at her.

  “I am speaking of my refusal to wear my maid’s clothes. You had our well-being in mind, and I thank you for that.” She lifted her chin, imbuing her stance with strength. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my son.”

  Quinn knelt at her feet. “May I,” he said. She swallowed hard and slowly placed the slippers in his open hand. Her breath caught in her throat when he gently lifted her foot and slid off her fine shoe. His warm hand encircled her heel. She fought to swallow again. Then he slid the new slipper on. He gave her other foot the same slow, deliberate care. By the time he finished, her heart raced, and she could barely draw breath.

  “Thank you,” she said, unable to meet his gaze. She cleared her throat and took a step back, smoothing her hands down the front of her tunic. Then she straightened her sleeves.

  “Ye look lovely,” he said.

  Her head jerked up, and she met his gaze.

  A slight smile curved his lips, his dark eyes traveling the length of her with unconcealed appreciation. “I can actually see ye now without all those veils and fuss.”

  She blushed. For reasons she dared not consider, she liked that Quinn could now ‘actually see’ her.

  Chapter Nine

  Quinn cut the cooked pheasant into pieces, then stuck the tip of his dirk into the meat and offered the morsel to Catarina.

  Instead of biting the offered meat, she blushed. “It is indecent for you to feed me.”

  Quinn could not help smiling. “The trees won’t tell nor will I.”

  She laughed out loud, and the sound made his smile widen. She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her heart. “Forgive my outburst. I am so tired that I fear delirium has set in.”

  “There is nothing
to forgive. You have a lovely laugh,” he said. “I will have to see that you use if more often.” He offered her the meat again. This time she leaned forward and gingerly bit down, pulling the meat from the tip of his dirk. She closed her eyes and chewed. He studied the soft contours of her face, her slim, pert nose and full lips. She swallowed and opened her eyes, but her lids appeared too heavy to remain that way.

  “Rest now,” he said.

  She nodded, crawling to where Nicholas lay. “I have never slept out of doors.”

  He smiled. “To me, there is nothing finer than a soft pallet and a canopy of leaves or stars overhead.”

  She sat up, resting her head on her elbow and stared at him. “We have lived very different lives, have we not?”

  He nodded. “Aye, that we have, but I’d wager we have more in common than ye might guess.”

  She laid back down and was quiet for several minutes. He thought she had fallen asleep, but then she sat up a little. “Earlier you spoke of your mother. You said she died by King Edward’s hand.”

  He nodded. “Like yer mother, she was killed during the massacre.”

  She shook her head. “So much death.” She stared off into the trees. “I miss my mother every moment of every day.” Her voice trailed off. Several moments passed before she continued. “We had little in common, although in appearance, I am very much like her.”

  He studied her profile while she continued to stare outward.

  “She was the daughter of a merchant,” she said. “In life, she had been bold and strong, refusing to be tamed by convention; whereas, I strove always for refinement.” She shifted her eyes from the trees, meeting his gaze. “We would argue.”