The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “David is changed,” Rory said, a grim set to his lips. “His hatred for the English consumes him.”

  Alec nodded. “It has made him hard.”

  Quinn glanced at Catarina before turning back to Alec. “But he does not return until morning?”

  “Aye, and he will not welcome Catarina in his home,” Alec said, bluntly confirming Quinn’s concern.

  “Surely if I took David aside and spoke to him—”

  “Ye don’t understand,” Rory interrupted. “Nothing ye could say in Catarina’s defense would soften his regard. He has become singular in his focus.”

  “Then we will have to leave before he comes home,” Quinn said. “She has been through so much already without being subjected to his anger.”

  “Aye, ye must,” Alec said.

  Quinn turned and looked at his brother. Alec’s face was an emotionless mask, but Quinn knew deep inside him, beneath the walls he erected years ago against his heightened senses, beat the heart of a compassionate man. “This is going to hurt her,” Quinn said.

  Alec simply nodded.

  Drawing a deep breath, Quinn stood. “Catarina,” he said. “We must speak.”

  ~ * ~

  Dawn’s first light brightened the horizon as Catarina stood, her head reeling, outside Freya’s cottage. Pain gripped her heart, squeezing out all hope. She backed away from Quinn, clasping tightly to Nicholas.

  “Please, my lady, just hear me out,” Quinn said. “They will be looking for a woman with a child. Ye cannot hide with a babe. If ye would have yer son live to reclaim his birthright, then ye must let him go.”

  Catarina shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “Let me be taken. I care not for my well-being, only for his.”

  “Rupert will find him if he remains in yer care, but if ye give him to my brother, Rory will see him safely brought to the Bishop Lamberton. The good bishop will conceal Nicholas within a monastery or convent. He will be cared for, and when the time is right, we will collect him.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “But he is my son.”

  “Aye, he is,” Quinn said. “And he deserves a chance at life. Ye’re accused of murder. There will be a bounty on yer head. Prize hunters will follow yer trail. Worse yet, given yer father’s treasonous actions, King Edward himself is likely to send soldiers after ye, once he hears Rupert’s spun tale. Ye’re running for yer life, Catarina, and I with ye.”

  Rory stepped forward then, drawing her gaze. He reached out and gently cupped Nicholas’s head. “The bishop is no more than half a day’s ride from here,” he said gently.

  She looked down at Nicholas and then met Quinn’s pained gaze. She knew he was right. She knew they were all right. Even Freya had fumbled momentarily to find the right words to say—listen to Quinn. But how could she give up her child? It went against every instinct in her body, heart, and soul.

  Freya stroked a soothing hand down Catarina’s back. “He needs a warm bed, my lady, and a steady supply of milk.”

  Desperation shot through her. She jerked away from Freya’s touch. “He needs his mother,” she cried.

  Quinn cupped her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. “That he does,” he whispered. “Which is why, I want his mother to stay alive.”

  “But you said separating a mother from her child was unforgivable,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Lead the devils away from Nicholas. That is what ye must do for yer son. They will follow ye while he is spared.”

  Sobs escaped her lips as she pressed kisses to Nicholas’s sleeping cheek. “Take him,” she whispered. “Take him from my arms, because as sure as my heart still pounds in my chest, I cannot give him to you.”

  Gently, Quinn reached for Nicholas and took hold of the small baby. Then he turned to Rory who had mounted his horse. “Godspeed, brother.”

  She felt Quinn’s arms surround her and collapsed into his warmth. “My lady.” She looked up at Rory through a blur of tears. Nicholas rested in the crook of his strong arm. He took up his reins, his ice blue eyes locking with hers. “Yer son’s safety is assured. Ye have my word.” Then he turned and rode away.

  Chapter Twelve

  She could barely remember their hasty walk through Rùnach to the port or climbing into Freya’s skiff, and yet there she sat hours later far from where she had last held her precious son. Back straight, ankles crossed, she stared beyond the stern at the barren blue canvas of sky and sea. Her arms wrapped around herself, clasping at the painful shadow where so much feeling had once lived. She could still feel the weight of Nicholas like a ghost in her empty arms. The whipping wind dried the tears leaking from her eyes before they even had a chance to fall. Surf splashed as they collided with rough waves. She knocked against the sides of the small boat, but felt nothing, no pain. The suffering inside her kept her physical discomfort at bay. She kept as straight as she could and unfurled her arms, looking down at her empty hands. She had lost it all, her whole life. Her son, her father and sister, her security and title. She glanced back at Quinn. His thoughtful black eyes met hers, but she turned away. She knew it was only a matter of time until he too slipped from her grasp.

  When the sea had calmed and the sail hung slack, Quinn put the oars to water. “Do ye wish to know where we are going?” he said.

  She did not answer.

  “We travel to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Caithness, the home of the Sinclairs. Some years ago, I sailed with the youngest of the laird’s sons on the merchant ship, La Vierge. When the ship docked at Berwick, Hamish Sinclair would take his meals with my family. I know we will be welcomed.”

  She stiffened. “I am English, remember?”

  Quinn shook his head. “It will not matter. Hamish owes me.”

  “Regardless of any debt owed, they will not harbor a murderer.”

  He stopped rowing. “Catarina, look at me.” She turned wet, aching eyes on him. “Do not doubt yerself.”

  Her empty hands balled into tight fists. “My father is guilty of treason. My mother was the daughter of a commoner, not to mention that I am a woman. My word is the only thing which holds less worth than my life.”

  He shook his head. “That is not true.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “To those who hold power that is the only truth.”

  She turned from his goodness and looked instead to the cliffs rising high above her head. Their stony surfaces caught the warmth of the setting sun and glowed orange like violent towers of fire.

  “Surely that is how this will end, ablaze in loss and fire,” she murmured.

  She sat unmoving as Quinn rowed toward shore. When the hull dragged the sand, he swung over the side into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore. Still, she sat fixed in place like stone while he carried the blankets, a large sack of oat flour, a bow and quiver of arrows, and other supplies from Freya into a cavern he had spotted from sea. She did not move when he reached out his hand to her or while he eventually lifted her limp body from the boat and carried her into the deep cave. He laid her down on a blanket. Her head rolled to the side, her stare vacant.

  Catarina felt adrift in despair. The acrid scent of smoke filled her nose and the crackle of burning logs, her ears. Sorrow bound her in a knot of fear and regret, pulling her into a dark place where it hurt to breathe. And then black eyes met hers. Quinn stroked her cheek, lying opposite. “There was a woman born long ago on a remote island in the Hebrides,” he began. His deep, rich voice penetrated her tangled thoughts. “The people who lived on that island took great pride in the land and sea. The woman’s father had been a fisherman and her mother the village midwife. One day, the island was attacked by Vikings who killed without mercy. Like a shoal of fish, the villagers had clung together, running for their lives. Her foot caught on a rock and she fell. Cries of agony echoed around her as the dead piled upon her. Buried beneath the tangle of bodies, she glimpsed her mother’s lifeless eyes, her father’s hands, and her sister’s long legs. The horror stole her breath, and she fain
ted dead away. When at last she came to, everyone was slain but her. For weeks, she toiled, burying the dead. Her parents were the last. Then, with the carpenter’s tools, she built a boat, though her hands bled. She set sail, and fierce storms tossed her hard-earned vessel. She awoke washed up on another island, waves lapping her aching body. Sitting up, she met kind, blue eyes belonging to a lad who fell in love with her then and there. After they married he agreed to return to the island of her birth and so did all of his brothers and their wives who were drawn to new fishing waters. By the time, her second son was born, her beloved island bustled once more with life.”

  She turned onto her side to face him, though her body ached in protest. “Why have you told me this?” she whispered.

  The fire cast his black hair with a warm glow. Emotion imbued his dark, soulful eyes as he reached out his strong hand to cover hers. “Life is never too bleak to fight for.”

  She looked away. “I am not strong like you,” she whispered.

  “Look at me, Catarina.”

  She did, and he slowly stroked his fingertip down the bridge of her nose. “My mother bore and raised six children. My sister, Rose, bore three daughters and buried them all after the massacre. Women give life. Women heal life. When men can no longer bear the pain, they leave while women standby as life slips away. Do not for a moment, doubt yer own strength.”

  Once more, tears flooded her eyes, but it was not fear or grief that made her cry. It was the exquisite pain that follows hope. She felt the heat of his body the instant before his arms came around her, pulling her close. Gently, he rocked her. She wrapped her arm around his neck and gripped his tunic in her fist. “I will fight,” she whispered again and again until at last fatigue overcame her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Salted wind filled the sail, propelling them swiftly up the Scottish coast. Quinn inhaled deeply, reveling in the spray of the waves. He had missed everything about being on the water, rocking and swaying to the pulse of the ocean, the constant sound of the surf striking shore, the birds circling overhead. Despite the grim nature of their journey and the dangers awaiting them on shore, he could not help the smile that spread his lips wide. This is what he had always lived for. Whether a fishing vessel or merchant ship, he felt the power of the sea in his soul and understood that she was the true mistress.

  Once more Catarina had her stiff back to him. He could only imagine the displeasure of her countenance. When the waves collided with their small boat, she knocked against the side. Small grunts reached his ears every time her rigid body hit wood.

  He called out to her. “My lady, there are three things in this world that are formless and can slip between yer fingers and yet so powerful they’re able to cut through stone. Do ye ken the three of which I speak?”

  She glanced back, and just as he had suspected, she looked miserable. “I am in no mood for riddles,” she snapped.

  “Time, wind, and water,” he said, ignoring her displeasure. “All three have the power to crumble rock and yet can be as gentle as a caress.”

  “I fear I see no point to your rambling, other than to distract me from the pain shooting up my battered side.”

  “I’m trying to tell ye that ye’re holding yer body as rigid as a bleeding statue. Yer fighting the sea, but ‘tis a battle yer bound to lose. She is the stronger lady by far.”

  Releasing a frustrated screech, Catarina shifted in her seat, turning about to face him. “What do you suggest I do then?”

  She looked at him expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated. His head tilted just a little to the side as he seemed to consider her. She slammed once more into the side of the ship. “If there is some relief you can provide, please delay no further.”

  A gleam lit his black eyes. “Ye must surrender control. Give yerself over to those forces that are greater than yerself.”

  She stiffened. “Are ye suggesting that I surrender to Rupert?”

  He shook his head. “Nay, my lady. Rupert is a man, nothing more, nothing less. A strong wave will flatten him the same as any man or woman. What I mean to say is that ye must forget yerself. Let yerself go.”

  He stood up. Instinctively, she thrust her arms out toward him, expecting him to lose his balance. The boat rocked, and she knocked into the side, but Quinn remained upright. He seemed to hover, to float as if stepping on the surface of the sea itself. She could not help but admire his easy stance. He took two quick steps forward and then squatted down in front of her.

  “Close yer eyes,” he said.

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  His full lips curved in a sensual smile. “Ye’ve no choice but to trust me.”

  She took a deep breath, straightening her spine, and closed her eyes.

  Her breath hitched when his large hands suddenly gripped her waist. Her eyes flew open. “How dare you?”

  “Trust me,” was his whispered reply.

  She slowly narrowed her eyes before allowing them to shut all the way. A shiver shot up her spine as his hands returned to her waist. They gently pressed her one way and then the other.

  “Match the rhythm,” he crooned. “Move with the waves.”

  She squeezed her eyes, trying to concentrate and jerked to one side.

  “Nay, lass,” he admonished softly. “Don’t force it. Just feel.”

  She jerked in the opposite direction. Frustrated, her eyes flew open. “I cannot.”

  He chuckled. “Stop trying so bleeding hard. Here, give me yer hands.”

  She shook her head, gripping firm to the rails. “I am not letting go again.”

  He gently but firmly pried her hands off the sides of the skiff. “Close yer eyes again.” This time he pressed her hands to his waist. She felt his body move and found herself matching his rhythm. Soon the sway of the waves, the sounds and scents of the sea moved through her, around her, beneath her and above—she lost where her body ended and the world around her began.

  “It is like a dance,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

  He smiled. “Aye, like making love.”

  Warmth rushed to her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands.

  He gently tugged her hands away. “Forgive me. I did not mean to embarrass ye.”

  Still flustered, she kept her eyes downcast. “I am not embarrassed.”

  “My mistake,” he said.

  “I have a child,” she blurted.

  “Of course ye do,” he said. “So ye ken what it means to be with a man.”

  Did she? She wasn’t so certain anymore, not if being with a man was supposed to feel anything like riding the waves with Quinn.

  Quinn sat back but kept his eyes locked with hers. The sun had cut through the clouds alighting her black hair with streaks of rich burgundy. Her brown eyes shone like gold.

  Catarina cleared her throat, growing restless beneath the intensity of Quinn’s steady gaze. She swallowed hard, resisting the need to look away. “Stop staring at me,” she whispered.

  He didn’t stop. She felt as though he were putting her face into memory, marking every line. She cast her eyes down unable to continue meeting those soulful, black eyes, but the moment she pulled away, she felt his absence. Once more she looked up. Still, he held her gaze, and then a smile slowly curved his lips.

  She lifted her chin. “What are you staring at?”

  “Ye, my lady. I am staring at ye.”

  Her stomach fluttered. “Oh,” she said. Her desire won over her discomfort. Seizing courage, she stared right back.

  ~ * ~

  Once again Quinn slid knee deep into the water and pulled the skiff ashore. Then he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her into the air, carrying her to dry sand.

  “The evening is warm,” he said, placing her down on her feet. “We’ve plenty of sun left. There’s a patch of wood beyond this cove. If ye situate the camp, I will hopefully bring us some fresh meat.”

  At the mention of food, Catarina’s mouth watered, and her stomach
growled, betraying her need.

  “Have some bannock while I’m gone to satisfy yer hunger. But save room in yer belly—for tonight, we feast.” He smiled, grabbing the bow and quiver of arrows. Then he turned on his heel, scrambled up the coastal rocks and disappeared from sight. She chewed her bottom lip as she scanned the shore. Quinn had asked her to ready their camp, an easy enough task. He had already carried their few supplies into the small cave where they would sleep. She marched into the cave. If she could run a castle with dozens of inhabitants, she could ready a simple camp.

  She dusted off two rock surfaces that would have to serve as stools. Then she remembered the sea grass and purple primrose they had sailed past. Smiling, she sat on one of the clean rocks and slid off her slippers. Then she gathered up the hem of her tunic and tucked it into her belt before leaving the cave. Her body tensed when the first frigid wave lapped her toes, but she fisted her hands against the shock and picked her way down the coast to where the long grasses had staked its claim on the land, despite how the ebbing waters longed to drag the sand out to sea. Filling her arms, she carried a bushel of grass back to the cave and spread it on the ground. After several trips, the cave floor was fully lined and soft to tread upon. She piled more of the long grasses near the rear of the cave where they would rest. Then she scattered flower petals over her makeshift rushes and breathed in the perfumed air. Smiling, she headed back outside and gathered seashells and smooth white stones, which she arranged in a pleasing circle where she imagined Quinn would build their cooking fire. Finally, she unfolded their blankets and laid them out on top of the soft grasses—far enough apart to satisfy her need for propriety but close enough to hear Quinn were he so inclined to tell more bedtime stories. Stepping back, she admired her hard work. It wasn’t Ravensworth Castle, but for a cave, she was satisfied with the results.

  “There,” she said out loud.

  She knew Quinn would be pleased with her efforts. Anticipating his timely return, she took her seat on one of the make-shift stools. Dirt clung to her slippers, which she brushed away along with some wayward grasses clinging to her skirts. At last feeling like their camp and her attire were presentable enough, she straightened her back and watched the cave entrance.