The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “Are ye going to answer me, lass?” Ruth said.

  Catarina nodded and reached toward her own bun protectively. “I do not care to let down my hair.”

  She clucked disapprovingly. “I’ve allowed ye yer lowlander quirks, but here is where I draw the line. Ye’re a married woman among us,” she said, taking an exasperated tone.

  Catarina lifted her shoulders. “I do not understand.”

  Ruth’s face started to turn as red as her hair. “We’ve the sacred role of giving birth to the sun,” she said.

  As if Catarina was supposed to have guessed that. She stood her ground. “I would rather not.”

  But Ruth also stood her ground and with her greater height and build—she stood higher and stronger. “Let me put it to ye like this. Either ye take it down or I do. Ye choose.”

  Catarina pressed her lips tight, swallowing a curt reply. How she missed being the one to give orders. “Fine,” she snapped. She unraveled her black bun, her hair cascading in waves past her waist.

  A slow smile spread across Ruth’s face until she was nigh beaming at Catarina. “I never would’ve believed that ye could be bonnier still, yet there ye are as beautiful as the blessed mother herself.” Her smiled quickly faded, replaced by a stern set to her lips, although Catarina had a harder time believing her seriousness beneath all that lavish red hair. Ruth motioned to the flowers in Catarina’s hand. “Put the crown on lass and come along. The hour has come.”

  The ladies joined hands, closed their eyes, and began a quiet chant in Gaelic. Catarina scanned the circle in awe, admiring the beauty of the women and their fervent words, but when her gaze passed Ruth, she stiffened. Ruth did not have her eyes closed like the other women. Instead, she was watching Catarina with an unmistakably expectant expression pinching her sharp features. With her next breath, Catarina attempted to repeat the challenging words and earned a smile from Ruth for her effort. When her tongue mastered the chant, her own eyes closed as if of their own accord, and soon, she was swept away on wings of Highland magic, sashaying and spinning, her heart pounding and her mind free. Her bare feet danced upon the warm summer earth as something wild emerged from her soul. And then suddenly the world beyond the circle erupted with whoops and calls, and men raced among them, grabbing their wives. Laughing she scanned the men, searching for black hair and even blacker eyes. Then she found him. He stood as if frozen in place, not speaking or smiling, only staring.

  “What’s the matter with ye,” Mary laughed, patting Quinn on the back. “Ye look like ye’ve never seen yer wife before.”

  Quinn said nothing in reply, and his eyes never wavered. Catarina shifted on her feet, knowing that everyone was now staring at her. She swallowed hard at the intensity she glimpsed in Quinn’s black eyes. And then he started toward her, his brow furrowed, his hands clenched. Her knees felt weak as he reached out and pulled her hard against him, digging his fingers through her unbound hair. His lips descended upon hers, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. His tongue delved between her lips, coaxing hot flames to spread throughout her whole body. Their marriage may have been a pretense, but the feelings he stirred within her soul could not have been more real. His lips tore away, forcing her eyes to open.

  “I’ll not apologize for kissing ye,” he whispered.

  She pressed closer still. “I will not ask for one.”

  Her heart pounded in her ears as she prayed for him to do it again. Her heart soared when he slowly lowered his lips to hers. This time his kiss was soft, his lips barely grazing hers. It was a whisper, the barest of caresses. Her lips trembled beneath the breathless touch. Through a haze of longing, she heard their company calling out cheers to them.

  She gripped his arms. “Please stop,” she whispered. “Whatever you are doing to me, I do not want to share with everyone else.”

  He pulled back slightly and cupped her cheek. “I would share ye with no one, but this is not over.”

  He cleared his throat and pasted a smile on his face as he acknowledged the continued celebration of the clan. Then he turned to Ruth. “Should we not return to the village and get preparations underway.”

  The reminder of duty made Ruth visibly bristle. “Come along, the lot of ye,” she called before charging between two tall stones, her husband making a show of jogging to keep up. Catarina laughed at his antics, then turned back around, seeking Quinn’s warm arms. But before she could reach him, Mary swept past Catarina, grabbing her hand. “Come on, Katie. Ye can help me.”

  Stumbling away, Catarina glanced back at Quinn. His eyes held the promise of his words. Desire anchored deep in the pit of her stomach, burning and needful. His words echoed in her mind. This is not over.

  Her heart thudded. Dear God, she hoped not.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Catarina felt a lightness in her stride as she walked arm and arm with Mary. Ruth and several other ladies had barreled ahead toward several long trestle tables, positioned in a row in the courtyard. The tables were covered with various bowls, knives, spoons, and sacks.

  Lady Joan caught her eye when she signaled for Ruth to come forward. Catarina could tell Ruth listened to her lady’s words intently. It was clear the clan’s lady was instructing Ruth on her expectations for the feast. Likely they were reviewing the menu and ensuring there would be enough to go around.

  “Don’t stand there staring,” Mary said, waving her hand in front of Catarina’s eyes. “Not when there’s work to be done. Ruth will give ye some ghastly task if she thinks yer not pulling yer weight.”

  The threat of a ghastly task made up Catarina’s mind. She charged toward a table and blurted, “I will make bannock,” to the women standing there. She did not wait for anyone to confirm or deny her intention. She didn’t dare when bannock was the only thing she knew how to cook. She grabbed for the sack of ground oats before anyone else could volunteer and poured a heap into a wooden bowl. Then she reached for the water bucket and scooped a ladle full.

  “What are ye doing, lass?” Mary said, staying Catarina’s hand.

  Catarina smiled at the plump woman, trying not to look like a rabbit caught in a trap. “I am making bannock of course.”

  Mary chuckled, her green eyes sparkling. “Don’t skimp on the flavor, lass. We’re not sending our men off to battle. Use the milk and lots of butter. ‘Tis St. John’s Eve, don’t ye know?”

  Catarina glanced down at her bowl of ground oats. Could bannock actually have flavor? She cleared her throat. “Right you are, Mary. You’ll have to forgive me. You see my family is quite poor. We have seldom enjoyed the privilege of milk and butter.”

  Mary raised a skeptical brow. “Yer people had money enough to see that ye could speak like one of yer betters.” She tsked her disapproval, eying Catarina’s trim waist. “What they should’ve done was fatten ye up with some cream and butter.” Clearly determined to do just that, Mary cut off a large hunk of butter and added it to Catarina’s bowl of oat flour. Several minutes later, Catarina had a bowl of dough ready for the grilling stone. She set to the task of shaping cakes and placing them on the hot stone, pausing only to add more peat to the fire when necessary. Cooked bannock went piping hot into a linen covered basket.

  She had to admit it was all very satisfying. The women chatted while they worked. Catarina laughed outright when Aileen, Mary’s daughter, told them that her wee brother, Finn, had woken up as an eagle that morning.

  “I tell ye, Katie. He climbed up onto the roof of our cottage and after sticking a foot through the thatch, he leapt off, his arms spread wide, a look of pure joy on his wee face.”

  Catarina’s dough-covered hand flew to her mouth in alarm. “Did he sustain an injury?”

  “Nay,” a young woman of around seventeen years named Jennie chimed in, her golden, brown hair shimmering beneath the bright summer sun. Earlier, Catarina had found herself staring at Jennie while they had worked. Her beauty was captivating. When she laughed, her whole face lit up.

  “Sloan heard us
hollering for Finn to get his wee arse down,” Jennie continued. “And he arrived just in time to break Finn’s fall.”

  “Who is Sloan?” Catarina asked.

  Jennie blushed crimson and suddenly seemed very occupied with the herring she dusted in flour.

  “He’s one of our finest warriors,” Mary said. “And not bad to look at either with his blond hair and bright green eyes.”

  “He is that,” Aileen laughed. “Although, ye might not have guessed as much had ye seen him flattened to the ground with Finn squawking on his head and a pile of steaming cattle shite under his rear.” Aileen’s laughter rang out. “I told him he’d better clean up or nary a lass would dance with him tonight.”

  Catarina’s belly cramped from laughing. “Where is your son now, Mary?”

  “I told him he had to help the womenfolk with the baking, but he refused. Apparently, eagles are no good at mixing dough or turning spits.” Mary started flapping her arms like wings, her round face brimming with humor. “On account of the feathers, ye see,” she said to Catarina. “So I sent him to gather St. John’s wort and verbain. He should be along soon enough.”

  Aileen laughed. “He’ll carry the sack between his teeth, I’d wager.”

  Sometime later, a young lad did race up to the table where Catarina worked with Mary. He had a large sack stuffed to the brim with yellow and purple flowers gripped tight in his hand, and about his head was a crown of oak leaves.

  Mary scooped him into her arms. “Where has my eagle gone?” she said, pushing Finn’s long chestnut colored hair away from his freckled face.

  “Quinn made me Oak King,” Finn said, his dirty face smiling proudly.

  “Did he now?” Mary laughed.

  Curious, having heard Quinn’s name, Catarina moved closer.

  Finn nodded. “He saw me trying to pick verbain with my beak and that’s when he told me about the Oak King. He said that someone had to bring sunshine to the land. I told him an eagle could, but he said it would burn my feathers. Then he put the leaves on my head.”

  “Ye’re a fine Oak King for certain,” Mary said, placing a kiss on his mussed hair. Then she turned to Jennie. “Take him down to the spring, love, and give him a bath.”

  Finn started to complain, but when Jennie opened her arms for him, he gave no further protest. Catarina smiled, thinking even Finn was not unaffected by Jennie’s remarkable beauty.

  Mary sighed. “His wee heart will break when Jennie’s family at last comes for her.”

  Catarina looked up from the carrots she was chopping. “Jennie is not a Sinclair?”

  “Her mother was,” Mary said. “Lara and I were the best of friends in our youth. But her father married her off to a MacKay.” Mary’s eyes welled with tears. “Their cottage caught fire when Lara’s husband was off raiding the MacLeod.” She swiped at her wet cheeks. “Lara and her wee son were trapped beneath a fallen beam, only Jennie survived. Poor thing had nightmares for years.”

  “How did Jennie end up here?” Catarina asked.

  “Her father, Dearg, brought her here. She was but seven at the time. He said he didn’t ken how to raise a lass, but I knew it was really because he couldn’t handle the sight of Jennie. She is the very image of Lara, and I watched him tear up every time Jennie spoke one word to him. Anyway, he said he’d be back when he married again and could give her a new mother.”

  “But that must be ten or more years ago,” Catarina said.

  Mary nodded, sadly. “Aye, ten years come the winter.”

  “Do you really think he will ever return?”

  “Nay, I do not,” Mary said. “But Jennie does.”

  Mary stood then and wiped her hands on her apron. “Enough sad talk. ‘Tis St. John’s Eve after all.”

  Catarina smiled and crossed to where Aileen sat weaving flowers into crowns and bunching stems together for hanging. Copying Aileen’s movements, Catarina piled finished bunches together. While they worked other clanswomen joined them, and soon there was a merry group chatting and laughing. The younger lasses jested about for whom they wore their St. John’s crowns. Mary plopped on the ground next to Catarina. Breathing hard but smiling brightly, her cheeks looked like big, red plums still in need of ripening.

  “Mary, you have been toiling without stop since before I rose this morning, I would wager,” Catarina said, squeezing Mary’s hand.

  Mary chuckled. “Since it was I who woke ye, love, ye must be right. But don’t fash over me. I’ll just sit for a spell. Then it will be time for us all to clean up and make ourselves ready.”

  A moment later, someone pressed a kiss to her cheek. She looked up shielding her eyes from the sun to see Quinn smiling down at her. “Come,” he said, offering her his hand. “There is something I want ye to see.”

  Catarina turned to Mary, seeking permission.

  Mary’s plump fingers patted her hand. “Ye’ve done well today, love. Run along and be with yer man. We’ll see ye when the fires are lit.”

  Her hand nestled in Quinn’s, Catarina turned and started to walk away, but then Mary called to her.

  “Katie, come back, love.” She held out one of the flowered wreaths and several bunches of verbain. Catarina sniffed at the small, purple flowers. “They’re not for smelling, lass. Leave that for the fairfolk. And don’t go putting that wreath in yer hair. Be sure to hang it on yer door. Ye must guard against roaming spirits.”

  Catarina frowned. “Roaming Spirits?”

  “Aye, ye heard right,” Mary said. “Do as I’ve told ye, for the doors between worlds will be wide open tonight.”

  She glanced at the other women. They all nodded in support of Mary’s warning.

  Catarina cleared her throat. “Alright then, I will be sure to take every precaution.”

  As they walked away, Quinn wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “They’re right, ye know, about the spirits. But don’t worry,” he said with a wink. “That’s what the bonfires are for.”

  He led her beyond the village defenses. Rolling moorland stretched to the west while to the east the sea could be seen in the distance. He pointed to where men hauled massive piles of stick and brush. Dusting off a wide, flat rock, he helped her sit, and together they watched the men work. At length, the laird himself walked toward the first mound with a flaming torch in hand. He said something in Gaelic.

  “Do you know what he said?” she asked Quinn.

  He shook his head. “I speak Latin and French. The only Gaelic I know would be banished from tonight’s festivities.”

  She laughed and rested her head on his shoulder, sleepy after a day of labor.

  “Now they are going to walk the cattle around the fire,” he said, pointing to the line of cows.

  “Whatever for?”

  “To keep the evil spirits away.”

  “What mischief do these spirits cause?” Catarina asked.

  “They wreak all manner of havoc and ill fortune. They have been thought to poison springs, rile the spirits of animals, even steal the souls of children.”

  Catarina chewed her lip. “Mayhap, we should heed Mary’s advice.”

  Quinn scanned the sky. “We should hurry. The sun is sinking. And trust me—this is one festival ye do not want to miss.”

  ~ * ~

  Catarina threw her head back and laughed as she snaked around the throng of Highlanders, trailing behind Aileen and Jennie, dancing a fierce reel. The pace of the drums quickened and so too did their feet. Then suddenly the drums stopped, and the aching sound of a lone piper filled the night.

  The single instrument commanded the attention of the clan. Catarina held her breath as the notes seemed to drip from the pipe, slow and heavy. The sound was hungry, filled with longing. It was primal and touched something deep within her, beckoning her. A large hand slipped into hers, causing her breath to hitch. Wildness and turmoil filled her soul to bursting. She dared not look up and meet Quinn’s gaze, not when she was filled with so much that she did not understand
and had no words to describe. She felt his thumb beneath her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. He pulled her close, pressing her body flush to his, and then they started to move to the ethereal sound. Lady Catarina would have thought their dance vulgar. Katie thought it primal.

  “Kiss me again,” she whispered, meeting his black eyes.

  “I cannot,” he answered.

  Rejection smothered her breath. She stiffened and cast her eyes to the ground. But he cupped her cheeks and brought her eyes back to his. “If we kiss again like we did this morning, ye become mine, my lady.”

  Her stomach fluttered. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am not your lady.”

  He arched a brow at her. “Nay?”

  She shook her head, then rose up on her toes, bringing her lips just a breath from his. “I am your lass,” she whispered.

  His hands came beneath her arms, and he lifted her into the air, straightening his arms to the sky. She flung her head back as he spun her around. And then he lowered her, her body sliding down his until they were face to face. “Say it again,” he said, his voice strained and husky.

  “I am your lass,” she whispered.

  A growl fled his lips before claiming hers. He swept her into his arms, and her feet did not touch the ground again until they were in their beautiful hovel. He kicked the door shut with his heel. Then he set her down on her feet and turned around, pressing her back into the door. His hands dug into her hair while his lips claimed hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close. Fire scorched her body, and she gave herself over to the heat. Her hands gripped the sides of his tunic, pushing it high. He pulled it the rest of the way over his head. She stepped back, raking her eyes across his strong chest. Then he seized her arms and raised them over her head. She felt the caress of fabric brush her skin while he tore off her tunic and kirtle. Her hands moved instinctively to cover her body. She had never stood naked for a man.