The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Catarina’s breath heaved as she followed behind Quinn. They raced along the river, but then he stopped and eyed the swift current. “The water is moving too quickly for yer scent to linger on the surface. The dogs will not be able to pick it up.” He stepped down into the river. The water rose past his knees. Then he turned and clasped her waist, lifting her. She sunk to her thighs.

  “I hope Thomas is alright,” she said, shivering with cold. Regret broke her heart.

  Quinn cupped her cheek. “Every man deserves a chance at redemption.”

  Catarina swallowed the knot in her throat. She knew Quinn was right but that did not lessen her worry. As he pulled her upriver against the swift current, her thoughts remained fixed on Thomas. After they had started their race away from the dogs, Thomas had suddenly bade them halt. He confessed to searching his father’s land for the black haired noblewoman in the hopes of collecting the reward. He even admitted to secretly rejoicing his luck when their paths crossed. That first day, he had started to lead them to where he’d heard the English lord had made camp. But he claimed that not half a day passed when he acknowledged the undeniable goodness of Catarina’s heart. He knew she was incapable of the vileness of which she’d been accused. That was when he had redirected their journey. He told them that he had even planned to bring them to his father’s clan and offer them sanctuary.

  “But it is too late for that,” he had said. “But not too late for ye.” At first, when Thomas had demanded her plaid to lead the dogs away, Catarina had refused, arguing that it was too dangerous. At her refusal he seized the blanket from her shoulders, thrusting his hand out to stop Quinn’s interference.

  “Given what I wanted to do in the beginning, I owe ye this,” Thomas blurted, backing away. “If ever I am going to think well of myself again, I need to do this. Let me save ye so that I know ye’ll always save a place for me in yer heart.” He reached for Catarina then and crushed her into his arms, placing an awkward kiss on her lips. “I’ll never forget ye,” he said.

  Then he had turned and bolted away, dragging her plaid through the leaves and pine needles.

  Catarina pressed her lips together to choke back her tears as she remembered Thomas’s sacrifice. And again she prayed for his safety. But all too soon, fatigue drained her mind of all thought other than fighting to keep her feet moving, one in front of the other. Her lungs strained. She grew increasingly clumsy. Once more, she stumbled. Her muscles tightened while she strained to remain upright. Still, she waivered and planted her foot down hard to keep her balance but cried out as pain shot through her foot.

  Quinn stopped and looked back at her. “Are ye hurt?”

  She dared not slow their course. “No,” she lied, pushing through the pain.

  On they raced, through river and forest. More than once, they were forced into the open, tearing across the heather. Her mind grew hazy, her legs seemingly moving of their own accord. And then suddenly she was flying. Quinn’s arms surrounded her, cradling her to his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and surrendered to exhaustion.

  When another dense patch of woods appeared in the distance, Quinn finished his race to reach the cover of leaves before he sat Catarina down with her back against a tree. He rested his hands on his knees while he struggled for breath. At length, he slumped down beside her.

  “Are ye alright, my love?” His eyes passed over her. His heart ached at the sight of her weariness, wishing he could save her from it all. And then he saw her feet peek out from beneath the tattered, soiled length of her tunic. One foot boasted a mud-encrusted slipper, but her other foot was bare.

  Frowning, he said, “Where’s yer slipper?”

  She tucked her toes beneath her tunic. “I lost it.”

  “Ye lost it? But when?”

  Eyes downcast, she said, “Back in the river.”

  “That was ages ago,” he exclaimed. He lifted her hemline. “Is that blood?” His heart sank. He grabbed her foot and tilted it to see the bottom. Blood smeared with mud and bits of grass but none of it could conceal the wide gash. He grabbed for her, scooping her into his arms and carrying her deeper into the woods. His eyes darted in all directions until, at last, he found a small stream and near it, a copse of birch trees. He hastened to the stream and placed her foot into the water. She winced and tried to jerk her foot free from his grasp, but he held firm.

  “Brother Matthew taught that a clean wound stays healthier,” he said as he flushed the mud and grime from the gash. He frowned at the wound’s ragged edges, doubtless from their flight through forest and over field. He clenched his fists, turning away to hide his concern from her. But inside he raged at himself. Why had he not carried her the whole time? He never should have allowed her to put one toe on the ground. Fighting for calm, he swept away leaves and debris from the forest floor with his hand. Then he turned back to her, a smile curving his lips. When he spoke his voice held a calm that belied his true panic. “Come and rest. I will not be far. I must forage for herbs. I plan to make a poultice for yer foot before I bandage it.”

  “Is it very bad?” she asked, her brows drawn.

  “Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’ve some knowledge of healing, and I think it best to tend to it properly.”

  He passed over the thicket, searching for a less densely wooded area. Arrowroot needed at least partial sunlight to grow. He had passed bushels of it earlier when they were racing through tall grasslands, but little good that did him now. He scanned the ground in search for tell-tale white flowers, but it was not the buds he was after. The leaves of arrowroot could stop the bleeding. At last, he found several large clusters. He tore the plants up by the roots, then headed back to camp where Catarina lay sleeping.

  He plucked the arrowroot leaves and crumbled them up with a handful of mint. Using a little water, he squeezed the mixture together in his hand to get it to bind. Then he packed her wound with the thick, fragrant paste. Using strips torn from his tunic, he then wrapped her foot to keep the poultice in and dirt out.

  “Is there anything you do not know how to do, Quinn MacVie?”

  He glanced up at her sleepy eyes as he tied the final knot of her bandage. She looked pale. His chest tightened, but he hid his worry with a slow half smile. “I want ye to rest,” he said, stretching out beside her.

  She reached out and touched his face. “But you have hardly slept for days. I know you did not sleep at all when Thomas was near. You need rest.”

  She was right, of course. He hadn’t slept the night before. In fact, he had only been catching patches of sleep since they had left Sinclair land. He remained ever watchful. After all, she was his to protect. This had become far more than another job, far greater than even his promise to Bella and Jack. This was his life—for she was his life now. And he would be damned if anything happened to her.

  “Lay down and rest. Please,” he said. “Do not fash yerself about me. I’ll be fine. We used to go days without sleep on the merchant ship if there was a storm. And on the fishing boat if the catch was good, we wouldn’t stop to sleep. I’ll be fine. I promise. Just rest, my love.”

  She closed her eyes, a smile curving her lips while he stroked her brow and crooned a tune, his voice soft and low. When her even breaths reached his ears, he sat back and rested his head against a tree and watched her sleep.

  Some time later, she opened her eyes. “I’m thirsty,” she gasped.

  He touched her brow. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. It was hot. He lifted her head and held the costrel to her lips. After she took a few weak sips, she closed her eyes again.

  “I’m going to check yer wound,” he said.

  He unwrapped the strips and rinsed away the poultice. It looked raw. He mixed the poultice again and repacked the wound. After securing the strips of tunic, he gently stroked her warm brow. “Tell me how ye feel?” he said gently.

  Her eyes opened. “Tired,” she said. Her heavy lids clo
sed again. “I love you, Quinn,” she whispered.

  Fear clamped tight around his heart. “I love ye.” He pulled her close. “I love ye,” he said fervently. “I love ye, Catarina.”

  Her lips curved into the slightest smile. “Lay with me.”

  He laid back and stretched out beside her, holding her close. His hand traced the swell of her hip and then threaded through her hair. He listened to her steady breathing. The gloaming hour had ushered in a cool breeze. He closed his eyes and held her tight, fighting against the fear growing in his heart.

  ~ * ~

  Quinn raced through the dark forest, pulling Catarina behind him, dogs hot on their trail. Rumbling howls and gnashing teeth spurred him ever faster. Catarina’s fearful cries tore at his heart, but he dared not slow down. Ahead, he glimpsed an opening. He skidded to a halt. A pillar of fire had shot up from the ground, like a raging beast blocking his way forward. He turned back. Another blazing tower surged up from the earth. Billowing waves of heat scalded his skin. He turned again but every direction he moved he had to jump back, as fiery fingers lashed out. He reached behind, pulling Catarina close against his back. He turned again, and he heard a burst of fire but the way forward remained open. An instant later a piercing scream rent the night, and he felt the fire’s heat behind him. He whirled around. Red-hot flames engulfed Catarina.

  Quinn jerked awake. Catarina still lay in his arms, but she burned with heat. She burned like the very fire he had dreamed consumed her. He felt her brow. It was bone dry.

  “No,” he said, his heart racing.

  She shivered in his arms, her teeth rattling, her shoulders quaking. “Please, God,” he prayed, jumping to his feet, his eyes searching. He could find some Willow Bark and make a brew that might bring down her fever, but he had nothing to build a fire, no flint or steel. Even if he could easily light a fire, he still had nothing to boil water in.

  “No, Henry,” she called out suddenly, her head jerking from side to side.

  He dropped to his knees.

  “Nicholas,” she whispered. Tears trailed down her hot cheeks.

  He wrapped his arms around her. “’Twill be alright, Catarina,” he whispered.

  He stroked her hair and tried to wake her, but she would not respond. He pressed the costrel to her lips, but most of the water dribbled down her chin. Laying her back down, he stood and raked his hand through his hair, his heart pounding. He did not have the tools nor the skills to make her well, and she was running out of time. He checked her wound once more. It had begun to fester.

  “Damn it,” he shouted. “This is not how this ends.”

  He grabbed her, lifting her into his arms as he started out in the direction of the hills beyond which Thomas had said was a village. He had no choice. To save her life, he had to risk it all and bring her out into the open.

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Hour after hour, Quinn trudged through pine forests, hastened over moors brightly laced with fragrant heather, and climbed over jutting rocks, all the while cradling Catarina in his arms. His legs stiffened with fatigue. His arms strained to hold her close as her body burned, and yet she shivered. Pushing on, he slushed through a small stream. Then, at last, beyond an open field, he glimpsed a road. He kept his eyes fastened on the goal ahead, one foot after the other. His fatigue made his head heavy. He stumbled, catching his foot on a rock, but he clasped his precious woman to his heart, refusing to yield her to the earth. He shook his head, standing straight and tall, imbuing his stride with strength. He pushed the weariness from his thoughts. His body mattered not at all nor did his life. All that mattered was getting Catarina to a healer with the skills to bring down her fever. She had to live. Only then could she once more be united with her son. Only then could she hold him close and know the fullness of God’s promise. He knew that was what she wanted more than anything else.

  The ribbon of road beckoned, compelling his stride to lengthen. He would make it to the end. Rows of golden flax flew past. He felt like a ship riding the waves toward shore. He moved as if one with the soil and wind, coaxed by his conjured sea. The dark, dust colored road contrasted with the bright golden field, making a line upon which he fixed his gaze. That dark line drew steadily closer; until, at last, he touched down his foot. Collapsing to his knees, he clutched Catarina close and breathed in her scent. Then he hung his head and was still.

  His head jerked to the side, and his eyes flew open. For a moment, he had fallen asleep by the roadside, Catarina still shivering in his arms. He looked down at her. Her rich, long hair splayed out on the ground. Thick, ebony lashes frosted her olive cheeks. Quick breaths rasped from her dry, parted lips. Shifting her weight to one arm, Quinn reached for the costrel. He ran his finger around the rim, gathering water, and painted her lips. Then he held the costrel to her mouth.

  “Drink, my love. Please,” he whispered.

  Her lashes did not flutter. She made no noise or movement to show she heard his plea. He tipped the costrel back just enough to drip a tiny stream of water into her mouth. Then he took a sip himself. Drawing several deep breaths, he prayed for strength. Gritting his teeth, he rolled back on his heels and pushed against the earth to rise. He stood once more with her cradled in his arms, and one foot in front of the other, he started down the road. Ahead, the road curved out of sight. He kept his eyes trained on the bend, not allowing himself to think beyond that goal. As he stared, the slow clatter of hooves reached his ears, and then a cloud of dust appeared. Instinct bade he hide. He turned left then right. Fields stretched out on either side of him. There was not even a tree to duck behind. He closed his eyes and prayed for mercy.

  When a rickety wagon came into view, he once more collapsed to his knees with relief. Driving a couple of old pack-horses was an even older-looking codger in the high seat, wearing a brightly decorated, wide-brimmed hat. A rainbow of feathers poked out from the brim: long, brown Golden Eagle feathers, gray and white striped Hen Harrier feathers, and the tallest white feathers Quinn could only imagine belonged to a sea eagle. Also, about the crown was a purple ring of dried heather.

  He pulled alongside Quinn. The old man’s lips buckled in, and his chin jutted out. Slowly, he smiled a toothless grin. His eyes crinkled as they strained against his heavy lids. “Good morrow,” he said warmly, dipping his fanciful hat.

  Quinn drew a deep breath and bowed his head in return. “Good morrow.”

  The codger leaned over in his seat, peering down at Catarina. “What ails yer woman?”

  “She is sick with fever.”

  The old man’s brows lifted. He might have looked surprised but for his sagging lids, which refused to rise to the occasion. “’Tis not the time of year for a fever.”

  Quinn shook his head. “She’s been injured, a gash on the bottom of her foot. It festers.”

  The old man seemed to study Catarina. Quinn frowned at the pallid tint of her cheeks and her trembling shoulders.

  “Aye,” the codger said. “She must see Abigail and at once.” Despite the urgency of his words, the old man creaked as he slowly stood and pointed to the back of the wagon. “Move my friends over and climb inside. Ye’ll find blankets too, although they’re sure to be covered with shite.”

  Quinn circled around the wagon and opened the back gate. Inside were dozens of cages of all sizes filled with a variety of animals: birds, rats, mice, bats. There was even a mountain hare.

  “My name’s Pete. I’m a trapper,” the man called out.

  Quinn tucked Catarina into the corner and then hurriedly rearranged the cages, giving them both a place to lie down. The bottom layer of blanket was clean enough. He laid Catarina down and then climbed in beside her, pulling the other blankets over their heads. Beneath the darkness, he closed his eyes and expelled a long, tired breath of relief. The wagon rumbled over ruts and bumps, lulling him into sweet oblivion. He dreamt they rocked in a skiff, heading out to sea underneath a black, starless sky.

  ~ * ~

  Quinn sat up,
jerking his head in all directions, squinting against the bright sun. The blanket had been yanked away, but he did not see the old man. Then a hat with feathers and flowers popped up on the other side of the wagon. Quinn’s shoulders relaxed when he saw the man’s toothless grin.

  “I’ll take ye in,” Pete said. “Abigail is expecting ye.”

  Quinn nodded and looked down at Catarina. He stroked her cheek. “My love,” he whispered. “’Tis time to wake.”

  Her lips parted. Her lashes fluttered, but she did not speak. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Still, she burned. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her close as he shuffled to the edge of the wagon. Around him, the village bustled. Reaching back, he grabbed a blanket and covered her before he stood. Then he dipped his head beneath a doorway and stepped into a cool, dark hut.

  At the center of the rustic cottage burned a warm fire despite the heat of the day. The smoke coiled out a hole in the roof. A pungent smell reached his nose, coming from a pot boiling over the fire. In one corner of the room there was a short wooden platform covered by a pallet and topped with a pillow made from an old seed bag. On the opposite side of the room, there was a large table with wooden bowls and leather pouches in disarray, and hanging from the ceiling above his head was a thin rope lined with herbs and bunches of flowers. Otherwise, the hut appeared to be empty.

  “Yer very tall for a monk.”

  He whirled around coming face to face with whom he guessed was Abigail. She pressed the door closed with her back, her lips curved in a wry smile. “Or not a monk as it would appear.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Abigail had lovely wide, violet eyes and wild, brown curls. Her chin came to a point, exaggerating her heart-shaped mouth. She reached out to touch the dirk strapped to his hip, but he stepped to the side and reached for the door.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” she said quickly, lunging in front of the door. “The village has eyes.”

  “Get out of my way,” he snarled.