The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “Not to worry. He’s a friend.” Quinn opened the door. “Good morrow, Pete.”

  “Good morrow, yerself,” Pete said, shuffling inside. His eyes went straight to the bed. “Look there,” he said, smiling. “Yer a better color today.”

  Catarina smiled.

  “This is Pete,” Quinn said to her. “He brought us here to Abigail’s.” Then Quinn shifted his gaze to the old man. “Have ye come then to check on us?”

  Pete nodded. “Aye, I did that, and also I’ve come to beg a favor. I need a strong back.”

  “What has happened?” Quinn asked.

  Pete shrugged. “I was driving my horses down the pass just as some cattle crossed. My wagon overturned, scattering my friends to the wind.” He winked pointing to the new stuffed bird on his hat. “I did catch a few mind, but I cannot right my wagon alone.”

  Quinn put his hand out and rested it on the old man’s shoulder. “I owe ye that and more, but I do not wish to leave my lass all alone in her condition. Is there anyone else ye could ask?”

  Pete scuffed his foot on the ground. “’Tis just that I’m not well liked in these parts.”

  Quinn paused. He hated to leave Catarina, but he was indebted to Pete. Finally, he turned to her. “We owe this man our lives. This one favor I must do.”

  Catarina nodded, her lids growing heavy.

  “I will not delay,” he vowed. “Rest, my love. I will be here when ye wake.”

  Catarina savored the feel of Quinn’s lips when he kissed her goodbye. She smiled at him but was too weak to wave as he headed toward the door. She kept her eyes trained on his broad shoulders as he stepped outside. When the door shut, a chill coursed up her spine, and for a moment, she was afraid. But a haze of fatigue soon laid claim to her mind. Her body ached. She was too weak to even sit up. In moments, she succumbed to sleep.

  She knew not how long she slept when suddenly she jerked awake, a loud noise still echoing in her mind. Her hands shook as she brought them to her face and wiped her weary eyes. Then she struggled to lift her head. Her breath hitched. Three knights stood in the small cottage, the visors on their helmets pulled low so that she could not see their faces, but by the crest on their surcotes, she knew they were from Ravensworth. She opened her mouth to scream, but then another man, suddenly, filled the doorway. The sight of him stole her breath. His face she knew all too well. Fear gripped her heart as a sickening smile slowly spread his lips wide. He eased the door shut behind him.

  “I’ve been looking for you,” Rupert said. “I’ve crossed mountains. I’ve slept on hard ground.” He pushed past the other knights and crossed to her beside. Before she could take her next breath, he bent over, his face hovering just above her own. “You have been a very bad girl.”

  She shrank back. Her eyes darted across the room, looking imploringly at the faceless guards. But they made no move to help her, and then she remembered why. They looked at her and saw murderer, someone who had stolen away the heir of Ravensworth. She thanked God above in that moment, even while the enemy breathed down her neck, for giving Quinn the foresight to not have kept Nicholas in their company. Because if they had, he would be done for.

  She weakly gripped the bedclothes and fought to sit up, but she could barely raise her neck. She knew then she could not run. There was no escape. The fever had stolen her strength, but not yet her resolve. She screamed for Quinn and Abigail, but the sound wheezed from her aching body.

  A chilly laugh erupted from Rupert’s lips. “Scream all you want, whore. Quinn is dead.”

  ~ * ~

  As Quinn walked beside Pete he glanced at the new addition to Pete’s hat—a stuffed male Robin. Quinn could not help feeling like the Robin were, indeed, watching him. It was so lifelike he half expected it to fly away, but there it stayed, seemingly content on its perch, forever memorialized on an old man’s hat. Quinn shook his head in wonder of how the people of Mathas could dislike such a kind man. Although eccentric to be sure, he obviously meant well. They carried on, slowly walking through the outskirts of the village onto what Pete called Hill Pass. Straightaway, Quinn saw Pete’s overturned wagon and a dozen empty cages, with doors open wide, scattered about the roadside.

  Quinn clamped his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “All yer hard work. I’m sorry for the loss of yer animals.”

  Pete shrugged. “’Tis the nature of trapping. Cages fill up only to be emptied once more.” He shrugged again. “If I starve, I starve. No one will miss an old codger like me.”

  Pete reached for the wagon, but Quinn stayed his hand. “Save yer strength. I’ve rested since last ye saw me.” Quinn bent low, bringing his back beneath the side of the wagon. Straining with all his might, he rocked it back on its wheels. “Now, do me a favor,” Quinn said through ragged breaths. He leaned against the side of the wagon. “That was no easy matter. Let the cows go first next time.”

  Pete laughed and clapped his hand on Quinn’s back. “Thank ye kindly.”

  Quinn smiled and reached into his tunic pocket and took out a few coins. “Here,” he said to Pete. “Take this. Had ye not stopped to help me yesterday, ye might not have been on this road today when the cattle came through.”

  Pete made no move to take the money.

  Quinn reached out and took the old man’s gnarled hand and pressed the coins to his palm. “Take it,” Quinn said. “I’ll not let ye starve.”

  A rush of air fled Pete’s lungs as he looked up at the man with honest, black eyes. Then he looked down at the coin in his hand, which had been freely given with no true fault to bear. He closed his palm and looked Quinn dead in the eye. “Run,” he said.

  Quinn’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

  “Run!”

  Quinn heard the unsheathing of a blade behind him, and his heart sank.

  Pete scuffed on his heels toward the thicket. Quinn watched as the robin bobbed above the bushes and then disappeared into the trees before he slowly turned around to face three knights, each man bearing the Ravensworth crest on his shield. Quinn reached for the dirk in his boot, but his fingers swiped only air. He scowled. He had left it on the table back at Abigail’s where Catarina was all alone. Rage surged through him, rage at himself for trusting the old man, rage at the men who would do Catarina harm. He balled his fists at his sides and glared at the knights in front of him. “If you want me, come and take me,” he snarled.

  One of the soldiers stepped forward, his sword at the ready, but then the knight in the middle snapped, “Stay where you are. Do nothing unless I issue an order.”

  Quinn narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the knight’s helmet to the man beneath. He tensed when the knight in command walked toward him. He raised his sword, but not to swing. Instead, he sheathed his blade and pulled his helmet off. Quinn knew him at once.

  “Sir Stephen,” Quinn said, grabbing his forearms. “Ye’re her friend. Ye’re dear to her. Ye of all men know she didn’t do it. Ye know she didn’t kill yer brother. She could never hurt anyone.”

  Stephen stared Quinn hard in the eye, but then a long breath fled his lips. Shaking his head, Stephen sunk to his knees in front of Quinn. “I do not know what to believe, not anymore.”

  Quinn reached down and grabbed Stephen’s surcote, jerking him to his feet. “Aye, ye do,” Quinn gritted in his face. “Ye know she is innocent. Ye just need to find the courage to believe it.”

  Stephen pushed away from Quinn. He sucked in a hard breath. “Yes, you are right. I have ignored my heart for too long.” Then he turned to his men. “We have to stop Rupert.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Catarina struggled to swallow against the gag stretching her lips wide. Rope bit into her wrists. She jerked her hands, but the harder she struggled, the tighter her bindings became. She fought back tears that lodged like a boulder in her throat, but the fever had sapped her strength. Still, despite how her body ached and fear set her heart to race, she refused to surrender her dignity to Rupert. Breathless, she scanned her s
urroundings. She was in his tent, the sides of which were staked to the ground. The open flap in the front was the only way in or out, not that she considered escaping. Even if she could get past Rupert, she could barely stand, not to mention having to run from dogs and knights on horseback.

  The surrounding furnishings were sparse, just a pallet upon which she sat and a small table with one chair on the opposite side of the tent where Rupert sat, staring at her. She scowled, glaring back at him. He stood then and stalked toward her, only to retreat when he came within a few feet from where she sat. She grew still, realizing, in that moment, how changed he was. His once rugged face appeared gaunt. The bones of his narrowed shoulders jutted against the fabric of his tunic at harsh angles. His back curved, and red blotches covered his skin.

  He returned to his seat at the table, still eying her while he grabbed a large jug and threw back three goblets worth. Her parched mouth betrayed her. She swallowed hard, coveting whatever was in his cup. He downed a forth, slamming the empty goblet on the table. Wiping his sleeve across his mouth, he stood, his eyes narrowing on her. She fought for calm while he walked deliberately toward her. Her eyes traveled up his baggy hose and ill-fitting tunic to his red-rimmed eyes. She shuddered when he slowly squatted down in front of her. Stale beer scented his breath. She cringed, straining away as he reached out his iron hand.

  “Wipe that disgust from your face,” he spat, his foul mouth a breath from her own. “This is all your doing, none but yours.” He grabbed her neck with his good hand and held her still while cool metal raked down her face and neck.

  She glared at him, but then she froze. His wide eyes did not waver from hers, even when he accused her of his crime. She slowly shook her head in disbelief. He actually believed that she had somehow driven him to kill Henry, that the blame was, indeed, hers. Once more his iron hand grazed her cheek. She remained still. Then he reached out with his good hand and untied the gag. Her jaw ached. He stroked his iron thumb across her lips. She stiffened but did not jerk away. Her eyes narrowed on him. Rupert always favored his iron hand when he had violated her in the past as if it somehow separated the man from the deed. The cold metal was to blame—he had not even touched her. Fury coursed through her. He really was nothing more than a coward. She straightened her back. It was time Rupert accepted responsibility for his actions.

  “You killed Henry,” she said simply.

  His eyes widened for a moment, but then he reached out and grabbed her chin with his good hand. “Remember the poker? It was you,” he sneered.

  She kept her face impassive. “You killed Henry.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t,” he snapped.

  Her heart raced. She looked away and took a deep breath. Finding her calm, she said it again. “You killed Henry.”

  His face flustered with rage “I didn’t,” he growled.

  “You killed Henry,” she said again. “Henry died by your hand alone.”

  “Shut up,” he cried.

  “You killed your brother. You killed Henry,” she said, more forcefully, tears stinging her eyes.

  He shoved her back with his iron hand.

  “You killed Henry!”

  “It was an accident,” he snarled. With his good hand, he tore her tunic asunder, exposing her thin kirtle. His eyes settled with greed on her breasts.

  “You killed Henry,” she cried.

  He growled and ripped open her kirtle. His mouth covered hers, his tongue forcing her lips apart. She struggled against him, but her wrists were still bound. She bit his tongue. “You killed Henry. You killed Henry,” she screamed again and again.

  His hands came around her throat. “Stop saying that!”

  She couldn’t breathe. Her heart pounded in her skull.

  “What are you doing?” a man’s voice cried out the instant before a hand clamped down on Rupert’s shoulder, yanking him off of her. An angry cry tore from Rupert’s lips.

  She gasped for air. “Stephen,” she croaked when she saw him and reached out her arms. Tears of hope blurred her vision when he rushed to her side, but Rupert seized him from behind. “No,” she cried when Rupert’s arm came around Stephen’s neck, but then movement near the opening of the tent caught her eye. Her heart quickened when she saw Quinn race inside. Fury twisted his features as he dove at Rupert, driving his shoulder into Rupert’s side. All three men landed on the ground. Gasping for air, Stephen scurried over to Rupert and thrust the tip of his dirk beneath his brother’s chin. “Take her out of here,” Stephen said to Quinn. “I’ll deal with him.”

  Quinn crossed to Catarina’s side and seized her face between his hands, kissing her hard on the lips before he scooped her into his arms and raced outside.

  “Are ye hurt?” Quinn said. His eyes scanned over her, searching for injury. Then he set her on her feet and ripped off his tunic and quickly pulled it over her head, covering her torn garments.

  “I am still weak,” she said. “But he did not hurt me, not really.”

  Quinn pulled her close. “I will never let ye from my sight again, not ever,” he vowed. Looking over Catarina’s head, he saw Stephen step from the tent. Quinn started toward him, but then Stephen looked at him with dazed eyes. Quinn froze. “What happened?”

  Stephen shook his head slowly. “He stabbed me,” he said in disbelief, pulling his hand away from his side. Blood seeped down his surcote.

  “Stephen,” Catarina cried.

  Quinn lunged forward, catching Stephen before he hit the ground. “Get him out of here,” Quinn said as he passed Stephen’s limp body over to one of the Ravensworth guards.

  “He is going nowhere!”

  Quinn looked back. Rupert stood just outside the tent.

  “No one is going anywhere, least of all you, Quinn MacVie,” Rupert snarled. “Seize him,” he ordered.

  Quinn planted his feet wide, ready to fight as he scanned the grounds. Not one of the six knights moved.

  Rupert glared at his men. “I am Lord Ravensworth. You will obey me. Seize him!”

  “You are lord of nothing,” Catarina cried. Quinn pulled her behind him.

  “You are cowards, all of you,” Rupert raged. Then he stepped forward, his eyes darting around the camp. “Where is Jasper? Jasper!”

  Jasper heard his master call. With his dogs trailing behind, he climbed down from the stone wall where he had been watching events unfold. A long stem of wheat stuck out between his lips while he slowly walked through the guards and into the open. Masking his emotions, he bowed his head to Rupert.

  “I want you to finish him,” Rupert snarled, pointing to Quinn.

  Quinn looked at the dog handler who bowed again to Rupert and began untying his dogs’ leashes. The largest of the hounds snarled and snapped her jaws, her jowls pulled back to reveal sharp teeth. Quinn’s eyes widened when he realized Rupert’s intent. He thrust Catarina away from him and into the arms of a nearby knight. Then he widened his stance and braced himself for the onslaught of vicious dogs.

  “Finish him!” Rupert cried again.

  Jasper squatted down beside Molly and scratched her behind the ear. “Ye heard him, Molly.” Jasper smiled and locked eyes with Rupert. “Finish it,” he hissed.

  Rupert screamed and dropped to his knees, shielding his head as the pack of hungry dogs flew at him with bared, gnashing teeth.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Quinn MacVie never ran his horse ragged, and he’d berate any man who did. But if he had to choose between the well-being of a horse or that of a woman—he would pick the woman every time.

  “Look, Quinn! I can see the village. We are almost there,” Catarina cried as she scanned the distant village of the Clan Sinclair. “Shall we race the rest of the way?”

  Quinn smiled. Then he leaned down and stroked his mare’s mane. “What do ye think?” he said to his horse.

  “Please,” Catarina said, her eyes dancing with excitement.

  Laughing, Quinn nudged his horse into a gallop. “Alright, but not
too fast. These horses have carried us a long way.”

  To Catarina it felt like coming home as they thundered through the wooden gates and back into the hearts of the Sinclairs. There was not a dry eye among the women as they celebrated with hugs and laughter. Even Ruth’s stern countenance softened as she cupped Catarina’s face. “Och Katie, ye blessed lass. ‘Tis glad I am to see yer smiling face.”

  “But she is our Katie no longer,” Mary said, giving Catarina a playful pinch at the waist.

  Ruth arched her brow pointedly at Catarina, making Catarina’s cheeks warm. “I hope you will all forgive me,” she said.

  Mary pulled Catarina close again. “There’s nothing to forgive, lass. Anyway, I should have known ye were a Catarina and not a Katie the first time I saw ye make bannock.”

  Catarina’s face ached from smiling as she gazed upon the familiar faces. Aileen clutched a wriggling Finn in her arms. Apparently, he had woken up as a snake three days in a row, but Aileen refused to set him down. “His tunics will never wash clean. So I told him that I woke up a cage this very morning, and he’s trapped until he wakes up as something sensible that walks on two legs.”

  Catarina burst out laughing, but then she realized someone was missing. “Where is Jennie?” she said, scanning the courtyard.

  Straightaway, the merriment came to an end. Catarina frowned at all the somber faces. “What has happened?”

  Mary shook her head sadly. “Someone from Clan MacKay came for her. But as it turns out, they might have beguiled the lot of us.”

  “I do not understand?” Catarina said.

  Ruth cleared her throat. “They were warriors from Clan MacLeod posing as MacKays.”