by Lily Baldwin
Catarina’s eyes widened. “That is dreadful.”
“Do not fash yerself,” Mary said, patting her hand. “Sloan has led a party of warriors to fetch her back. She’ll be home before ‘tis time to light the yule log, I’d wager.”
“Will ye stay on with us for a while?” Aileen asked just before she buckled over in pain. Finn scrambled from her arms, then slithered away through the dirt. “Ye wee beastie, that hurt,” she snapped. “Ye can wash yer own tunics from now on.”
Catarina clapped her hand over her mouth to contain her laughter while Mary cast her eyes heavenward. With a sigh, she shifted her gaze back to Catarina and repeated Aileen’s earlier question. “Will ye stay for a while?”
“I wish I could. I would love to be part of a clan,” Catarina said. “I truly would, but we are going to sail the skiff south and return it to its owner, Freya, who will hopefully know where my son has been hidden.”
Ruth pressed a kiss to her cheek. “And rightly so. Ye should be with yer son.”
“I need him,” Catarina said, her voice breaking. “My arms have been empty too long.”
Mary’s warm embrace enveloped her before her first tear could fall. “Where is he, lass?”
Catarina swiped her eyes and looked at Mary through a blur of tears. “Quinn and I do not know for certain, but he is convinced our search will not be long.”
“We must make certain that ye find him quickly,” Ruth said. “Come along, ladies.”
“Where are we going?” Catarina asked.
Ruth smiled at her. “To the stone circle, of course. We’ll dance a prayer to the Mother of All.”
“We can do that?” Catarina said.
Mary laughed, and they hooked arms. “Of course we can, lass.”
Catarina watched Ruth barrel ahead with her usual determination, but then she stopped and turned back, looking pointedly at Catarina. “I expect ye to not fuss this time,” she said. Then she reached up and unpinned her hair, releasing a mass of flaming red curls.
Catarina smiled. “I wouldn’t dare,” she said, her head held high. Then she freed her long, ebony hair.
Chapter Twenty Nine
The Isle of Colonsay
Two months later
Quinn jumped from his new skiff into the barreling surf and dragged it ashore. Then he reached up to Catarina. “Pass me Nicholas.”
She shook her head, clutching her son close to her heart. A smile softened his face. “Ye’ve barely let me hold him since we set out from Freya’s. I’ve missed the wee lad too.”
They had been surprised when they docked Freya’s skiff and made their way to her cottage to find her outside, lying on a blanket beneath the bright sunshine with a baby asleep at her side. When she saw their approach, Freya had stood, gathering the babe in her arms. “Bishop Lamberton turned Rory right back around,” Freya said, smiling proudly. “The bishop told him there was no safer place for Nicholas than with me.” Freya walked to where Catarina had stood in a daze and placed Nicholas in her arms. “That is until his mother returned.”
A sweet ache panged Quinn’s heart every time he remembered Catarina’s face crumple as she sobbed, hugging her son close.
Now, if he could only get her to put him down again. Quinn reached up and cupped her cheek. “He’s back in yer arms to stay, Catarina. Ye ken that, don’t ye?”
Her shoulders eased down as a long breath fled her lips. “I know it is over. I know Rupert is dead. I know Stephen is well and will set everything right at Ravensworth. I know Nicholas is safe, but as I have said before there is a difference between knowing something and believing it.”
Quinn held out his hands for Nicholas. “Try,” he said.
She kissed Nicholas’s brow and placed him in Quinn’s arms.
Quinn smiled down at the amber-eyed baby. “Welcome home,” he whispered. I hope, he thought as he shifted his gaze to scan the shore. Beyond the sand and jutting rocks, stretched a meadow of sea grass, dotted with purple primrose. And beyond that several cottages rose up from the earth. Ribbons of smoke curled out from their rooftops like fingers beckoning him closer.
“Do you think our families will be here?” Catarina said, coming to stand beside him.
He smiled down at her. “If they are not, hold fast to hope. We’ll find them. I promise ye.” He wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. Then he stared back over the field of sea grass. He squinted, trying to make out the figure he saw exiting one of the cottages. Then a rush of excitement shot through him. He threw his head back and whooped to the sky.
“Who is it?” Catarina said. “Do you know that man?”
Holding Nicholas in one arm, he wrapped his other arm around her waist and spun her around. “Do I know him?” he said, laughing. “’Tis my wee brother, Ian!”
Quinn raised his arm over his head and waved it back and forth. “Ian,” he shouted.
He watched Ian freeze for an instant, but in no time at all he was running toward them.
“Quinn,” Ian called.
Catarina scooped Nicholas from Quinn’s arms and backed away several feet when she saw the size of the man racing their way. Wild, tangled red hair gleamed in the bright sun.
“That is your little brother?” she asked, nervously.
Quinn laughed. “He’s just recently turned twenty, but don’t fash yerself. Ian’s as big as a bear but as soft as a wee puppy—so long as ye don’t make him angry.”
Catarina swallowed hard. “I will strive to remember that.”
She cringed when the brothers collided in a fierce embrace. Ian grabbed Quinn around the middle and lifted him clear off the ground. “Too tight,” Quinn gritted. “Put me down, ye giant ox.”
Ian laughed and set Quinn on his feet. “I can’t believe yer finally here. Wait ‘til Jack sees ye.”
Catarina stepped forward then, her excitement winning out over her nerves. “If Jack is here, can I assume my sister and father are as well?”
Her heart filled when Ian shifted his gaze away from Quinn to look at her. His sky blue eyes held a warmth that instantly put her at ease. “Ye must be Catarina?”
She smiled and nodded.
Ian bent low to coo at Nicholas. “Bella is going to weep buckets when she finally meets this wee lad,” he said.
Catarina’s heart quickened. “Then they are here? Please, answer me.”
Ian scooped Nicholas from her arms and passed him to Quinn. Then he turned back to face Catarina with a mischievous smile on his face. She shrieked as his hands grabbed her waist and lifted her high in the air. “They’re here,” he exclaimed. He spun her around before his arm came beneath her legs. Cradling her close, he took off, sprinting over the field. Bright laughter thundered from Ian’s chest. She squealed as the world raced past her, and then suddenly, they were standing outside one of the cottages.
Ian’s blue eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Go ahead,” he whispered. “Knock.”
She stared at the door, her heart beating wildly in her chest.
“Go on,” he urged.
Her hand snaked out and tapped the door. She stood there, holding her breath while she listened to the shuffle of feet. Then the door swung wide. A man with black hair and black eyes filled the doorway. His eyes darted from Catarina to Ian, then back to Catarina again. And then one side of his lips upturned into an irresistible sideways smile. “Ye must be Catarina,” he said. “I’m Jack.”
Jack possessed an undeniable presence, exuding effortless strength. As the oldest of the MacVie brother’s, Catarina was not surprised by his confident bearing.
“’Tis a pleasure to meet ye,” Jack said, his lips still curved in that lazy sideways grin. “But I ken yer not here to see me.” He turned his head and called back through the door, “Bella, ye have a visitor.”
“A visitor? What nonsense,” came the reply from inside.
Catarina’s breath hitched when she heard Bella’s voice. She was done waiting. She barreled past the big man in the doorway
.
“Bella,” she cried.
Her younger sister’s pale green eyes widened in surprise the instant before they flooded with tears. “Catarina!”
~ * ~
It was some time before the MacVie men could pull the Redesdale ladies apart, but Rose could not put dinner off forever. Sitting with her father on one side and Quinn on the other, Catarina’s eyes danced as she looked around the table at all the smiling faces.
“Mama would have loved this,” Catarina said to her father.
David smiled. “Yes, she surely would have.”
“More than any of your fine fortresses or castles, I would wager,” Catarina said.
David patted her hand. “That I do not doubt.”
Catarina’s heart brimmed with love as she ate and talked and laughed with her new family. Rose was as lovely as Catarina had imagined, even when she scolded Jack’s wee lassies as they raced around the table. Ian had one of the girl’s hanging off his shoulders. Apparently, he was little Florie’s favorite climbing tree. The love between Jack and Bella filled the room to bursting.
She turned then and smiled up into Quinn’s eyes. “I have found my destiny,” she whispered.
He leaned close and pressed a slow kiss to her lips. “Have ye now?”
She nodded and threw her arms around his neck. “I am part of a clan, the Clan MacVie.”
“Catarina MacVie,” Quinn said, as if tasting the words for the first time. “I like the sound of that.”
His arm came around her waist, and he kissed her, bending her back low. The table erupted with cheers, but then an even louder cry filled the room.
“Ye’ve gone and done it now,” Rose said, tsking at her brothers. “Ye’ve woken the baby.”
Catarina jumped to her feet and hurried to the basket where Nicholas fussed. She scooped him into her arms and sat in a rocking chair near the open window. She breathed deep the sea air and rocked back and forth with her baby snug in her arms.
“What a fortunate boy you are,” she crooned in Nicholas’s ear. “You will grow up here on this beautiful island, surrounded by kind men and caring women, and you will know what it means to be loved. And when it is time, your Uncle Stephen will come for you, and you will take your place as the true Lord of Ravensworth. But no matter how grand you become, remember this one thing—you will always be my baby.”
Rory
A Scottish Outlaw
Chapter One
Scotland
1302
Rory MacVie’s horse nickered and tossed its head. “Hush, lass,” he crooned, leaning forward to stroke her thick, black mane.
“He should be here already,” David hissed. “I don’t like this.”
Rory glanced sidelong at his agitated friend before once more scanning the surrounding woods, still illuminated by summer’s twilight. “Give him time,” Rory said. “Ye’re always too quick to worry.”
Several moments passed in silence. Then Rory rolled his eyes at David who had grabbed up his reins.
“Something’s not right,” David growled. “Let’s go.”
“Ye need to calm down,” Rory began, but then he heard a branch snap deep in the thicket. “Wait,” he hissed, grabbing David’s forearm, stopping him from turning his horse about. “Listen.”
Leaves rustled the instant before a flash of movement through the trees caught Rory’s eye. “He’s coming,” Rory whispered.
A white horse nosed its way into the clearing, carrying a cloaked figure. Rory’s eyes narrowed, taking in the person’s diminutive stature. They had expected a man, not a mere lad. He flexed his hand, ready to grab the sword strapped to his back if need be as he watched the rider turn his horse to face them, stopping several paces away. Rory tensed when a small hand peeked out from beneath the voluminous folds of black cloak and pulled back the draping hood.
“Bloody hell,” Rory cursed under his breath as he locked eyes with an intensely beautiful woman. Flaxen hair shone nearly as white as her snowy skin.
A slow smile curved her lips before she dipped her head and said, “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland forever.
“Alba gu bràth,” Rory said, repeating the secret password of their cause.
“Who the hell are ye?” David growled, his harsh tone causing Rory to wince.
“Don’t be an arse,” Rory snapped before turning apologetically back to the woman in front of them. “Forgive my friend, but we were supposed to be meeting one Alex MacKenzie.”
“And so ye have,” she replied, her lips now stretching into a full smile—lips so luscious Rory could almost taste their sweetness in his mouth. “I am Alex MacKenzie,” she said.
The sharp scraping of a blade leaving its sheath drew Rory’s attention away from the distracting image.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, shaking his head in disapproval as David pointed his sword at the lass.
“She’s a trap,” David snapped. “The English must have taken the real Alex and are baiting us with a pretty skirt.”
An indignant harrumph drew Rory’s gaze back to the woman.
Her eyes flashed bright with anger. “I am, indeed, Alex MacKenzie.”
God’s blood but he loved a spirited lass.
“Aye, then prove it,” David taunted. “Where’s the coin. Ye’ve no satchel, chests or saddlebags. If ye’re Alex MacKenzie, then where’s Scotland’s money?”
She cocked a golden brow before slowly sliding from her horse and landing on the ground with a heavy thud. “Ye spook easily,” she said to David.
Rory chuckled. “Ye don’t know the half of it.”
Once more, she locked eyes with him. “I require yer assistance.”
He needed no urging. In fact, he could think of nothing more he wanted to do in that moment than assist a beautiful Scottish rebel.
“Don’t trust her,” David hissed.
Rory hesitated. Could David be right? Could he be walking into a trap?
Alex raised her brow at him. “Are ye as skittish as yer friend?”
That settled matters. Rory never backed down from a challenge, especially when issued from lips as exquisitely shaped as hers. How could he resist? He slid from his horse and walked toward her, but then she turned her back on him. Confusion stopped him in his tracks. He glanced back at David, but his friend only lifted his shoulders, clearly equally as baffled.
Rory turned around in time to watch her cloak drop to the ground. “My laces, if ye please,” she said.
He stared at her long, slender back for a moment, contemplating what to do. Just as he made it a point never to back away from a challenge, he also never said no to that particular request. Still, a strange woman asking him to untie her laces in the middle of a vast forest with another man looking on was a first. He cleared his throat and closed the distance between them. Who was he to deny any lass such a simple favor? His fingers worked quickly, and in a flash, her surcote dropped to a heap around her ankles. Then she bent in front of him, giving him a stunning view of her round derriere as she grabbed the hem of her tunic. Standing, she began pulling off the dark green wool.
“If ye please,” she said sharply. The fabric around her head muffled her voice but did nothing to shield him from her annoyance.
He grabbed hold of her tunic and whisked it off her raised arms.
“I should have asked yer friend to help,” she said, glancing up at him. “Perhaps he has more practice undressing women.”
Another challenge.
Rory stepped forward, his eyes scanning the length of her. “In the future, when I remove yer clothes, I promise not to tarry.”
“Then show me ye're a man of yer word. There are layers to go still." She flashed him a smile before bending to grab the hem of her second tunic.
He swallowed the groan that rushed up his throat as he grasped the fabric from her hands and began to lift the dress, but he was amazed by its weight.
“Why the hell is this so heavy?” Rory asked.
“Did the prospect of s
eeing me naked somehow make ye forget why we’re here?” she crooned, her voice low and seductive.
“The coin?” Rory said.
She nodded.
He eased the laden fabric over her head, revealing her kirtle. The thin fabric pressed taut against her full breasts and hugged her shapely curves.
His mouth watered when she bent at the waist, lifting the hem of her under-dress.
“Ye can’t be hiding anymore?” Rory said, tightly clutching the heavy tunic.
She grinned playfully and lifted her kirtle higher, exposing a slender dirk strapped to her thigh. The blade glinted when she eased it from its sheath. Then she dropped her kirtle in place and reached for the tunic he held. She flipped back a portion. Straightaway, he noticed the small square patches sewn into the interior. She pricked at the fabric with the tip of her dirk, catching one of the patches and slicing it open, exposing a silver mark. “The entire dress is lined in them—from the bottom hem, to the neckline, even down the sleeves. ‘Tis a small fortune in silver.”
“However did ye manage to mount yer horse in this thing?” he asked.
“I had a boost,” she said coyly. “I will of course require yer assistance once more,” she said, pointing to her garments still in a heap on the ground.
Setting the coin-filled garment down, he reached for the other tunic. After pulling it down over her head, he smoothed the fabric in place, running his hand down the gentle curve where her slim waist flared to her rounded hip.
“Ye have strong hands,” she said softly over her shoulder to him.
Her praise fueled his ardor. Resisting the desire to tear off the very tunic he had just fitted into place, he grabbed her rumpled surcote and began easing the thick worsted wool over her head. Tying the laces, his eyes drank their fill, memorizing the lines of her narrow waist and rich curves.
She whirled around, surprising him the instant after he cinched the final knot. They locked eyes. Then her gaze dropped, journeying over his person with the same slow and sensual deliberation he had shown her lovely form.
