The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

Michael bowed his head. “And so it shall, my lady.”

  Alex moved away from the others with her food. For hours, she had stood receiving her kin—not just the villagers living within the protection of Luthmore but also the cottars scattered across the countryside. Days would pass before the entire clan had come to bid farewell to their beloved laird.

  She glanced at the empty chair, and then out across the sea of villagers. Whether conjured by her despair or images of truth, she thought she noticed some of the men eying her father’s seat overly long while whispering to those who stood nearby. She imagined what they said. There is no heir—only she. Who will fill that chair? Did each man want it for himself?

  Whipping wind barreled through the open doors into the great hall, lifting her hair off her shoulders. She whirled around, her eyes drawn to the wind’s source. The banner of the MacLeod appeared, followed by a man of great height with broad shoulders and cold, hard eyes. Behind him followed another man of equal stature, scanning the room with the same harsh gaze. A heavy pulse of thick dread coursed through her. She had known her neighbors would call, but she had not believed they would call so soon. She turned and motioned for a servant, quickly handing off the sustenance she had barely tasted. Then she returned to stand in the middle of the high dais right in front of her father’s chair.

  Gordon MacLeod strode past the line of villagers. Her pulse raced harder. She was weary. The weight of grief bogged down her mind, sapping her strength. She was not ready for a standoff with the MacLeod, but that did not matter—it couldn’t matter. Her people needed her to be strong, and that is what she would do. Steeling her courage, she widened her stance and looked the MacLeod boldly in the eye as he stopped at the foot of the stairs. Despite being on higher ground, his great height reduced the impact of her strategic placement. Still, she elongated her back to claim every advantage of her position. She wanted to rid her people of fear. She wanted them to feel secure in the absence of their laird, especially in that moment of intense, vulnerable grief. Fear was all too easy a pathway to turn down when hearts were broken.

  “Gordon MacLeod,” she said, speaking first. “Ye have come, I ken, to pay yer respects to my father and my kin.”

  The MacLeod dipped his head to her, his brow pinched with a sadness that did not reach his eyes. “Clan MacLeod mourns the passing of Donnan MacKenzie,” he said loudly for all to hear.

  She clenched her fists. He clearly wished to convey his own message to her people.

  The MacLeod turned then, showing her his back, and raised his hand to beckon the attention of everyone in the great hall. “But Clan Mackenzie, know this—while yer chieftain’s chair is empty—I vow to safeguard yer borders.” Then he turned and looked pointedly at Alex, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder and said, his voice still projecting across the great hall. “My son, Eudard, is strong. He’s a warrior. He will watch over ye.”

  Alex tensed as she locked eyes with Eudard MacLeod. An arrogant smile curved his lips. She stiffened. The Laird of the MacLeod had just implied a match between herself and Eudard. The idea of binding her people to a leader as hard and ruthless as Gordon MacLeod made her stomach twist. She had to fight to suppress the disgust from appearing on her face. Drawing a deep breath, she spoke loudly to ensure her voice carried to every villager. “Clan MacLeod is strong, but so too is Clan MacKenzie. I’ve heard tell, Gordon MacLeod, that ye’ve already committed the strength of yer clan elsewhere by forming an alliance with Lord Ruddington, who sits not seven leagues from here in a castle that does not belong to him.” As she spoke, her confidence grew. She stepped down one step, bring herself eye to eye with the MacLeod. “I presume then that yer son will be occupied safeguarding the Englishman’s borders.”

  The MacLeod’s nostrils flared at her refusal of his implied proposal. “Lord Ruddington sends his condolences, and if Clan MacKenzie were to give their allegiance to King Edward, Lord Ruddington and his many knights would provide yer clan with protection and greater wealth.”

  She wanted to rail at him. How could he betray Scotland? But she knew she was not in a position to provoke the ire of the MacLeod. “We have long protected our own borders and will continue to do so. Our allegiance is to Scotland. I thank ye for yer sympathies.” She turned to Michael. “See that Laird MacLeod and his son enjoy MacKenzie hospitality and provide them with supplies to ensure a fine journey home.” Then she curtsied before turning on her heel and striding away with her head held high. The moment she passed behind the screen, which concealed the stairs to the family rooms, her knees felt like they would give way. Her heart thundered in her ears. She had held her own, but it had cost everything. She scurried up the stairs so that she might break down in private.

  ~ * ~

  Michael stood just outside the solar and listened to Alex’s sobs. He wanted to comfort her, but having known the lass her whole life, he knew had he shown himself, she would have choked back her tears and swallowed her pain. He shook his head, regretting the enormity of pressure weighted on her young shoulders. For years now, she had been the acting laird of Clan MacKenzie, but always in secret. Now that her father was dead, she would feel the full weight of that responsibility. The eyes of the clan were on her, watching, hoping, waiting—but there was only so much a woman could do. And the presence of the MacLeod today made it clear that everyone was very aware that Clan MacKenzie had no man to assume the role of chieftain. This had to be remedied, and sooner rather than later, but now was not the time. He also knew it was essential that Alex be allowed to grieve.

  Michael’s opportunity to discuss Alex’s need for a husband came just two days after the Laird’s funeral. He sought her in her solar to discuss the harvest. Once everything had been addressed, Michael cleared his throat. “My lady, we need to discuss what happened when Laird MacLeod came to…uh…pay his respects.”

  Alex stood in a huff and crossed to the mantle, taking down her father’s sword. “Pay his respects? That’s a very polite way of saying circling for the kill.”

  “Aye, well that, too. The point is, ye were right.” Michael cleared his throat again as he crossed the room. “Clan MacKenzie has always protected its borders. We do not need the MacLeod or King Edward’s protection.” He paused, waiting for her to look at him. When her eyes locked with his, he said, “But the clan does need a chieftain.”

  Her nostrils flared. “I have been this clan’s chieftain for the past three years.”

  Michael nodded. “Aye, ye have, but in secret. Alexandria, ye’re still a woman.”

  With a fierce yelp, she swung the heavy sword and brought it down on the mantle, its blade sinking into the wood. Breathless, she yanked the sword free and turned to face him. “I ken ye’re right.” She leaned the sword against the wall and expelled a long breath. “There’s no way around it. I’ll just have to find myself a husband.”

  She crossed to a side table and poured two cups of wine. Handing one to Michael, she gestured toward the high-backed chairs facing the cold hearth and said, “My father is dead. ‘Tis up to us to sort the matter now.”

  She sat down and sipped the wine. “So,” she said.

  Next to her, Michael cleared his throat. “So,” he said in reply.

  “A husband,” she muttered before taking another sip.

  “Aye, a husband,” he repeated.

  Frustrated, she set her cup down and scooted to the edge of her seat, turning to face Michael. “This shouldn’t be so difficult. ‘Tis only a husband. Ladies secure husbands every day.”

  Michael shifted in his seat, mirroring her body language. “Right,” he said. “’Tis just a husband.”

  She stood up then and started pacing in front of the hearth. “Exactly. We just need a man. Any man should do. Why not any one of the MacKenzie warriors.”

  Michael shook his head. “Nay, my lady. The MacLeod offered ye his son, and ye publicly rejected him. If ye were to now marry a commoner, doubtless ye’d start a feud. We are the stronger clan, but ye don’t want to g
o looking for trouble.”

  She stopped dead in front of Michael, her hands on her hips. “I’m not marrying Eudard MacLeod. He is a beast of a man.”

  “I agree, my lady. But having just received his offer, albeit indirectly, ye now must marry someone of noble birth.” Michael raked his hand through his hair. “After Robin died, yer father should have betrothed ye to another man straightaway. Now what do we do? I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about finding ye a husband.”

  Alex sat down again. “I can do it.”

  “Ye,” Michael snorted. “What are ye going to do? Solicit lords and clan chieftains on yer own behalf.”

  She slumped back in her chair. “I suppose ye’re right.” Then a moment later she jumped to her feet. “I’ve got it. Abbot Matthew!”

  Michael frowned. “Ye can’t marry the abbot.”

  Alex laughed out loud for the first time in days. “Michael, I think ye’re the one who needs rest. What I meant is that Abbot Matthew can find me a husband.” She crossed to the large table on the other side of the room. “I will write to him straightaway and tell him all that has occurred.”

  She took up her quill and began to compose her letter, pausing only when she heard Michael sigh dramatically. She looked up, meeting his gaze.

  He shook his head before downing his portion of wine. “Matchmaking monks—this is bound to go well.”

  Chapter Six

  “Whoa,” Rory said, bringing his horse to a halt in front of the Ankeld village blacksmith. He was greeted by the thick, shifting back muscles of Ramsay McDonough who stood, legs spread, pumping the bellows. Ramsay’s fire roared and burned brighter with every life-giving breath. Then with tongs, he retrieved a long, slim piece of tortured metal from the flames, red hot and ready to submit to the command of Ramsay’s hammer. He turned then, strands of blond hair clinging to his forehead, and brought metal to anvil, while at the same time reaching for his hammer. Down it came. The sharp clang rang out, piercing the air.

  “Alba gu bràth, Ramsay,” Rory said when next the hammer head reached toward the sky.

  Ramsay looked up, a scowl of surprise darkening his pale blue eyes the instant before a crooked smile bade Rory welcome. His hammer slammed down again. The hot metal yielded, shedding sparks like tears. Tongs pinched tightly, Ramsay removed the flattened piece and drove it into a bucket of water. Steam billowed off the surface as heat and flame surrendered to their master.

  Setting his hammer down, Ramsay reached out his hand, which Rory firmly clasped in greeting. “Go ahead,” the blacksmith said, gesturing deeper inside his stall toward a narrow door. “He’s waiting on ye.”

  Rory nodded. “As always, ye have my thanks.” Before he crossed to the door, he glanced at the road. Villagers crowded the busy streets, heading toward the green where the market had been assembled.

  “Ye’re all right,” Ramsay said, reassuringly. “Go ahead.”

  Rory ducked his head beneath the overhang and retreated into the shadows of the dim stall toward the door. Once inside, he walked past crates filled with tools, then behind a large stack of wood. Squatting low, he squeezed his fingers beneath one of the wooden floor planks. It came loose. Setting it aside, he did the same with the next, wider plank, creating enough space for his large frame to squeeze through. Darkness greeted him as he stepped down through the hole, his head still remaining above the floor. He had to duck to move the planks back in place, concealing himself beneath. Then, staying low, he turned to his right and took three long strides, which brought him to a short, arched passageway from the top of which hung a thick blue curtain. Pushing the fabric aside, he descended a small staircase into a narrow room, illuminated by two fat candles. At the far end sat a keg propped up on a stool with several tankards stacked on top. Above the keg hung a wooden sign, which read The Iron Shoe Tavern, and dominating the space was a narrow table with six wooden chairs.

  At the far end of the table, the abbot sat, busy scribbling on a piece of parchment. He looked up and waved Rory over, then motioned to a tankard placed in front of the chair at his side. “I’ve poured yer cup.”

  Rory slumped into the chair, his legs spread wide. He wiped at his eyes before stretching his neck from side to side.

  “Ye made good time,” Abbot Matthew said.

  A lazy smile curved Rory’s lips. “I rode like I was outrunning the devil himself, pardon any blasphemy.”

  The abbot, his smile unwavering, cocked a brow at Rory. “Given yer outstanding work for a higher cause, I’m quite certain the good Lord will forgive ye. Although as ye know, I cannot hear confession. Ye’ll need a priest for that.”

  Rory sat straight and reached for his cup, taking a long draught. His eyes followed the candle smoke coiling in thin ribbons through the floor boards into Ramsay’s stall above their heads, combining undetected with the ubiquitous cloud and soot of the blacksmith’s fire. The Iron Shoe Tavern was Ramsay’s contribution to the cause. Originally extra storage, he’d turned his cellar into a safe meeting place for the abbot’s agents. The clash of striking metal began again, absorbing Rory and Abbot Matthew’s conversation. Rory took another sip of ale and smiled. Ramsay even ensured they did not go thirsty.

  The abbot had returned his attention to his paper, deftly composing words in his even, disciplined hand.

  Rory stood to refill his cup. “Ye must have been mighty pleased by the last fortune of silver David delivered.”

  The abbot nodded but did not look up. “Indeed. I intend to purchase chargers to rebuild the Scottish cavalry.”

  Rory sat back, enjoying his relaxed surroundings while the sharp ringing of the hammer kept watch. “I have to tell ye, Abbot. I enjoyed that last mission in particular.”

  This time the abbot looked up and seemed to consider Rory for a moment. “Judging by the less than holy twinkle in yer eye, I feel it’s safe to assume ye met Alex.”

  Rory leaned forward, elbows on the table and raked his hands through his hair. “Met her? Abbot, I undressed her.”

  The abbot winced. “Och, knowing ye both as I do, I am not surprised to hear that, not surprised at all.” Frowning, he sat back in his seat and scratched at his shorn head. “Ye know, ‘tis interesting that ye should bring Alex up, because she’s central to the reason I summoned ye here.”

  Rory sat forward, an alarm sounding in his mind. Being an agent for Scotland was dangerous. On any given day, every one of the abbot’s agents risked capture, injury, and most certainly death. “What’s happened? Is she hurt? Was she arrested?”

  The abbot shook his head, putting up a pacifying hand. “Nay, nothing like that, lad. She’s not in immediate danger; however, that being said, she is in trouble and has turned to me for aid.”

  The tension eased somewhat from Rory’s shoulders. “What are the particulars?”

  “Her father recently passed away, may God rest his soul.”

  “God rest his soul,” Rory repeated, making the sign of the cross with the abbot. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Aye, he was a good man. Unfortunately, he didn’t settle the matter of her marriage before he passed away.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but can marriage be so important to one of yer agents, to a rebel—even if she is a woman?”

  “It is if the agent’s father is laird of Clan MacKenzie.”

  “Laird?” Rory blurted. He sat back and blew out a long breath. Images of the Alex MacKenzie he had met came rushing back to him, her slender form, her request for him to untie her laces, her cheeky smile, her strong thigh with a dagger strapped to it. “Are ye quite certain we are talking about the same woman?”

  The abbot chuckled. “Alex flouts convention to be sure. Remember, the most ruthless of nobles can often be the most polite or well-behaved. Alex has never been well-behaved. She aspires to reach far higher ideals.”

  “Did her father know of her involvement with the cause?”

  The abbot shook his head. “No one knows that I’m aware of, although I would
not be surprised if her cousin, Mary, guarded her secret.”

  “Is there not someone else with the authority to select her husband, a brother or an uncle?”

  “There is no one, and that, my lad, is the problem. Clan MacKenzie has no chieftain. Her father’s chair sits empty while those who would claim it wait for the opportune moment. Already she feels pressed by the MacLeod, a neighboring chieftain. The wealth of the clan, the desirability of their land—’tis too fine a prize for even the best intentioned to resist. There will be others who will want the wealth for themselves. Worse yet, Gordon MacLeod is in league with the English. Tensions in the region are bound to rise, placing Alex at their perilous center.”

  “What’s to be done?”

  “Before committing my life to the service of God, I was a MacKenzie. It is my duty to ensure the clan remains safe while a husband is chosen for her. To that end, I am sending three men north to MacKenzie territory. Each man is good and loyal to Scotland, not to mention highly skilled at specific elements of defense. They will ensure the MacKenzie warriors have the support and training needed to handle any possible attacks.”

  “What about me? Why am I here?” Rory asked.

  “Ye’re here for Scotland,” the abbot said, leaning closer. “Alex has a stockpile of weapons hidden away. I am sending ye north so that ye can help her bring those weapons to me.”

  “Weapons, ye say? I was just speaking to David about that very subject.” Rory smiled as he considered the prospect of another mission with Alex MacKenzie. Wetting his lips, he leaned forward. “When do I leave?”

  Chapter Seven

  Rory lagged a little behind the three other men as they rode across the long, narrow bridge toward the outer battlements of Luthmore castle. He had chosen to remain on the periphery of their group for the duration of the journey north. It was not that Rory disliked the others. After all, Abbot Matthew’s estimation of character was never made lightly. If he had chosen Adam, Robert, and Timothy to provide the MacKenzie warriors with support in the absence of a laird, then Rory had to trust they were each worthy of the task. And over the last two days, he had judged them all to be decent sort of men and loyal to Scotland. Still, they were noblemen.