The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  Alex froze. She should have known Leslie would have sensed Rory’s presence, even though he hadn’t made a sound.

  Leslie waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t go confessing the truth to me now. I’ll meet him at yer wedding.”

  “But—” Alex started to deny that Rory would ever be her husband, but Leslie had turned and held up his hand to stop her.

  “Lassie, I may be blind, but that just means I can see what others can’t. There’s a man standing over there,” he said, pointing to the exact spot where Rory stood. “And his heart pounds for ye, and yers pounds for him. Just like mine pounds for this honeycomb.”

  Alex watched while he shuffled away chuckling. “Aye, lass,” he called back. “Love takes many forms.”

  She turned to face Rory whose eyes were wide with surprise. “We really need to smother whatever this is between us,” she said.

  Rory slowly nodded his head as he continued to watch Leslie’s departure. “Apparently so.”

  She turned on her heel and hastened toward her horse. A moment later, Rory was beside her, his fingers laced to help her astride.

  “Nay,” she said, pointing him away. “Ye just stay over there, Rory MacVie!”

  She hiked up her tunic and hauled herself into place. Then without waiting for Rory, she kicked her horse hard in the flanks and raced off across the violet moors, hoping to outrun her own desire.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rory walked among the long trencher tables that were lined with platters of roasted meats and loaves of bread that had been blessed that very morning. The Lammas festival stretched across the field outside the outer wall of Luthmore Castle, allowing space for feasting, games, and pipers playing lively reels to which young and old danced in merry circles. Rory scanned the grounds, not in search of amusement, but for unbound, flaxen hair. He had not spoken to Alex since she had ridden away from him the night before as if the Devil himself had licked at her heels. As he scanned the revelers, his conscience pricked. Distancing himself from Alex was the honorable thing to do. His hands closed into tight fists as he resolved to do just that, but then he spotted her. She sat on a bench at one of the crowded tables beside Robert.

  Rory narrowed his eyes on the golden-haired knight. Robert was a decent man, and according to Rosie, handsome enough to forgive his loquacious tongue and apparently horrid singing voice. Rory reached for a tankard of ale while he observed the pair. Robert’s tongue appeared as active as usual. Alex had not spoken a word to her dinner companion, no doubt because she had not been given the chance. What’s more, despite the din of chatter, laughter, and music, she did not lean toward Robert to better hear his words. In fact, she sat back, her body not truly engaged in their conversation, while her eyes wandered, scanning the crowds. Rory watched her, hoping she searched the festivities for him.

  Once more, guilt nagged at him. He had no business spying on her or delighting in her disinterest in her suitors. If anything, he should be hoping for her sake and for the sake of her people that one of the men chosen by the abbot would be found worthy.

  But that was just it, he wanted to scream. None of them were good enough for her.

  Not that Rory was. But at the very least he fully understood the majesty that was Alex MacKenzie.

  Robert was too feckless to appreciate the varied tapestry of her character. If she chose Adam, she would have to yield to convention or they would never see eye to eye and would be unhappy. Rory imagined her life with Sir Adam Lennox, trapped within the confines of wimple and lace, her spirit choked from her enshrouded body—beautiful and unfeeling as a statue meant only to be looked at and admired from a distance. He grew angry just thinking about it.

  And then there was Timothy who was gentle and good. He would be kind to Alex and to her people, but could he ignite her soul?

  Rory could—that much he knew for certain. There was something unnamable that existed between them, a connection that ran soul-deep. He had felt it shoot through him the very moment they first locked eyes that night in the woods.

  He turned to look over at her, but she was gone. He scanned the crowd and found her sitting beside Timothy, surrounded by children. Clearly, Timothy was telling them all a story. As she listened, a smile stretched her lips so wide it made his heart ache. Rory stiffened. Mayhap he was mistaken and some small spark did flicker between Alex and Timothy. When Timothy looked at her he smiled with open admiration. But then he would appreciate her unpretentious ways, her plainly spoken truth, and the way she cared for her people. Likewise, she would be drawn to Timothy’s compassion.

  “God’s blood, he may as well be a priest,” Rory grumbled to himself, reaching for a fresh tankard to cool his growing ire. He threw his head back, downing the amber liquid. Then he reached for another. If holy was what she wanted, Rory was holy. He attended Mass…at least on occasion. And he had gone to confession…once a year at the most. And he had been known to tell children stories, albeit scary ones.

  “Damnation,” he cursed aloud, grabbing a full tankard from a passing serving maid’s tray. He swallowed it down, then reached for another and downed that one, too.

  His vision blurred. He narrowed his eyes on an approaching female form, her hips swaying back and forth. He held his breath, hoping for Alex to emerge into clarity. Instead, it was one of the lassies he had spoken to during dinner when they had first arrived at Luthmore.

  “Dance with me, Rory,” she purred.

  He glanced at Alex who now sat in private with Timothy, her hand resting intimately on his arm.

  Rory took the maid’s offered hand and kissed it. “My pleasure.”

  ~ * ~

  Because Timothy had begged her confidence, Alex leaned closer to him to ensure their conversation was not overheard.

  “There is a matter of delicacy that I wished to discuss with ye,” Timothy began. “Over these last days I’ve come to believe that ye and I are not so dissimilar. In fact, we complement each other rather well.”

  Alex tensed while she listened. Was Timothy about to propose to her? She gripped her skirt tightly as she fought to stay calm. Was this not what she had hoped for—one of the three suitors setting himself apart from the others? Surely, a proposal achieved just that, making Timothy the obvious choice. But her heart ached as if it had sprouted lungs and a mouth of its very own and now sat within her chest screaming for dear life.

  “Nay,” she suddenly blurted.

  Timothy’s brows pinched together. He drew back. “Forgive me, Lady Alexandria, I thought we had a meeting of minds, a friendship if ye will?”

  She reached out and took his hand, feeling guilty for having hurt him. “We are friends,” she said. “Please continue.”

  He eyed her skeptically for a moment, but then he relaxed and leaned closer. “I wish to join the priesthood,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Laughter bubbled up her throat, which she choked back down with a cough. “But of course ye do,” she said. Having gotten over her initial shock, she realized she wasn’t surprised in the least. “Ye would find true fulfillment as a priest.”

  Timothy nodded. “I feel it is my calling, but my father disapproves.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Ye do yer family a great honor.”

  Timothy shook his head. “My father says that it is right and good for a third son, but as his second son, he has forbidden me.”

  She patted his arm comfortingly. “Ye must speak to him again. Tell him ye wish to relinquish the advantages of your birthright to yer younger brother.”

  A flash of coal-black hair caught her eye, and she looked over then to see Rory take Alison’s hand and kiss it before pulling her into a lively reel.

  Alex’s clenched her fists. “Excuse me, Timothy,” she said, standing.

  “Of course, my lady, and I thank ye for yer counsel.”

  Her gaze quickly darted from Rory back to the gentle man at her side. “The abbot will be joining us here at Luthmore in a little over a fortnight. Perha
ps ye should speak with him on this matter.”

  “I do believe the abbot has guessed where my heart lies,” Timothy said.

  Alex did her best not to smile. “I am confident that Abbot Matthew is very unaware of just how much ye want to be a priest. Trust me. When he visits, talk to him.”

  Timothy nodded. “I will,” he said with resolve.

  Her smile vanished the moment she turned and saw how closely Rory held Alison in his arms. She stormed across the field.

  “Lady Alexandria,” Adam said, stepping in front of her.

  She came up short, nearly bumping into him. “Forgive me, Sir Adam, I cannot—”

  He thrust a full tankard at her. Some of the contents sloshed to the ground. “I brought you an ale so that we might toast Lammas together.”

  She took the cup from him and raised it high before downing the warm drink.

  “Join me for a dance?” Adam asked.

  She looked over at Rory who laughed at something Alison had said.

  She reached for Adam’s drink and downed that too. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dancers, laughing loudly at a quip he never made.

  ~ * ~

  Rory stopped short and scowled as he watched Alex and Adam join the other dancers. His scowl deepened when she threw her head back in laughter.

  Unlike Robert, Adam made very reasonable conversation. He was intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and even Rory could see that he was handsome. Despite his self-importance, he was clearly not out of the running. In fact, Adam was probably in the lead. He pictured Adam and Alexandria as lord and lady of Luthmore castle.

  “Enough,” Rory growled.

  Alison jerked away from him. “Fine,” she snapped. “Ye don’t have to take the ale. I was only asking if ye were thirsty.”

  He hadn’t realized that Alison had brought him another drink until that moment.

  “Thank ye,” Rory said as he took the cup, his eyes ever fixed on Alex. He threw it back in one gulp, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth and stormed toward the lady who was standing far too close to Adam.

  ~ * ~

  “Would ye look at those fools?” Mary said to Michael.

  Together, they had been watching Rory and Alex for some time. Rory had been dancing with Alison while his eyes remained fixed on Alex. Meanwhile, Alex danced with Adam, but she kept on laughing too loudly.

  Another peal of laughter reached Michael’s ears. “I like Adam. He’s a fine man, and I’ve heard him tell an amusing jest or two. But he is certainly not that funny.”

  “No one is,” Mary said, wincing. “She sounds like an injured bird.”

  Michael shook his head as both Alex and Rory each downed another tankard of ale. “Both appear to be enjoying their cups more than their dance partners.”

  “Oh dear,” Mary said, shielding her eyes with her hands. “Rory appears to be on the move. Please, tell me he is not going to confront Adam?”

  Michael leaned forward. “Rory has stumbled a little. He’s teetering. He may pass out. Nay, he has found his footing and is once more on the move. He is speeding up. He’s almost upon them. He’s pulling back his fist.” Michael winced. “And…Adam is down.”

  “What,” Mary exclaimed, dropping her hands from her eyes. She spotted Adam on the ground clutching his face in pain. “Oh dear,” she said, standing. “I will go to him.”

  Michael shook his head at the sight of Mary racing to Adam’s side. “It would seem my little Mary is not as uninvolved in this tangled love web as she believes.”

  He chuckled and downed the contents of his own mug. It was Lammas after all. His disapproval could wait for the morrow.

  “Saints preserve us,” he said out loud as Robert suddenly entered the fray and appeared to confront Rory on Adam’s behalf. But then Alex stepped between the two men. He watched Alex lay into Robert and winced, having been on the receiving end of one of her rants more times than he cared to remember. A moment later, Robert stomped off, leaving Alex and Rory alone in what appeared to be a heated debate.

  With a dejected look upon his face, Robert was heading back toward the keep.

  “Poor sod,” Michael muttered. “Robert,” he called out. “Sit and have an ale with me.”

  Brows drawn, Robert sat down and took a long swig from a fresh cup. “Thank ye,” he said with a heavy sigh. Then he turned and faced Michael. “Lady Alexandria does not seem to be at all fond of me.”

  Michael could not help but feel sorry for Robert. “Forget the good lady for now, and let us enjoy an ale on Lammas.” Then he pressed his lips together and silently cursed his own goodness, already regretting what he was about to say. “So, I hear ye know a wee something about horses?”

  Straightway, Robert’s face brightened.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Have ye gone mad?” Alex railed at Rory, pointing to Adam whose head rested in Mary’s lap, the hem of her tunic wadded to absorb the blood gushing from his nose.

  Rory firmed his stance for battle. “We’ve already established that I’m mad. In fact, I believe yer very words were ‘reckless knave.’” He took a step closer, not a bit sorry for having punched Adam in the face, likely breaking his perfect nose. In fact, he felt better than he had in days. And he would feel even better with Alex in his arms.

  Her eyes flashed. “Ye didn’t have to punch him!”

  “I ken,” he growled, wrapping his arm around her waist. “But I’ve a fire blazing within me, and I had to cool it down somehow.” Then he pulled her against him. “I want to be alone,” he breathed. His hand shook with restraint as he gently stroked the back of his fingers down her silky, pale cheek. Then he cupped her face. “I am going to kiss ye, Alex, long and hard. Either I do it now in front of yer clan and precious suitors, or ye lead me to where we can be alone.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, pushing him away. “Ye read my letter!”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Ye left it out in the open, then let me into yer solar, alone. Ye’re not a careless woman, Alex. Whether ye knew it at the time or not, ye wanted me to see it.”

  “What?” she scoffed. “That makes no sense. Why would I want ye to see it?”

  He crushed her against his chest. “To save ye from marrying someone ye don’t love.”

  Her eyes bore into his with an intensity that belied her denials. Still, she shook her head while at the same time, putting her arms around his neck. “I must do what is proper,” she whispered, her voice growing increasingly desperate.

  “Doing what’s proper is just about the worst thing a lassie like ye could do.”

  Her stomach flipped. She gazed into his burning sky-blue eyes and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the outer wall to the secret passage that led to her chambers. Beneath the ground it was musky and dark. She removed the scorched torch from its sconce and felt for one of the chards of flint she kept on the ground. Moments later, a fire, which mirrored her burning desire, chased away the darkness. She turned around. The fire set his black hair aglow. His eyes bored into hers. She stared at his full lips—lips that had been burned forever into her memory. He continued to stare at her. She stared back, her heart pounding. Then he grabbed her by the waist and thrust her against the wall, his lips seizing hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself into him. Her hands moved to cup his rough, chiseled jaw and then caressed his strong shoulders.

  He groaned and stepped back, raking his hand through his hair. He stared at her swollen, parted lips. The pulse throbbed at her neck. He burned for her as he had never done before. His body ached. He fought against his pulsing need. How could he resist? There was no other woman like Alex. And the fire burning through his body was mirrored in her own hungry eyes and could be heard in her gasping breaths.

  “It cannot be helped,” he growled, pulling her close once more. His hands wove through her hair. Her soft, golden waves tangled around his fingers as he crushed her lips against his. She clutched his face between her hands, her tongue plun
ging into his, caressing, teasing, stoking his passion to new heights. With a groan, he tore his lips from hers and turned her around. With quick, desperate motions, he began to untie the laces of her surcote. The fabric gave way and dropped to the ground. Then he whisked her tunic over her head. She turned back into his arms. He stared hungrily at her full breasts, their taut peaks pressed against the thin fabric of her kirtle. He moaned as she cupped her own breasts, her breathing hard and hungry. Then she reached for the belt around his waist, tugging at his tunic at the same time.

  “If ye were wearing a plaid, I would have ye naked in my arms by now,” she said, straining to free his body from his layers of clothing.

  He pulled her against him, smiling wickedly. “I vow to wear a plaid evermore,” he said, his voice husky. He slowly leaned down and caught her bottom lip gently between his teeth. Then he kissed her slowly, his tongue sweeping her mouth in languid strokes while he unclasped his belt. He broke their kiss only to pull his tunic over his head.

  Her hand splayed out against his rock-solid chest, dusted with a light sprinkling of crisp, black curls. She raked her hands down his lean torso before she grabbed his muscled shoulders and pressed her body against his. Her lips claimed his, then moved down his throat, pausing over his racing pulse. The cords in his neck flexed as she continued her slow caress, savoring the salty taste of him. She licked the soft place behind his ear, then continued down, kissing and laving the taut skin of his shoulders and across his chest. She had known sexual hunger before, but never had she experienced such need. An ache, searing and hot burned between her legs. Her heart pounded harder and harder, her breathing ragged as her hands swept down and felt the full, hard length of him.

  Rory’s breath hitched when her palm rubbed against his swollen member. With a growl, he grabbed her, pressing the heat of her against his hardness. He backed her against the stone wall, dropped to his knees, and lifted the hem of her kirtle. He kissed the soft skin of her thighs, parting her legs and raising her kirtle higher. He could smell her desire, rich and hot. With his mouth and tongue, he slowly coaxed her thighs open. Then he buried his lips in her soft pillow of curls and found her sensitive nub, his tongue moving in gentle circles. Slowly, he slid his finger inside her. God, she was tight…so tight.