by Lily Baldwin
Alex jumped up, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with all her might.
“Now, when ye make it to Colonsay, be sure to have yer marriage solemnized by a priest. And remember, ye can’t consummate this union until ye do,” the abbot warned.
Rory looked at Alex who looked back with eyes wide. He put her down. Then rubbing the back of his neck, he turned to the abbot. “Well ye see, Abbott—”
“Nay,” Abbot Matthew interrupted, throwing his hand up. “Stop right there. I can’t hear confession, and I would rather not know.”
Alex stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll miss seeing ye as often as I do.”
The abbot smiled. “I will miss ye too, my child, and ye, Rory. But before ye go, there is one last thing I must say. Ye have both suffered enough to know the sanctity and fleetingness of life. And ye have both done more than yer share for the cause. Scotland thanks ye. The one thing I ask is that ye both retire yer masks.” He reached for Rory’s hand and then for Alex’s and brought them together, placing his own hands on top of theirs in blessing. “Quiet yer restless souls and let go the cause. Others will pick up where ye’ve left off.”
Rory nodded and gave a shrug. “One more Saint has been unmasked—indirectly at least,” he said, winking at Alex.
After bidding the abbot farewell, Alex and Rory mounted their horses and rode out of MacKenzie territory. “We head west then to Colonsay?” she asked.
Rory nodded. “The last time I saw Jack, that is where he was heading. ‘Tis where my Father’s people hail from. But remember my vow; I care not where we go, just take me with ye.”
She smiled. “Colonsay it is. We will join the rest of the Saints. ‘Tis too late for me to ride with ye and yer brothers, but at least I will be able to meet them all.”
“Jack, my oldest brother should be there, and Ian too.”
“Which one is Ian?”
“Ian is the youngest, although he’s as big as an ox. His size can be intimidating at first, but ye’ll find he’s as soft and mild as a lamb until provoked, then…well…”
“Well…what?”
“He has a fierce temper to match his red hair, just like my sister, Rose.”
“Will Rose be at Colonsay?”
“Aye. She will.”
“Don’t ye have another brother? I remember the Saints had five riders.”
“Aye, Quinn, but I do not know if he has made it yet to the Isle.”
Alex mentally tallied the MacVie brothers. “And Alec is in London makes five.” She thought of Rory’s older brother with his beautiful stony face and hard eyes. “I pray Alec’s soul finds peace.”
Rory nodded. “That has always been our hope, too. Who can know—mayhap one day, his heart will feel light, and he will join us all on Colonsay.”
Alex smiled at the idea. “How long will the journey take?”
“My guess is we could be there by the week’s end if we rode hard.” He cleared his throat and looked at her sidelong. “But we needn’t rush.”
“What did ye have in mind?”
“The Harborage is a fine place for a couple of Scotland’s rebels to pass some time.”
Leaning out of her saddle, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Ye’re a rogue and a rebel.”
“Aye,” he whispered and kissed her slowly, passionately. “And ye’re my perfect match.”
Epilogue
One year later at Luthmore
Michael took a sip of ale, then set his tankard down on his writing table and eased into his chair. His bones ached in protest. How he longed to lie down after several long days of celebration, but he wanted to write his letter while the memories were still fresh. He spread out a fresh piece of parchment, then dipped his quill into the ink pot…
My Dear Abbot,
I hope to somehow convey to ye in writing the joy that right now fills my heart. Sir Adam Lennox married Lady Mary today. I wish you had been able to witness the elegance and solemnity of their wedding. The chapel and courtyard were nigh bursting with villagers. Our kin even gathered on the bridge and surrounded Luthmore’s outer wall. The entire clan came to honor and celebrate the new Lord and Lady of Luthmore Castle. Spirits and hopes are high. I am confident Clan MacKenzie will prosper under the compassionate and sensible leadership of Adam and Mary.
Father Timothy performed the ceremony with such richness and devotion of spirit. Blessings rain down upon us, for he has agreed to take over the chapel here when Father Kenneth retires.
Ye will also be happy to know that Sir Robert is also doing well.
Michael chuckled, then wrote, Very well, in fact.
He sat back and took a long gulp of ale. During the wedding, Robert had been missing from his usual spot at the high dais. Instead, he had joined the stable master at one of the trestle tables and, at his side, avidly listening to his every word, was Cara, the beautiful and clearly besotted stable master’s daughter.
Michael took up his quill. I do not think it will be long until Father Timothy has another wedding to perform.
He laughed out loud as he imagined Robert waiting at the altar astride his prize stallion while the bride trotted down the aisle on a dappled gray mare.
In other news, William has grown a hand taller and has begun his squire training. Helen is again with child. Corc, bless him, spends every evening with the healer, Morag. We all suspect a romance is brewing there.
As for me, with a Lady of Luthmore who wears shoes, I have found time for a little leisure. With that in mind, I hope this letter is the first of many to come. We all look forward to yer next visit to Luthmore.
-M
P.S. I know you will see this letter to its rightful owner.
Alec
A Scottish Outlaw
Chapter One
London, England
1302
Joanie Picard swept the silk robe from her mistress’s shoulders. Diana Faintree, a famed London beauty and singer, dressed in rich fabrics and vibrant hues, but she was as common as Joanie — both born to poverty, both fighting each day to survive.
Frowning, Joanie lifted Diana’s arm and inspected the red, horizontal stripes marring the fine skin below her shoulder — thick, evenly spaced markings left behind like a cruel keepsake from their master’s biting fingers.
“Leave them for now,” Diana said, keeping her eyes averted. “The morning grows old, like me, and we’ve still much to do.”
Joanie nodded and reached for the pumice stone. She ran her thumb across the abrasive, porous surface and winced. She loathed what would happen next. Glancing at Diana’s weary face, she couldn’t help but suggest, “Where it isn’t bruised, your skin is already so soft. Why don’t we skip the stone?”
“You already know my answer,” Diana said, her lips curving in a soft smile. “But I love you for trying. Go on,” she said, the last words at a whisper.
Joanie took a deep breath. Starting at Diana’s toes and working her way up her long leg, she set to work scouring Diana’s skin with the stone in small, circular motions.
“You’re too gentle,” Diana said, gritting her teeth.
Joanie looked up at her. “You are not well. I do not wish to hurt you.”
A forced smile stretched Diana’s lips wide. “I’m fine. You worry too much.” She shifted her gaze away from Joanie’s. “Do it right.”
Joanie looked longingly at the window and imagined throwing back the shutters and hurling the hateful stone beyond the palace walls. She tightened her grip around it. If only she could crush it to dust, but then her fingers fell slack, the stone neither soaring through the air nor crumbling to the floor. It filled her palm, and it was just as well — Diana would only procure another for her routine ablutions. For nearly five years, Joanie had served as Diana’s maid, and in all that time, they had never skipped her weekly rigorous beauty treatments — despite any new bruises received at the hands of their master or her failing health. Pressing her lips together in a grim line, J
oanie gripped Diana’s thigh and continued scrubbing until her skin shone red.
“Have the others faded?” Diana asked when Joanie scooted on her knees around to Diana’s backside. Angry bruises in varying shades of red, brown, and yellow marred her back, buttock, and thighs.
“A little,” Joanie said, setting the stone aside. She reached into a basket of tins and pouches filled with various creams, ointments and powders. She took up the comfrey ointment. She scooped a great dollop of the greasy balm, then dotted it over Diana’s bruises before gently rubbing the soothing ointment into her skin.
“Geoffrey was in a particularly foul mood last night,” Diana murmured.
Joanie didn’t respond. When was the master not in a foul mood?
“Look at me,” Diana entreated her.
Joanie did as she was bidden.
“Your interference must stop. He was vexed with me, not you. He never would have touched you had you not stepped in front of me.”
Joanie lowered her gaze and continued applying the balm. “You cannot ask me to stand idly by while he beats you.” Then she stopped rubbing and looked up, locking eyes with her mistress once more. “I will not do that,” she avowed through gritted teeth.
“Joanie—” Diana began, but then a deep, wet cough stole her words and her breath. Her whole body jerked as if under attack from the inside out. Joanie jumped to her feet and wrapped her arms around Diana to support her. When at last the coughing ceased and Diana caught her breath, she wiped at her eyes and smiled weakly at Joanie. “Thank you,” she rasped. Then she slowly reached out a trembling hand toward the hem of Joanie’s tunic. “How do your gifts from our master fare?”
Diana’s weakened state broke Joanie’s heart. Shaking her head, she implored, “Do not worry for me. Mine always heal quickly.” Then she scooped more salve and spread it over the fresh fingerprints on Diana’s arm. “You must save your strength. I’m nearly finished, then you can get into the bath.” Joanie glanced at the tub in front of the hearth. Steam curled in ghostly ribbons from the oily surface.
“It will do me good. I know it will,” Diana said. Then she smiled at Joanie. “I see your worry. It is etched on your dear face, visible even beneath the grime you refuse to let me help scrub away. This cough will pass.”
Joanie frowned. “I’m only permitted to bathe once a fortnight. I do not fancy being clean enough to attract the master’s fury.” She looked away before continuing in a gentle voice. “The cough is persisting this time.”
“I know,” Diana said.
The truth hung in the air between them for a moment like an ominous cloud, but Diana chased the storm away with her bright voice. “Anyway, you’ve always managed to cure me in the past.”
Joanie scanned Diana’s body. Unlike Joanie, who was shorter and slimly built, Diana had always enjoyed lush, full curves that drove men wild. But her cough had worsened over the last fortnight, and her body had begun to waste away. Joanie fought to keep her concern from showing. “The next time Simon checks in on us, I am going to have him bring up another meal for you.”
Diana shook her head. “I am still full after breaking our fast. I couldn’t possibly eat again so soon.”
“You will if you want to be stronger.” Joanie wrapped her arm around Diana’s waist. “Let me help you into the bath.”
“Wait,” Diana said.
Joanie stood still and looked at her expectantly.
“Could I have a mirror?”
Nodding, Joanie reached for the small, gilded compact on Diana’s bedside table and gave it to her. Diana held the glass up, scrutinizing her features. She pulled at the skin beneath her eyes and the soft lines framing her mouth. “I’m a disgrace.”
Joanie glanced up from the beauty mask she was mixing. “You are the most beautiful woman in London.”
Diana’s expression softened. “And you are forever my champion, even when I battle myself.” Then she turned back and continued studying her own reflection. “I was the most beautiful woman in London. But age is robbing me of the title all too soon. That is what happens when you turn thirty.”
“You are not yet thirty.”
“No, but I am eight and twenty.” Diana frowned again at what she saw in the mirror. “I may as well be a hundred.” With a sigh, she set the compact down. "At nineteen, Joanie, you can hardly understand.” Then she slid the robe from her shoulders and continued in a brighter voice. “Have you mixed the porridge mask?”
Joanie nodded, relieved for the change in subject. “Let’s get you into the tub first.” She helped Diana step into the steamy water. Joanie had poured liberal amounts of chamomile and lavender oils into the bath to soothe Diana’s bruises, and the heady scents wafted off the surface as the water rose to make room for her battle-wearied body. Diana groaned when she eased back. Joanie smiled, realizing by the contented look on Diana’s face that she voiced her pleasure rather than discomfort. Picking up the clay dish filled with a mixture of roughly cut oats and heavy cream, she smoothed a thick layer onto Diana’s upturned face.
“What will I do when my looks finally go, Joanie? Geoffrey will turn me out.”
Flashes of the master’s hulking fists and cruel eyes raced through Joanie’s mind, chasing her smile away. “Would that really be so awful?”
Diana opened her eyes and gave Joanie a hard look. “There are worse pains than fist or lash. Hunger. Cold. They are the real demons.” Her face softened. “I know you have suffered greatly at the hands of your masters and your father before he sold you. But, Joanie…” Diana shifted her gaze but not before Joanie saw the sudden sheen of unshed tears in her eyes. “You have never known true hunger or cold. Don’t ever fool yourself into thinking you’d be better off somewhere else.” Diana turned back to look at her. Her tears were gone, and her eyes shone clear and strong. “Our master is rich.” She lifted a dripping hand from the water and made a sweeping gesture. “Look at this room, at the warm bed we share and in the king’s palace, no less. We are the lucky ones, Joanie. Out there, the streets are full of people a breath away from death who would withstand any number of abuses to have what we possess.”
Joanie shifted her gaze away from Diana’s stubborn resolve wondering whether her friend was right. Were they, indeed, better off with the master? More than once, she had asked Diana to run away with her, but she had always refused and warned Joanie not to dream beyond survival. But Joanie couldn’t help wondering — was it really a choice between beatings and abuse or starvation and freezing? Couldn’t there be another life for them — one without the constant threat of pain or death? She dipped her finger into a pot of honey and willow oil and worked the mixture into her hands before gently weaving her fingers through Diana’s wet hair.
Her mistress sighed as her elbows came up on the sides of the tub. “That feels so good. I’ve had such a headache.”
“You should have told me sooner,” Joanie scolded. Then she cupped her hand and closed her eyes, imagining a ball of light at rest in her palm. Curving her palm over Diana’s forehead, she closed her eyes and took deep, slow breaths and imagined heat radiated from the light in her hand, surrounding Diana’s pain. She stayed there for a long while, confronting the darkness with her healing touch.
Diana sighed. “You’re an angel.”
Joanie opened her eyes. “You don’t believe in angels.”
Diana smiled. “For the moment I do.”
“Then the pain’s gone. Good,” Joanie said, happy to have alleviated at least a little of Diana’s suffering. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of a small copper pot and dipped it in the bath water to rinse Diana’s hair. But a sharp rapping on the door startled her, and she dropped the handle, losing the pot beneath the surface. Jumping to her feet, she came around the screen that shielded her mistress, just as a barrel-chested man of great height with thinning brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a red nose from too much ale walked into the room.
Joanie expelled the breath she’d been holding. “Th
ank God it’s you, Simon.”
Simon was their master’s manservant. To most people, he was gruff and hard — full of bite, but beneath his coarse surface, hid a gentleness only shown to Diana and thus to Joanie by default.
He motioned toward the screen and mouthed the words, how is she?
Lips pressed into a thin line, Joanie only shook her head in answer.
“Damn it,” Simon cursed.
Straightaway, Joanie’s heart started to pound. “What is it?” she whispered. Then she heard the water slosh and knew Diana had sat up.
“Is that Simon? Is something wrong?”
His powerful shoulders sagged. Sad eyes met Joanie’s. “Geoffrey wants you in the hall tonight,” he said loud enough for Diana to hear.
Joanie’s eyes widened. “But tonight is Anabel’s night to entertain.”
Simon put his hand up, silencing her protest. “She doesn’t have to perform, but he insists she attend the evening meal and stay for the entertainment following.”
Water sloshed again. Joanie hurried around the screen.
“I must get out,” Diana said, struggling to stand. “My hair will never dry in time. And my gown still needs freshening. Joanie, what will I — ”
Joanie’s chest tightened at the sound of Diana’s sudden cough, which racked her shoulders. She white-knuckled the sides of the tub to keep her face out of the water. Joanie dropped to her knees and wrapped her arms around Diana, supporting her. Wet hacking subsided into strangled wheezing and finally gasps for air. When, at last, the cough ran its course, Diana turned her face up to look at Joanie. Joanie’s heart ached at the sight of her red, tear-streaked face and wide, terrified green eyes. She trembled in Joanie’s arms. “Let’s get you dry,” Joanie said, her voice soothing. She helped Diana step from the tub, then dried her off and swept her robe around her shoulders.
