The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “’Tis simple, really,” he began. “I am going to give you all the opportunity to supply me with what you know, specifically the names of guilty persons. Now, before you decide to keep your own confidence, I would like to remind you that you are all the king’s prisoners and will remain so until this matter has been satisfactorily resolved.”

  “Jonathan,” he said, looking to where a scribe stood among the warriors and gestured for the small man to join them. Jonathan’s roughly-made brown tunic grazed the floor when he hurried over. Without a word, he reached into the satchel hanging across his chest and withdrew a piece of parchment, a jar of ink, and a quill. When he finished assembling what he needed, he nodded to Aldrich to signal he was ready.

  Aldrich then turned to the group. “Would anyone like to give me a name?”

  Without hesitation, the keeper spoke up. “Richard Ash.”

  Scratching of pen to parchment dominated the room for a moment as Jonathan scribbled the name.

  “Go on,” Aldrich said, looking expectantly at the keeper.

  “He is your man, Richard Ash. Isn’t that right?” The keeper asked, scanning the surrounding men for support. A murmur of quiet agreement echoed his plea.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s the one.”

  Aldrich raised his brow. “And how do you know Richard Ash is the guilty party? Did he confess his crime?”

  The keeper shook his head. “Of course not, for I would have brought him to task and even now he would be chained in the dungeons below.”

  “If this Richard did not confess, then how do you know he did it?”

  “He boasted of his plan one evening, but none of us took him at his word. He was drunk and a braggart, not to mention a dimwitted sort of man. No one believed he would act on his plan. Then after months of spending his evenings here at the palace, he suddenly disappeared. That same week, we discovered the stolen treasure. Only then did we realize that Richard must have carried out his foolhardy plan.”

  Jonathan turned to the scribe at his side. “Have a likeness done of Richard Ash. We will bring him in for questioning.” Then Jonathan looked back to the keeper. “I assume you have sent out members of the guard to locate Richard.”

  The keeper straightened in his seat. “I certainly have, and you can question the guard to hear the truth, for that matter, although they’ve been unable to find him.”

  “It would appear as though this Richard was not as foolhardy as you all initially judged for him to pull off such a heist.”

  The men murmured their agreement. Aldrich resisted rolling his eyes as he considered the fools surrounding him. “Despite Richard’s apparent cleverness, I am confident he did not act alone.” Once more he scanned the group, looking every man in the eye. “So, which one of you helped him?”

  The keeper’s eyes grew wide. “One of us?”

  Aldrich’s fist came down on the table. The men visibly jumped in their seats. “Do not play me for the fool. He did not act alone. Tell me what you know.”

  “Randolph Tweed helped him,” said a large man with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard.

  Aldrich looked down the line of men and locked eyes with the man. “What is your name?”

  “Geoffrey Mercer, I am a merchant.”

  “And you’ve been enjoying the king’s hospitality for some time, have you not?”

  He nodded. “I have, sir.”

  “What is the man’s name you gave?”

  “Randolph Tweed. He and Richard used to dine together. He’s a knave and a proven thief too. He robbed me of a servant and one-hundred silver marks.”

  Aldrich looked to the other men. “Do you agree with Geoffrey? Do you believe this Randolph is guilty?”

  The keeper hesitated for a moment. Aldrich did not miss the look exchanged between him and Geoffrey, but then the keeper nodded. “Yes, Randolph and Richard were close. I do not doubt he knew of Richard’s plan, and more than likely aided him.”

  Aldrich nodded, then turned to the scribe. “Have a likeness done of this Randolph Tweed as well.” He stood then. “You are all dismissed to your rooms where you will remain until you are told otherwise.”

  “If it pleases my Lord Paxton, I will volunteer my time and my men to help track down these villains.”

  Jonathan turned and eyed Geoffrey. He was a large man, and judging by his attire, he was a successful merchant. No doubt he could afford capable men. “Are your men trained for battle?”

  Geoffrey nodded. “And they can ride as well as any knight. What’s more, the head of my guard is a skilled tracker.”

  Jonathan raised his brows. “Is that so?” He gestured to one of his men. “Evaluate this man’s guard. If you deem them worthy, add another twenty cavalry to his party.” Then he turned back to Geoffrey. “Allowing you meet with my man’s approval, I accept your aid on behalf of the king.”

  Jonathan saw the unmistakable glint of vengeance in Geoffrey’s eye. “Whatever this Randolph has done to you, remember your first interest is to the crown.”

  “Randolph Tweed will stand in front of King Edward in irons,” Geoffrey said, bowing his head. “You have my word.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alec held Joanie’s hand and pulled her just behind him, keeping her close, shielding her from the chaos of the city. He could feel her heart pounding, overwhelmed by vendors pushing their goods, racing children, beggars, the stench of bodies and excrement both human and animal. Large pigs roamed the alleyways. Wagons barreled through the roads, heedless of passersby who dodged the wooden wheels and clomping hooves.

  “Here’s a fine roast for you,” a stout man with a greasy bald head and a long leather apron said as he thrust a live chicken toward Joanie. The hen flapped its wings in her face. Gasping, she turned away, hiding against his back. Still holding tightly to her hand, he twisted his other arm behind him, encircling her, his hand pressing her closer.

  Thatch and clay one-story homes and shops soon gave way to stone buildings, two and three-stories tall as they neared Tower Gate. With fewer shops and marketers, the pace of the city slowed as did Joanie’s heartbeat. Alec gently pulled her alongside him, keeping his arm wrapped possessively around her waist.

  “We have almost reached the city limits,” he said.

  She nodded, resisting the urge to expel her breath in relief. Having spent nearly six months within the same four walls, the noise and commotion of the city jolted her to her core. But they were not free from London yet. Her eyes trained on the armored soldiers guarding the gate. The visors of their helmets were open. She glimpsed their hard eyes and the stern set to their lips as people passed beneath their watchful gaze. One of the guards rested his armored fist on the hilt of his sword. The closer they drew to the gate, the closer she pressed to Alec, unable to tear her eyes away from the guard’s iron hand.

  “Breathe,” he whispered in her ear.

  But she couldn’t. If there was one thing she had learned in her nineteen years, it was the hurt a man could inflict with his fist.

  It was not until the city retreated in the distance that she dared to breathe deep the country air. Having been within the confines of London for years, most of that time spent indoors, the farther they walked the more enraptured with her surroundings she became. Bare limbed trees flanked both sides of the road, their branches stretching like a barren canopy across the white winter sky, making her feel small, but for once not in a bad way. In the distance, rolling hills captured her eye, reminding her of her grandmother’s music. Again she wondered what the Highlands of Scotland looked like — the land so loved by her grandmother. The beauty was almost enough to distract her from the tall, mysterious stranger at her side … almost.

  She glanced up at Alec. He no longer held her hand. He walked beside her, his face unreadable, although she could see his eyes scanning the road, the trees, keeping vigilant note of their surroundings. She thought of his arm encircling her, protecting her during the
ir race through the city. Mary did say she could trust him. Still, he looked so hard. Then she remembered, trust him or not, he was her master, although he did take back the money he paid for her — did he own her or not?

  “You didn’t pay one-hundred silver marks for me in the end, did you?”

  “I did not,” he answered, not looking at her. “I stole it back.”

  Then she remembered how he had said that it wouldn’t have been the first time he’d stolen money. “You’re a criminal?” she burst out.

  He glanced down at her for a moment before looking away. “Only in England?”

  Her heart started to pound again. “What are you in Scotland?”

  “A secret.”

  “I do not understand.”

  She waited for an answer, her heart racing faster. Just then his hand snaked out and he clasped hers, pulling her just behind him, once more shielding her — but from what? The crowded streets of London were far behind them. A moment later, a wagon came into view. Warmth from his hand shot through her. The closer the wagon approached, the more heat poured off him. His hand was steady, strong, and yet it felt like motion, churning waves or gusting winds, like his touch was alive. Power coursed through him, and yet, his expression and stance betrayed none of the feeling and tension she felt. His face remained cold.

  When the wagon passed, he released her hand, and the warmth that had held her mesmerized was suddenly gone. She felt lost for a moment. She glanced at him sidelong, wondering what magic he possessed.

  “I’m part of a network of rebels fighting for Scottish independence.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise. She had not expected him to tell her anything so revealing, and she could hardly connect the cold English merchant she had first met in the king’s palace with this Scottish thief and rebel.

  “I was sent to the king’s palace to spy for the cause by Abbot Matthew of Haddington Abbey, which is our destination, in case ye were curious.”

  He had not glanced at her once while he spoke, and by his tone one might have thought he was discussing the condition of the roads upon which they trod, not causes, rebels, and the secrets of the Church and kings.

  “Why are you telling me all this? Aren’t you worried I will tell someone?”

  Alec stopped then, and looked down at her. Joanie’s wide brown eyes looked up at him with both curiosity and, of course, the one emotion he had come to expect from her: fear. He reached into his satchel and withdrew a hunk of dried meat. He tore it in half and gave her a piece, intentionally grazing his fingers against her skin, touching her. As before, his mind’s eye saw nothing, no flashes of memories, no secrets revealed. He had not even seen the old woman since the very first time he heard her sing. When he touched her, he saw nothing, which perplexed him to no end. What made her different? Regardless of why, she was such a relief to his soul. He wanted to keep on touching her simply because he could.

  He backed away and leaned against the tree, sliding to the ground. He took a bite of meat and continued to study her. At length, he looked her square in the eye and said, “Nay, I’m not worried that ye might tell someone.”

  She shied away from his direct gaze, her eyes darting downward to study her hands. “Because who would I tell, right?” she asked. He felt the sob rise in her throat, although her voice betrayed none of the rush of feeling inside her. “I have no one. I’m alone in this world.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not why.” He paused for several moments, watching her as she stood. He knew she did not know what to do: sit, stand, run away. “Besides, ye’re not alone, are ye?”

  She blushed and dipped her head.

  His face was still the same, beautiful and cold, like a statue, but she glimpsed something in his eyes like the barest breath of a smile.

  “Let’s just say, I can see a person for what they really are,” he said. They locked eyes again, his burning straight to her soul.

  “What do you see in me?” she whispered, walking closer as if beckoned by the hint of warmth she glimpsed beneath his hardness. Slowly, she knelt beside him. His long black hair hung straight past his chest and gleamed in the sun. His black eyes held hers.

  “Fear mostly,” he said quietly. “Ye’re afraid of most everything around ye. And ye’re afraid of me. But I have also felt yer strength.” He stopped for a minute, considering her. “Ye’ve more strength in ye then ye realize, I think. But more than anything, I feel yer goodness. Ye’ve a kind soul, Joanie.”

  She considered his words. How did he know what he knew? She was afraid of him, not that his words alleviated her fear. In some ways, they made her more afraid.

  “Ye need not fear me, Joanie,” he said in a soft voice, which wrapped around her as if he caressed her without even touching her.

  His black eyes softened as she stared at him. She felt drawn to him, as if the same heat she had felt when he held her hand coiled around her, pulling her closer to the pulse of life that defied his emotionless facade.

  He leaned back and rested his head against the tree and closed his eyes. The breeze picked up and lifted his hair and it danced for a moment in sunshine. His upturned face remained impassive but relaxed. His lips were not pressed into a grim line and she could see their fullness. Looking at him, she felt a pang in her heart. He was so beautiful. Her eyes journeyed from his face to his shoulders. His body was strong, leanly built. His hands were hard, his long fingers sleek and effortlessly elegant like the rest of him.

  She leaned forward, wishing to touch his skin, to feel the energy that somehow poured from him like a waterfall crashing into a still pool. Then, as if he had read her mind, his eyes remained closed, but he reached out, grazing his fingers across her palm. His touch lasted only a moment.

  “Come,” he said. The emotion she had thought she detected in his voice was gone. “We are not far from a village. We need supplies and a room for the night.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Joanie nervously eyed the outskirts of the village. She had enjoyed the silence of the countryside, surrounded by trees dusted white with snow or bathed in crisp air amid open, rolling hills. She glanced sidelong at Alec who walked beside her but did not touch her. His face still maintained a relaxed countenance, which had made her, in turn, feel less ill at ease in his presence. If he had altered his usual facade to make her less afraid of him, it had worked. When they had first set out, she had been terrified at the prospect of being alone with him and his chilly gaze. Now as she looked at the village looming closer and closer, she wished they could go around it and carry on together, just the two of them.

  For the first time that day, the wind picked up. A gust of frigid air cut straight through her cloak. She lowered her head slightly to shield her face but voiced no complaint. Still, Alec whisked his own cloak from his shoulders and wrapped the heavy warmth around her.

  “How did you know?” she asked, meeting his uncanny eyes and just as quickly turning away.

  “’Tis a cold wind. Your cloak is inadequate. It doesn’t take a mind reader to know ye might be cold.”

  She dared to look back at him, cocking a skeptical brow. His unwavering eyes held hers. He made no further confession. So once again she looked away, unable to hold his powerful gaze. After a short while, she could hear sounds of village life, people shouting to each other, marketers calling out to sell their wares, children laughing. Instead of watching the road and the village unfold, she watched him from the corner of her eyes. Slowly, he began to transform. The relaxed set to his mouth settled once more into a hard, grim line. He became like stone — rigid, polished, and cold — a man no one would wish to approach.

  They passed the first croft where an old man sat in a chair, eying them suspiciously. Straightaway, she wanted to shrink from sight. Just then a strong hand clasped hers. Once more, Alec stepped slightly in front of her and pulled her close behind him, ever shielding her.

  “I do not like crowds.”

  “I ken,” he said.

  “How?” s
he whispered.

  He angled his head to the side so that he could glance down at her. For a moment, his hard facade softened. “I told ye. I can feel ye.”

  Her brows came together as she considered this. “Do you mean to say you can feel what I feel?”

  He nodded before looking forward again. Once more, his stony gaze stared out, his unbreachable wall fully erected.

  “Is it only me or can you feel what others feel?”

  The heat passing from his body into hers surged like fire for a moment. His shoulders visibly stiffened. “Everyone,” he said, his voice flat. “I feel everyone.”

  She looked around at the villagers curiously. “Tell me what you feel.”

  “Do you see that man pulling a wagon?”

  She peered around his shoulder and saw a man straining to pull an overloaded wagon. “Yes, I see him.”

  “He is angry.”

  “I would be angry too,” she said, considering the weight of the load he was trying to move on his own.

  “Nay, he’s not frustrated. He’s angry. The kind of anger that drives men to stupid acts.”

  “What else?” she asked.

  “More anger, jealousy, happiness…” He stopped short. She followed his gaze and saw a small boy peering around the side of one of the market stalls. “Fear,” Alec said.

  “The little boy, you mean?”

  He nodded. “Come,” he said, and gently pulled her toward the boy.

  She held tightly to Alec’s hand as they wove through the busy market square to where the boy stood. When he saw their approach his eyes widened before he turned and ran. Alec released Joanie’s hand and overtook the small boy in a just a few strides, grabbing him by the back of his tunic.

  “Let me go,” the boy shouted.

  Joanie watched as Alec shifted his hold from the boy’s tunic to his arm. Then Alec squatted in front of him so that they were eye to eye.