The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  She shook her head. “That’s not true. Tristan’s father wanted him to marry a noblewoman.”

  “A notion that runs contrary to everything Owen Thatcher believes,” he insisted. “His senses will return when he meets you, and he will know that his son has married the woman God intended for him.”

  She grabbed his arm. “But that’s just it,” she hissed. “We’re not married, remember?”

  He shrugged. “A technicality—nothing more. We didn’t find you on the ocean by accident. If I hadn’t believed in the Divine already, pulling you from the sea would have converted my thinking.”

  She threw her hands up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

  He shrugged. “You will see, my dear.” Then he turned on his heel and headed down to the lower deck.

  Chapter Twenty One

  Rose felt unsteady on her feet as she walked along the bustling wharf. She glanced back at the Messenger. Dockhands worked alongside the ship’s crew to unload crates of wine, oil, and stores of ale and water. Rose would have preferred to be among their number and not on her way to a veritable castle. Still, her feet moved forward, one in front of the other. She took a deep breath, willing herself to stay on course. Eventually, the tides would turn, justice would be done, and she would find herself back aboard the Messenger on her way home to Scotland.

  Weaving around wagons, laden beasts, racing sailors, and teeming warehouses, Tristan led her to the outskirts of the wharf to the largest stable she had ever seen. Immediately, a slim lad with a mop of black hair hastened toward them. “Good morrow, Captain Thatcher. Welcome home.”

  Tristan smiled. “Good morrow, Tom.” Then he motioned to Rose. “Tom, this is Rose.”

  Tom smiled. “Nice to meet you, Rose.” After he bowed, he darted away, calling, “I will saddle your horse straight away.”

  Tristan followed the stable boy, holding tightly to Rose’s hand. She was grateful for the security of his touch. Inhaling the scent of horses and fresh hay, she admired the beasts that kicked at the ground as they walked past. Tom turned left down a wide corridor. Above the closed gate at the end of the hall, she read the name Thatcher.

  She drew a sharp breath as they stepped into a large room lined with four stalls on both sides. “These are all yer family’s horses?” she asked.

  He simply nodded.

  She swallowed hard. Tristan had more wealth than she could have imagined. Life had taught her that wealth and power went hand in hand. She trusted Tristan with her life, but what sort of people were his parents?

  Tom led a white stallion from one of the stalls. The horse knickered and tossed its head, fanning out its creamy white mane. Tristan released her hand and reached for the horse who nudged his owner playfully

  “Hello Tom,” Tristan crooned, pressing his forehead to the horse’s muzzle.

  The lad holding the horse’s reins looked up at Rose. “Captain Thatcher named this beauty after me, he did.” The boy smiled proudly, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth.

  “Tom is one of the finest stable hands in all of London,” Tristan explained. Then he reached into his purse and withdrew several coins, which he placed in the boy’s hand. “He does the work of ten hands with his two.”

  Rose smiled at young Tom whose cheeks burned crimson. He bowed his head in thanks to Tristan before he got to work readying their mount for the journey to Tristan’s home.

  Tristan reached for her and held her gently in his arms. “Are you ready, Rose Thatcher?”

  Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but she drew a deep breath. Standing on her toes, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I am ready as I will ever be.”

  Slowly, he lowered his lips to hers. She sighed into his kiss, savoring his taste and the richly masculine scent of his body. When he drew away, he lifted her in his arms and set her high on the saddle. Then he swung up behind her.

  A smile curved his lips as he picked up the reins. “You’re the first woman I’ve ever brought home to meet my parents.”

  Her hands flew in front of her face. “Saints above!”

  He chuckled. “Trust me, they are going to love you.”

  “Aye,” she scoffed. “Once they reconcile themselves to the fact that I’m the daughter of a fishmonger and not a baron.”

  “You are the daughter of a hardworking man, which is the only measure of worth in my mind.”

  As they set out from the stables, the narrow maze of dirt roads blurred into ribbons of motion and color. She was too distracted to take in the new world unfolding around her.

  “Have courage, my Highland lass,” he whispered in her ear.

  His words imbued her spine, her shoulders, her heart, and her mind with strength. Once more, she straightened, sitting tall. This was her moment. Her contribution to the cause. Thanks in no small part to her, one English nobleman now knew the bitter taste of disappointment. Baron Roxwell’s coffers would remain empty. The wickedness he might have carried out with access to the Thatcher fortune would never come to pass, all because she had decided one lonely night to make her own destiny.

  One person could, indeed, change the fortune of many.

  She opened her eyes to the world. The streets and buildings came into sharp focus. Up ahead, Birch Heights dominated the skyline. She gripped Tristan’s arm, which encircled her waist as they thundered through the tall gates and into a small courtyard, paved in white stone just as Philip had described.

  Straightaway, a young serving lad burst from the stable to take their horse. Tristan swung down, then reached for Rose. She slid into his strong arms. “Thank you, Darby,” Tristan said to the lad as he handed over the reins. “Rose, this is Darby. He’s been with us since he was a babe.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Darby,” Rose said.

  The boy flashed Rose a lopsided grin.

  “How is your father?” Tristan asked.

  “He is well, Captain Thatcher.”

  “Give my best wishes to your family.”

  Darby’s smile broadened, twisting his lips even more askew. “I will sir, and thank you, sir.”

  Tristan wrapped his arm securely around Rose’s waist as he led her across the courtyard toward the massive double doors of the towering building. Before they reached the first stair, the doors swung wide, and two guards stepped onto the landing, followed by a tall, broad shouldered man with thick gray hair and bright amber eyes. He was joined by a woman with delicate features and big, dark eyes. The color of her hair remained hidden beneath a severe wimple and towering headdress. Following behind her was a young woman with long, unbound flaxen waves, demurely covered with a deep midnight-blue veil.

  Tristan smiled warmly. “Good day to you, Father,” he said with a dip of his head.

  “Tristan,” his father replied, but his eyes were not on his son. They were fixed on Rose. Despite her racing heart, she stood tall and imbued her face with warmth.

  “I trust your journey was a safe one,” his father continued.

  “It was, thank you.” Tristan glanced at Rose and gave her hand an encouraging squeeze before he led her up the stairs. “Stepmother, you look well,” Tristan said when they reached the landing. He pressed a kiss to her cheek, never releasing Rose’s hand. “As do you, Elizabeth,” he said, turning to greet his sister.

  Then he smiled at Rose. He didn’t look away as he said, “Father, Stepmother, Elizabeth, I would like to introduce you to my wife, Rose Thatcher.”

  The silence that followed blasted Rose’s ears. Smiling awkwardly, her gaze flitted over Tristan’s family. Owen Thatcher’s lips were set in a grim line. His stepmother looked at her with appraising eyes, but how Rose measured up to Iris Thatcher’s expectations remained concealed behind her impassive expression. It was in Elizabeth’s bright eyes that Rose found her comfort. Tristan’s sister stepped forward and pulled Rose into a warm embrace.

  “I have been so excited to meet you,” Elizabeth beamed.

  Then, before Rose knew what was happening, Elizabeth s
eized her hand and pulled her through the door, leaving Tristan and his parents in their wake. Rose gasped as she entered the massive hall. The ceiling above the entryway surely reached to the very roof. A wide staircase filled the center of the room, leading to the first of four stories, which circled around the open space, forming a series of balconies. Beyond the balcony railings, Rose glimpsed endless doors and hallways. She couldn’t imagine what secrets the vast rooms held.

  Instead of leading Rose up the central staircase, Elizabeth turned and strode through tall double doors that opened into a great room. Several trencher tables and benches lined the floor, and at its center was a massive hearth. Still, Elizabeth pulled her forward, past the hearth, then up a few wide stairs.

  “Your home is endless,” Rose said, breathlessly.

  “This is the family solar,” Elizabeth said, glancing back at Rose. “But I’m going to take you to my favorite room. We are almost there.”

  Beyond the solar was a round room, small, but only in comparison to the rest of Birch Heights. Brightly colored tapestries adorned the walls, and despite summer’s heat, a fire crackled in the hearth. It was then that Rose noticed how cool the Thatcher fortress felt.

  “Do sit down,” Elizabeth said, motioning to one of two chairs in front of the hearth. “I have so many questions for you.”

  Rose happily claimed the chair, hoping a sedentary moment would calm her racing heart.

  “I am so glad you’ve come,” Elizabeth said, drawing Rose’s gaze. Elizabeth’s eyes were darker than Tristan’s, contrasting beautifully with her light blond hair. Her cheeks bloomed pink with youth’s kiss, and her smile shone brighter than the nearby flames. “I’ve always wanted a sister,” she chirped. “Do you have a sister?”

  Rose smiled sadly. “I did have a younger sister, but I’m afraid she died some years ago.”

  Elizabeth gasped. Her hand covered her mouth. “Oh Rose, I am so very sorry. How did she die?”

  Rose leaned forward and gently clasped Elizabeth’s hand. “Do not fash yerself about that now, sweetling. Let us speak of joyous things. Tell me about yerself.”

  Rose smiled as she listened to Elizabeth chatter on about her interests and dreams, most of which centered around finding true love. She also spoke of Tristan, praising her big brother. Rose sat back in her seat and sighed, delighted to have made her first ally.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Owen Thatcher stood in the great hall, his amber eyes flashing with anger. “I sent a messenger,” he snapped.

  Tristan took a deep breath to ensure his temper stayed in check. “I received your message,” he answered calmly.

  His father’s face only reddened as he sputtered. “But…then…why…her?”

  Tristan crossed his arms over his chest. “Your message came too late. Not that I would have welcomed the match.”

  Owen clasped his hands behind his back as he started to pace the room. “I have explained the circumstances to Baron Roxwell.” He stopped and faced Tristan again. “He is not opposed to a quick annulment, and neither am I.”

  “Annulment?” Tristan repeated, shocked by his father’s audacity. “You are talking about my marriage,” Tristan said, his voice low but hard. “My wife!”

  “I am talking about your future,” his father bellowed.

  “Calm yourself, Owen,” his stepmother mother scolded, stepping forward. Then she turned to Tristan. “You know this has always been your father’s dream for you. This marriage will open many doors.”

  Tristan took a deep breath, reclaiming his calm. “I open my own doors. I am my own master.”

  His father stopped pacing again. “But you aren’t, Tristan. Don’t you see that? This is what I’ve been trying to tell you for years. They are all your masters. You are beholden to them.”

  A sad smile curved Tristan’s lips. “Only in their world, a world you fixate upon like a child with your nose pressed against the glass. I live my own life, and it is a good one. I have a fleet of ships, wealth.” He looked through the solar to the small sitting room and glimpsed Rose’s red curls trailing over the side of the high-backed chair. “I have a beautiful wife,” he said in a soft voice.

  His chest tightened.

  His words echoed in his mind. More than anything, he wanted them to be true.

  Owen put his hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “This is your destiny, my son.”

  Reality pulled Tristan’s mind back to the matter at hand. He shook his head. “No, Father. This is your misguided dream. We are not nobility. That wasn’t our destiny. We were not born to those rights.” Tristan’s voice grew louder, but not with anger. Passion infused his tone. “We were born to rise, standing on our own two feet, not on the backs of others. We are men of pride, not pedigree. We are great because we are. They are only great because it is the law.”

  His stepmother laid a gentle hand on his arm. “You could be a lord, Tristan. You have to admit that some part of you recognizes the value of this opportunity.”

  Tristan expelled a long breath. He lifted his shoulders. “Why would I wish to join them? Would you have me sit with those who would oppress me? This is a new world, and it belongs to men like me—men of enterprise. We are the ones who are truly free. We have the same means but without the restrictions of convention—the very creed of their worth.” He turned to his father. “I do not respect their class, and I would like to remind you that neither do you. Baron Roxwell enslaves his people.” Tristan shook his head. “You cannot ask me to bind myself to such a man as he.”

  Tristan drew back then, distancing himself from his parents. “Now, if you will excuse me, I am going to collect my wife. We will be staying in my townhouse for the next three nights. If you decide to invite us to supper, you know where to send the invitation.”

  “Tristan!”

  Tristan jerked around and raced up the stairs, through the solar, to the sitting room. Rose sat on the floor in front of the hearth, rocking Elizabeth in her arms. Tears coursed down his sister’s cheeks while she hugged her hand to her chest.

  “What happened?”

  “She tripped when she stood and fell forward into the hearth. She grabbed the kettle rod to keep her body from the flames. Her hand is badly burned.”

  A moment later, Iris raced into the room. Straightaway, she dropped to her knees beside her daughter. She gently tugged at Elizabeth’s hand. “Let me see, my darling.”

  Her hand shaking, Elizabeth stretched out her fingers, showing her mother her red skin, which had already begun to blister.

  Rose took one glimpse at Elizabeth’s angry palm and exclaimed, “We need cold water, ground oak bark and honey.”

  Isis raised her brow at Rose. “You sound rather sure of yourself.”

  “I have treated many burns in my day,” Rose explained.

  “Stepmother,” Tristan said sharply. “How many burns have you treated?”

  Iris held Tristan’s gaze for several moments before she turned and looked at Rose. “You’re not a physician, but I have heard peasant women often have some knowledge of healing.”

  Elizabeth whimpered.

  “Enough talk, Stepmother. Call Betsy and have her bring the items Rose needs.” Then he turned to Rose. “Do what you can. I will fetch the water,” he promised before racing out of the room.

  “I do not know what our pantry holds, but I’m certain we have honey,” Iris said. Then she called out, “Betsy. Betsy!”

  Within moments, a young maid appeared.

  “Betsy, find Darby and send him to fetch the physician. Then run to the pantry and gather some honey and…” Iris’s words trailed off. She looked at Rose for the item she forgot.

  “And ground oak bark,” Rose said.

  “Hurry, Betsy,” Iris cried.

  Eyes wide, the maid turned on her heel but stopped when Rose called out, “Wait!”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “We also need some strips of clean linen.”

  With a quick curtsy, Betsy rushed from t
he room.

  At that moment, Elizabeth started to shake.

  Rose turned to Owen, who stood in the doorway with a helpless look on his face. “Fetch a blanket,” she told him. “The initial shock of her injury is fading, and the pain is coming on stronger. The blanket will soothe her.” Then she turned to Iris. “Open the casement to invite in the fresh air.”

  Iris did as she was bade while Rose continued to hold and soothe Elizabeth.

  A moment later, Tristan returned with a bucket of cold water. He set it on the ground. Straightaway, Rose immersed Elizabeth’s hand.

  “My sweet girl,” Owen said to Elizabeth, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. “Your papa is here.” Then he stood straight. “Where is the physician?” he bellowed and started pacing the room.

  Tristan gestured to Rose to get her attention. “I think my father will be more comfortable waiting in the courtyard for the physician.”

  “Yes,” Iris said. “Take him away before he wears a hole through my floor.” Then she turned back to Rose. “Always with the ghastly pacing.”

  Rose bit her cheek to keep from smiling. Like father like son, she thought.

  “’Tis all right, lass,” Rose crooned, wrapping her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders.

  “The water lessens the sting,” Elizabeth said, her voice bleary with tears.

  Rose smiled encouragingly. “Good, lass. Keep it under water or the pain will return.”

  Just then Betsy barreled into the room with a basket piled high. “I’ve got the honey and bark and plenty of linen,” she said, panting.

  Rose set to work mixing the honey and ground oak bark into a thick paste. Then she laid out the strips of linen so that they were easy to grasp.

  “She must soak her hand for a while longer, then I’ll need yer help to dress the wound,” she said to Iris.

  When the water had grown tepid, Rose gently withdrew Elizabeth’s hand from the bucket and patted it dry. “Be ready with the linen,” Rose instructed.

  Iris took up several strips and nodded.