The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  Rose could barely draw breath.

  Tristan cleared his throat. “You would like to have our marriage blessed by the church?”

  “Precisely,” Owen boomed happily.

  Rose’s mind started to spin and her heart pound. It was one thing to pretend to be married for a few short weeks to protect Tristan and his father. It was just a wee lie with the best intentions at heart. But to have their false union blessed by God and all the saints at church! That was blasphemy! That meant damnation!

  Rose jumped to her feet. “Mistress and Commodore Thatcher, there is something I must confess.”

  “Rose,” Tristan said behind her.

  She didn’t turn. “Nay, Tristan. The time has come.”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “The time has come.”

  She turned around and gasped. Tristan was on one knee. Her heart lodged in her throat. He reached out and held her hands. “Rose,” he began, his eye shining with warmth. “Will you marry me, Rose…truly.”

  Her hand flew to her heart. “Truly?” she whispered.

  A slow smile curved his lips. “With all my heart, I ask you to be mine.”

  Tears stung her eyes. She threw her arms around his neck. “Aye! I will marry ye, Tristan.” She pulled away and cupped his cheeks. “I love ye so dearly.”

  “I love you,” he said. Then his lips seized hers, filling her once empty heart to the brim.

  Elizabeth jumped up and down, clapping. “This is so wonderful. It is almost like being there when he first proposed to you, Rose.”

  Tristan’s lips pulled a breath away from hers. “This proposal was even better,” he said, smiling.

  Rose threw her arms around his neck. “So much better,” she squealed.

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Rose stood in the middle of her chamber while Iris fitted a long, cream-colored lace veil over her unbound curls.

  Elizabeth clasped her hands together as a dreamy smile spread over lips. “Rose, you look beautiful.”

  Iris circled around Rose and smiled. “You are, indeed, lovely.”

  Rose smoothed her hands down her new turquoise tunic. She had picked out the color knowing Tristan favored the watery blue on her. Silver beaded slippers peeked out beneath the hem of her butter yellow kirtle.

  Rose fidgeted with her hands as she considered the fine garments. “Ye don’t think ‘tis all a bit much?”

  “On the contrary, I wish you would wear one of my bejeweled headdresses, or an amulet to adorn the neckline.”

  Rose shook her head. “I ken I may appear plain to yer eyes, but I’m not accustomed to such finery.”

  A soft rapping on the door drew all their gazes. A moment later, Betsy appeared, her face flushed with excitement. “Darby has brought your horses to the courtyard. ’Tis time to head to the church.”

  Rose gripped her fists to hide her shaking hands. Her stomach fluttered. Her heart raced. It was time to go to church. She was marrying Tristan Thatcher—for real this time.

  “Rose, you’re suddenly so pale,” Iris exclaimed, wrapping her arm around Rose’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean to make you fret over your simple veil. Truly, you look lovely. You’ve naught to be nervous about.”

  Except that I’m getting married!

  Of course, Iris couldn’t know the real reason for Rose’s nerves. If she were a new bride, then Rose’s pale complexion or racing heart would not just be readily understood, it would be expected. But as far as Iris and Elizabeth knew, Rose and Tristan were already wed.

  Rose took a deep breath. “Thank ye, Iris,” she said, pressing a kiss to her mother-in-law’s cheek. Then she reached for Elizabeth and pulled her into a tight embrace. “And thank ye, sweetling.”

  Elizabeth squealed as she hugged Rose close. “Sisters! We are sisters.”

  This time, the mention of sisterhood didn’t cause Rose to cringe with guilt. Instead her heart flooded with warmth. She smiled down at Elizabeth. “Aye, we are sisters.”

  “Come along now,” Iris said, crossing the room to the open door. “Let us not keep the men waiting.”

  With her new mother on her left and her new sister on her right, Rose stepped out into the courtyard and gasped. Three large white horses with stunning cream-colored manes knickered and stomped at the ground, impatient to be on their way. And standing by one was Davy.

  Rose beamed at him. “Davy, whatever are ye doing here?”

  Davy bowed low at the waist. When he stood straight, his smile stretched from ear to ear. “Captain’s orders. He said you’re not as comfortable on horseback as you are climbing the rigging.” He offered her his hand. “I’m here to take you to church.”

  He led her over to one of the horses. Crouching down, he wove his fingers together. Rose gripped the saddle and placed her foot in Davy’s hand. He lifted her onto the horse, then swung up behind her, his arms encircling her waist.

  “Do ye have to hold me so tight?” Rose asked.

  “No,” Davy answered, but his hold around her waist didn’t loosen.

  “Davy,” Rose said, a hint of scolding in her voice.

  “These scrawny arms have dreamt of holding ye,” he confessed.

  Rose laughed. “Ye ken I’m closer to yer mum’s age than yers.”

  He shrugged. “I like to hold my mum tight, too.”

  She threw her head back with laughter. “All right then, Davy, take me to church.”

  He nudged the horse’s flanks. They trotted through the gate and down the road toward the heart of the city. Stone homes with slate roofs and large courtyards lined the roadside. But the closer they drew to the wharf the smaller and more numerous the buildings became, many made from wood with thatch roofs. The roads narrowed and twisted in a maze, teeming with wagons, horses, vendors, children racing, and page boys delivering messages. The din and crowds made Rose long for her island home.

  She was relieved when Davy reined in their horse in front of a lovely stone kirk. He hopped down and beamed up at her as he helped her to her feet.

  “Thank ye, Davy,” she said and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

  His ears turned red. “Thank you,” he said wistfully. Then he took her arm and escorted her up the stairs. When she neared the landing, the large wooden doors swung wide. Ian stood in the doorway in a fine tunic with his long red hair pulled away from his face. Straightaway, he stepped forward and swept her into his arms. He squeezed her tight, and when he set her down, his bright blue eyes warmed her heart.

  “When I went to meet ye yesterday, Moira gave me yer message.”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t go myself, but we’ve all been scrambling to make arrangements for today.”

  “Look at ye,” he said, holding her arms out. “Ye’re beautiful. I cannot tell ye how happy I am for ye.”

  She took a deep breath and smiled. “I hope Jack will come to share in our joy. He’ll be furious with me for leaving the way I did.”

  Ian nodded. “Aye, he will, but when ye return home in one piece, he’ll forgive ye in no time at all.” He shrugged. “Anyway, how often have ye been left behind, while we’ve set out.”

  Rose stood straighter. “That is true. For years, I’ve been fretting after all of ye.”

  The gentle clearing of a throat behind them drew Rose’s gaze. She turned to find Iris and Elizabeth smiling up at them expectantly from the foot of the stairs. Rose motioned to the large, red-haired man. “This is my youngest brother, Ian.”

  Iris climbed the steps. “We were delighted to hear of Rose having family in town. I am Tristan’s stepmother, Iris.” Then she turned to Elizabeth who followed just behind her. “And this is my daughter, Elizabeth.”

  Ian bowed low to Tristan’s sister. “’Tis a pleasure to meet ye,” he said.

  Elizabeth blushed a lovely pink and dipped in a curtsy, but she did not return Ian’s greeting. Rose had to swallow her laughter. For the first time since Rose met her, Elizabeth appeared tongue-tied.

  “Here you are,” Owen said, appearing in th
e doorway. He strode over to Rose and clasped her hands. “You are a vision,” he said before wrapping her in a warm embrace. “Every day I thank God that my son has more sense than I.”

  He turned to Iris and Elizabeth. “It is time, ladies. I will escort you both inside.” Then he winked at Ian and Rose. “When you are ready, you know what to do.”

  After Tristan’s family went ahead, Ian led Rose into the vestibule. Once again, her heart started to race and her palms to sweat, but she dared not wipe them on her silk tunic. She swallowed hard.

  “Saints above, I’m getting married,” she blurted and made the sign of the cross.

  Ian looked down at her curiously. “Rose, ye’re all red and flustered. What is the matter? Ye’re already married. The priest is just going to do the vows as a blessing.”

  “That’s just it,” she said, speaking in a desperate whisper. She grabbed Ian’s hand. “Tristan and I have only been pretending to be married.”

  “What?” he said, loudly, his voice echoing around them.

  “Wheest,” she snapped.

  “What the hell are ye talking about, Rose?”

  “We only pretended to be married so that he didn’t have to marry the daughter of a wicked Baron, and so I could have the Messenger.”

  Ian shook his head, “Ye’re not making any sense. Just tell me this, do I need to beat the hell out of Tristan, or not?”

  She thrust her finger in his face. “Don’t ye threaten him.”

  Ian threw up his hands. “Do ye love him, Rose?”

  “With my whole heart,” she vowed.

  He stopped then and smiled. “Then what are we waiting here for?”

  She chewed her lip. “Courage, I think.”

  Ian cupped her cheeks. “Remember, yer destiny is yers to make.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “I followed the stars just like ye told me to, and I found him.”

  Ian held out his arm for her. “If he has earned yer love, then I want nothing more than to have the honor of walking ye down the aisle.”

  Rose took a deep breath and wiped the tears from her eyes. On Ian’s arm, she stepped into the chapel. Sunlight slanted through the stained-glass window in beams of color. And there, standing at the alter with Philip at his side, was Tristan.

  Her heart leapt as he smiled at her.

  Suddenly, her nerves disappeared. The chapel faded away. The murmur of voices no longer penetrated her ears. There was only Tristan.

  They stood now, holding each other’s hands, speaking vows that had been etched on their hearts since the beginning of time. When he lowered his lips to hers the chapel erupted in cheers from the Messenger’s crew. Rose blushed when Tristan pulled away and smiled at the men who whistled and waved despite their holy surroundings.

  After the ceremony, she stood beside her husband while Tristan’s friends and family congratulated them, calling her Mistress Thatcher. More than once, she felt a rush of relief knowing that this time it was all real. When Philip appeared in front of her, she threw her arms around his neck, incapable of holding in her delight.

  “I always knew pretense would become reality,” he whispered. He pulled away and smiled down at her. “The sea is a faithful mistress and rewards those whose love is real.”

  “Thank ye, Philip,” she said. “I would not be here were it not for ye.”

  “You are here because of who you are,” he said. Then he bowed to her. “I wish you both every happiness.”

  The next moment, Philip’s trim, elegant figure was replaced by Ian and Ramsay’s massive frames. They both slapped Tristan on the back.

  “We’ll be sailing for the isles in a few days if you want to join us,” Tristan offered to Ian.

  Ian rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, ye see, Captain, I’m not ready to return home just yet, but I do, in fact, need passage north for myself.” He motioned then to the large, blond blacksmith behind him. “And for Ramsay, and some…er…cargo.”

  Tristan nodded. “That should be no problem. What sort of cargo?”

  Ian smiled. “Oh, ye know, ‘tis just a bit of this and that, odds and ends and what not,” he said, winking at Rose.

  At that moment, she knew she had to tell Tristan about her family of Scottish Outlaws, but when he suddenly swung her up into his arms and carried her out of the church and set her on his white steed, she decided it could wait another day.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Tristan urged Tom to gallop faster through the narrow winding streets, dodging livestock and wagons piled high with sacks of grain, fish, lumber, and other goods. He could not wait to have his wife in his own bed, naked for him to love.

  “Slow down, Tristan,” she said, although her command was given through bursts of laughter.

  “You ask too much of me,” he said, before pressing his lips hard to hers. Then, holding her even tighter, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, pushing his mount even faster. The road grew broader as they neared his three-story stone townhouse. When they reached the gate, Rose stared up at his richly appointed home. “Am I truly mistress of all this?” Rose asked, her voice soft with awe.

  He laughed. “You are mistress of so much more than you realize, Rose Thatcher.” He leapt to the ground and swept her down beside him. “This is just one of many estates.”

  “Welcome, Captain Thatcher.”

  Tristan turned to greet his manservant. “Thank you, Peter,” he said and handed off his reins.

  “We received your message,” Peter said in a low voice. “All your requests have been met.”

  Tristan nodded his approval, then he turned to Rose. “Meet Peter. He keeps things shipshape here.”

  Rose dipped in a curtsy. “I am pleased to meet you, Peter. My name is Rose.”

  Peter appeared flustered. “I…er…it is a pleasure, Mistress Thatcher.”

  Tristan smiled and pulled her toward the stairs.

  “Did I say something wrong?” Rose asked, her brows drawn.

  Tristan smiled. “Not at all. It is only that the mistress of a house does not typically curtsy to servants.”

  Rose went from looking perplexed to upset. “Have I already behaved badly? I’m sorry, Tristan.”

  He stopped just in front of the door. Pulling her close, he said, “Never stop being who you are, Rose. You are who I fell in love with.”

  She smiled then and threw her arms around his neck. “I love ye straight to my bones,” she said, laughing.

  He scooped her into his arms just as Peter hurried past them and threw open the door. Servants filled the entryway. “Good day, everyone,” Tristan said as he barreled past the onlookers and up the stairs. “I will introduce you to the rest of the staff and give you the tour later,” he promised. “But right now, I want to make love to my wife.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Say it again,” she begged.

  “I want to make love to my wife!”

  He thundered down the hallway, passing numerous doors. When he reached the master bedroom, the door was slightly ajar. He kicked it open and entered.

  Rose gasped. “’Tis beautiful.”

  Candlelight illuminated the room. Wild flowers, in crystal vases, decorated every surface. In the center of the room a tub gave off puffs of steam. There was wine, bread, and cheese on a small table near the hearth.

  “First,” he said, setting her on her feet. “I am going to bathe you with the finest soaps and scented oils from faraway lands.” He turned her about and started to untie her laces. “And then, I am going to kiss every inch of your body,” he said, sweeping her layers of clothing over her head.

  She whirled around, her glorious red curls skimming her waist and framing her full breasts. “I might want a say in what we do,” she said, stroking her hands up his chest, then wrapping her arms around his neck. He groaned when she pressed her naked curves against his body. “That’s a very big tub. I think ye should climb in with me.”

  Her lips seized his, her tongue plunging hungrily into h
is mouth. He crushed her against himself, bending her back, his tongue stroking hers. When he straightened, she started to fumble with his belt. “I want to touch ye,” she said, tugging the cord around his waist. Then, she released a frustrated breath. In a flash, she had the dirk from his boots in her hand. She cut through his belt. Then she smiled up at him. “That’s better.”

  His heart pounded. “My God, you’re amazing!”

  Hunger filled her eyes. She flashed a temptress’s smile at him before pushing his tunic up his chest, exposing his skin. Immediately, her full lips kissed the ridges of his stomach and traveled across his chest. She pushed his tunic up as high as she could reach. He seized the fabric and pulled it over his head. Then he freed himself from her embrace to kick off his boots and strip off his hose.

  “Forget the bath,” Rose said, pulling him toward the bed.

  “Forgotten,” he growled before he lifted her in his arms and laid her down on her back. Her eyes were limpid slits, heavy with desire as she opened her arms to him. He stretched over her. A frenzy of feelings and desire shot through him. His lips seized hers, his tongue delving into her mouth, pulling soft moans from her lips. His hands stroked down her trim waist and over the flare of her hips. Her legs spread beneath him, wrapping around his waist.

  “I need ye,” she pleaded, her heart pounding. Her body ached, burning with a hunger she had never known. She craved his touch, his lips on her skin. Arching her back, she pressed her hips into the hard length of him. “Please, Tristan.”

  She gripped his shoulders and buried her face in his neck as he slowly entered her. Clinging to him, she squeezed her eyes shut, the need rising within her, igniting like hot fire into a blaze that spread throughout her body. When he filled her completely, she pressed against him, savoring the thick feel of him before he eased out, and then thrust deep again.

  She cried out. The ache within her grew, causing her to writhe beneath him. Her hips met his every thrust as consuming need surged through her until she thought she would burst. Higher and higher. Deeper and deeper. She threw her head back, arching into him, feeling his weight, surrounded by his scent, and then, at last, she cried out as rapture pulsed through her, leaving her breathless and spent in his arms.