Rose_A Scottish Outlaw

by Lily Baldwin

As they walked away, they could hear the wild din of activity coming from the tailor’s shop. “And remember, I’ve put in a special order. Normally, Roger isn’t such a tyrant.”

  Rose shook her head slightly, feeling as if she were in a daze. “I still do not know how I am ever to wear seven tunics. Are we quite finished enhancing my wardrobe?”

  Tristan laughed and took her arm, heading farther into town. “We have only just begun.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cardiff Green was teeming with tents draped in banners of every color.

  “You see,” Tristan said, pointing to the endless rows of stalls. “All the guilds are represented: bakers, butchers, grocers, millers, smiths, weavers and more. They all stand together to ensure fair treatment from the aristocracy.” Within each tent stood a vendor calling out to passersby, boasting of the quality of their wares.

  Rose scanned Cardiff’s bustling market. The lively scene could never compare to the Berwick market of her youth, but the colors and smells brought a rush of memories to her heart. She closed her eyes and saw Berwick’s maze of cobbled streets and towering five-story homes. She saw the foreign merchants with carpets, tapestries, and spices for sale. And of course, she remembered her favorite market stalls—the fishermen where her father and brothers had often worked.

  “What are you thinking?” Tristan asked, his gentle voice pulling her back to the present.

  Her eyes flew open. “Forgive me,” she said. “I was in another place, another time.” She stepped forward and allowed herself to enjoy the new and glorious sights. “Where should we begin?” she asked.

  “Let us stroll the market at our leisure,” Tristan suggested. “And while we do, we can decide upon the particulars of our meeting, courtship, and, of course, our wedding so that our stories align.”

  She smiled. “Well, I suppose we should start at the beginning.” She dipped in a deep curtsy. “My Christian name is Rose Coira MacVie Sinclair. What ‘tis yers, Captain?”

  “Tristan Emanuel Thatcher,” he answered, bowing at the waist.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “That would make me Mistress Tristan Emanuel Thatcher.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, I suppose you are. I honestly never thought I would hear a woman say those words.”

  She laughed. “Well, ye do not appear to be overly distressed.”

  He offered her his arm as they continued to stroll through the market. “Not in the least. Now, let us decide on how we met, keeping in mind our first meeting must have happened sooner than it actually did for us to have wed before I made port on Skye and received my father’s message.”

  They passed by a stall selling fabrics in every color: scarlet, yellow, greens, and black. “We certainly do not need anything here,” Rose said, quickening her pace.

  He laughed. “I promise, no more tunics.”

  They moved onto the next stall. She stared absently at the wooden toys and ragdolls while she considered the question of how they met. “I suppose we should hold to the truth as much as we can…One evening on the Messenger, ye spotted something adrift on the open water.”

  Tristan joined in. “And much to my surprise, it was a beautiful shipwrecked woman.”

  Rose felt her cheeks warm. “I thought we decided to keep to the facts.”

  He stopped and took her hands, his face serious. “Rose, believe me when I tell you that you are infinitely beautiful.”

  She dipped her head, her gaze dropping to the ground. No man since her husband had called her beautiful or looked at her the way the captain did. “So are ye,” she said softly, meeting his gaze once more. For a moment, she could not breathe as she lost herself within the depths of his dark eyes.

  Tristan cleared his throat and led her past several stalls. “Let’s see then, so you were sailing your new skiff when a storm swept your boat out to sea.”

  She also cleared her throat. “Indeed, and then ye rescued me and nursed me back to health.”

  “And then we fell in love.”

  Rose’s stomach fluttered at the mention of love from Tristan’s lips.

  Don’t be daft, Rose.

  This was a mission.

  It was not about love.

  It was about saving his family and bringing greater wealth to hers.

  Her eyes brightened, thinking of the Messenger. “Were we wed at sea?”

  Tristan nodded. “That is a fine idea. It would save us from the blasphemy of lying about a chapel wedding. Let us agree then that Philip performed the ceremony, and I as captain authorized the union. It will be as though we handfasted.”

  “Perfect,” she exclaimed. “Then our meeting and marriage are settled. What is left to decide?”

  He smiled. “My sister will ask after decorations, and what we served for our wedding feast.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “How interesting can we make it? Wouldn’t we be limited to what supplies ye had on board?”

  “For such an occasion, I would have sent men to the mainland to fetch whatever provisions we required on our journey south to Skye.”

  “In that case…” Rose’s words trailed off as she started to move about the market for ideas. She picked up a bunch of dried lavender. “Let us say that we hung bunches of lavender off the stair rails leading to the forecastle where the ceremony took place.” Then she crossed to another table where she touched fine silk. “What is yer sister’s favorite color?”

  “Last I knew it was blue, but you know how changeable the young mind is.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Rose said while she considered the different fabric shades. “We hung dark blue silk-bunting across the starboard rails, and sky-blue portside.”

  “The color of your eyes,” he said, his lips lifting once more in that sideways smile. She quickly turned away from his handsomeness and appeared to consider the contents of the next table; however, it took her mind a moment to catch up with her hand. Realizing she was holding a small fish, she turned and smiled. “We…er…served fried kippers.”

  “Excellent,” he said, laughing “What else?”

  She put down the fish. Her gaze danced over the stalls on the other side of the green, which were piled high with fruits, vegetables, and grains. She darted over to one with lovely red apples. Her mother and her sister used to sell apples at market. She picked one up and inhaled its sweet scent. “I love stewed apples.”

  “I do too,” he said. “How does stewed apples with cream sound?”

  “Heavenly, and fresh bread with lots of butter,” she added.

  “And stuffed quail,” he said. “To my father, an occasion is not acceptable without some kind of stuffed game bird.”

  She smiled. “I must say, it sounds as though we had a lovely wedding.”

  “Indeed,” he said, before patting his stomach. “So lovely in fact that I’m afraid our imaginings have churned up a true hunger in me. Would you be interested in picnicking on the green?”

  At that moment, her own stomach growled. “Ye’ve had yer answer, Captain,” she said, laughing. “I’m famished.”

  He gently took her hand. “You know, Rose, if our story is to be believed, do you not think it best to call me, Tristan?”

  Her stomach fluttered, but this time not from hunger. Using his Christian name felt so intimate and made their charade seem that much more real, which was, of course, exactly what they were hoping to achieve. “All right, then. I will.”

  He smiled. “Well, aren’t you going to try it out, or are you now going to avoid saying my name altogether.”

  She straightened her shoulders and gave him a stern look. “I will say yer name when the moment demands it, Captain, and not a moment—”

  “Tristan,” he said, interrupting her.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know yer name, Captain.”

  He drew closer, his deep-set eyes holding her own gaze captive. “Say it.”

  She bristled. “Ye act as if I cannot say yer name, but I am very capable of speaking. I’m not a
simpleton.”

  “Then say it,” he insisted.

  Her gaze dropped to the ground. “Tristan,” she said quietly.

  “Look at me and say it,” he bade her softly.

  She swallowed hard and looked up. They locked eyes. Her heart started to race. She licked her lips. “Tristan.”

  A slow smile curved his lips wide. “I like how you say it…Tristan,” he said, imitating her accent.

  Rose blushed again. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “’Tis not respectable for a woman my age to go about blushing.”

  He offered her his arm. “I didn’t know blushing was one of the many things we’re forced to relinquish with age.”

  She wove her arm through his. “Now that ye know, I will thank ye to remember,” she said, trying not to smile.

  Together, they scanned the various stalls and chose some meat pies and apples. Then they crossed to the far side of the green and sat on the grass to enjoy their meal.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” he said before crunching into his apple.

  He caught her off guard. What else could she tell him? She couldn’t say too much about her family. Her brothers were Scottish rebels and outlaws to the crown. Ian was not a wanted man, but at that moment, he was on a secret mission for Scotland—not exactly supper conversation. She still hadn’t told him about her husband or her daughters, but that was too intimate, too revealing, and most definitely not for a lovely summer’s day picnic.

  “There is little else to tell ye,” she said, picking at her pie. “I lead a simple life. One day follows the next with little variation.”

  “What do you love?” he asked softly. “What are you passionate about?”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “The sea,” she said without thinking. “I love the sea.” She dropped her gaze. “And my family.”

  He nodded. “We are similar creatures, Rose.”

  She could feel his gaze on her. Remembering that she was a woman grown and not an inexperienced maid, she met his gaze without faltering. “Indeed, we are, Tristan.”

  He smiled again. “I’ll never grow tired of hearing my name on your lips. Tristan,” he said, once more imitating her accent.

  Laughing, she threw her apple core at him. “Stop that.”

  With a mischievous grin, he seized the core and popped the entirety in his mouth. “I make no promises,” he mumbled while he chewed. Then he stood and offered her his hand. “Come along. We have more shopping to do. Then we can take a ride in the countryside.”

  ~ * ~

  Tristan led Rose to a stall decorated with yellow bunting. He scanned the vendor’s wares: rings with various gems, many as large as blackberries, gilded circlets, and a variety of jewel-studded dirks. A slim dirk with a gold-plated handle embellished with three small sapphires caught his eye.

  “This is the one,” he said, picking up the small dagger.

  Rose looked up at him with wide eyes. “What am I to do with that?”

  “It will adorn your belt.”

  She clasped the dagger, her eyes wide. “Are ye quite certain about this?”

  “You must trust me, Rose.”

  He then selected three slender circlets, one a simple design of woven gold and silver, another encrusted with small emeralds, and finally one made of silver with a single sapphire at the center.

  “What about this for your wife?” the vendor said, holding up an elaborate heart shaped headdress laden with jewels.

  Rose met his gaze and discreetly shook her head.

  Tristan turned to the man. “My wife’s tastes are simpler.”

  The vendor smiled. “You’re a lucky man. She won’t drain your coffers.”

  Tristan smiled. “Indeed, I am,” he said as the vendor took the circlets behind his table and proceeded to wrap them in layers of linen.

  Rose stood on her toes and whispered in Tristan’s ear. “If he knew my bride price was an entire ship, he might not think ye so lucky.”

  Tristan swallowed his laughter. “He would be wrong,” he rasped.

  Having chosen her dirk and headpieces, he then considered the rings. “May I see your hand?” he asked.

  She placed her hand in his. He inspected her long, elegantly shaped fingers before he turned it over. His thumb grazed her callouses the instant before she snatched her hand away.

  “I know they don’t measure up to the hands of a wealthy woman.”

  “On the contrary,” Tristan began, taking hold of her hand once more, “this is the hand of a strong woman, a woman who has worked and fought for herself and those she loves. You should look at your hands and feel proud, Rose. I know I do.” He then saw a ring of gold with delicate detailing and a large oval sapphire. “There is no ring that could match the beauty of your hands. Still, it would please me to see this on your finger.”

  Eyes downcast, slowly Rose extended her hand. He slid the gleaming sapphire onto her finger, and for a moment, they locked eyes. Suddenly, he found himself without words. His mouth felt dry. There was something so intimate in the motion. It struck him to his core.

  She stood unmoving. If she breathed, he could not detect the rise of her chest, nor did she blink. Then, suddenly, she took a small step back before slowly easing her hand from his grasp. When their fingertips touched, she paused for an instant as though she did not truly wish to break the contact. But a breath later, she dropped her hand and squared her shoulders. “What is next?” she asked. Her tone carried a casualness that did not reach her eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. I…I…” His mind still fixated on her hands, on her sky-blue eyes, on her soft red curls lifting in the breeze. He raked his hand through his hair. Then he started to laugh at himself. “Suddenly, Rose, I don’t remember what comes next. I can’t even remember my own name.”

  She smiled, and the tension fled her shoulders. “I think we have already established that yer name is Tristan.”

  “That’s right,” he said in jest. “What would I do without you, Rose?”

  “Marry Lady Roxwell is my guess.”

  He shivered playfully. “It is all coming back to me now.”

  She smiled. “Did ye not mention something about a ride in the countryside?”

  “That is what I forgot.” He turned to the vendor and gave the man extra coin to deliver the items to the Messenger. Then he offered Rose his arm. “Do you ride?”

  Rose shook her head as she wove her arm through his. “Not particularly well.”

  He stopped and smiled down at her. “You can man a small vessel, but you cannot ride a horse?”

  She raised her brows. “Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all, you are just a very interesting woman.”

  “Interesting,” Rose said, tasting the word. She smiled. “I like interesting.”

  With the sun now shining directly overhead, the market had grown crowded. He held tightly to her hand while he led her through the throng of shoppers and vendors toward the outskirts of town. When they arrived at the stable, the young master brought them a chestnut mare.

  Tristan swung up into the saddle. Then, he reached down to her. She squealed as she soared through the air.

  “Ye surprised me,” she said when she landed in his lap.

  He smiled. “Good, because you surprise me constantly.” He nudged his horse in the flanks. Once they cleared the town gates, Rose gripped his arm tighter.

  “Faster, Tristan,” she cried.

  “Now, now, Rose,” he said in her ear. “Robert gave me strict orders not to push you too hard. Whether you know it or not, your body is still healing.”

  “Save yer caution for yer next wife,” she teased and took the reins from his hands. “Come on, lass,” she said to the mare and snapped the reins.

  “You little minx,” he said, laughing. He held her tighter, pressing her against his chest. He savored the feel of her warm curves as they galloped across the field.

  “To the sea,” she shouted, before steering them toward distant clif
fs,

  He tensed as the cliffs approached. Still, she thundered forward. Just as he was about to intervene, she pulled sharply on the reins, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Below them, white crested waves barreled toward the coast.

  He expelled the breath he’d been holding. “For a moment, I thought you were planning on trying to fly.”

  She turned her head and looked back at him, her eyes dancing. “I’ve never done that before either.”

  He eased the reins from her grip. “Why don’t we save that for another day. For now, we should be heading back. The new crew has likely arrived, and we must make proper introductions.”

  “Oh yes,” Rose said, imitating his English accent. “I would like to present Captain Tristan Thatcher and his wife, Rose Thatcher.” She turned to him then. “Ye know, this could be quite fun.”

  He smiled. “I’m already having a grand time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Rose stood beside Tristan, his hand at rest on the small of her back while Philip presented each member of the new crew to her. The welcome she received was a refreshing change from the last time introductions had been made. She knew some of the men might worry about having a woman on board, but since she was the captain’s wife, they were unlikely to voice their concerns. Each man smiled and bowed at the waist in turn. Some even seemed genuinely happy to meet her.

  “It is a rare pleasure,” said a stocky man called Piper. He had a rim of wispy blond hair around his bald head and a tattered, faded red kerchief around his neck. Rose spied a small flute tucked into his belt alongside his dagger. The merry glint in his eyes made her believe that at any moment he might break into song.

  Next, she met the cook, Timothy, who swept his hand high before bowing with a gallant flourish. Then without a word, he darted back down to the galley, from which Philip said he seldom emerged. After Timothy disappeared, a hefty man came forward. Her eyes widened when Philip introduced her to Jacob. At first glance, he appeared wider than he was tall. His arms bulged with thick, rippling muscles, and when he breathed, his barrel chest expanded, spreading the laces of his tunic. Beside him stood a young man of no more than ten and seven years. He had red hair every bit as bright as hers and a sweet face spattered with freckles. “I’m Davy, Mistress Thatcher,” he announced before Philip could. When Rose smiled at him, his cheeks turned almost as bright as his hair.