Rose_A Scottish Outlaw

by Lily Baldwin

  “No, man,” William drawled. “Not like that. Kiss her with passion.”

  Tristan raised a placating hand. “That’s quite enough, Will—"

  Knowing Willian wouldn’t quit until he was satisfied, Rose reached up, pulled Tristan’s head down and pressed her lips to his, stealing his words. Cheers erupted around them. They’re lips were stiff, their stance awkward. But then he drew her close, encircling her in his arms. His lips softened, and suddenly, she was drowning in his kiss. Heat shot through her. She stood on her toes, straining to wrap her arms tighter around his neck while his tongue gently grazed her lips, coaxing her mouth to open. Her lips parted. She moaned softly as his tongue swept into her mouth, stroking, caressing, filling her with an ache so sweet it hurt. The drumming of her heart drowned out the din of the cheers. There was no crew, no Messenger, no ocean or sky. Nothing existed, except her and him and the passion bursting from their souls.

  When he slowly pulled away, she swallowed the protest that raced up her throat. She opened her eyes and met his gaze. His eyes bore into hers. She looked away, lest she claim his lips in another kiss, but then she noticed the surrounding crew. The men stared at them, their mouths agape. Her hands flew to her warm cheeks.

  An instant later, Philip crossed to their sides, clapping loudly. “To the happy couple,” he cheered.

  The crew jolted free from the passionate spell they had cast and cheered along.

  “You both need to breathe,” Philip said quietly. His hands clamped down on their arms as he led them toward the forecastle. He turned to Rose. “Smile and wave.”

  Rose pasted a smile on her face and waved to the crew, who still cheered their display of ardent affection.

  Philip turned to them after they had mounted the stairs to the forecastle. “Do I need to toss you both overboard for a cool dip?”

  Tristan glowered at Philip. “It was a simple kiss to appease a drunk old man.”

  “Oh, is that what that was…a simple kiss,” he chuckled. “You made even this salty bachelor want to take a wife.” He started down the stairs, calling out, “Thankfully, I will be too busy overseeing business in Calais to find one.”

  “Rose.”

  She looked up at Tristan. His brow was drawn with concern.

  “Are you all right?” he asked. “My apologies for William. He cannot hold his ale. I’ve warned him about gambling with the men. I’m sure he lost a lot more to Piper than just his good sense.”

  Her knees felt weak. Her heart pounded, but she fought for control and simply replied, “I’m fine.”

  He raised a doubtful brow at her.

  “Really, Tristan. ‘Tis not as if I’ve never been kissed before.” She blew out a rush of air. “Although I’ve never been kissed like that.”

  He groaned.

  Startled, she looked up.

  Once more, his eyes burned for her. He let go of her hand and started to back away. “I’m going to leave you now before I kiss you like you truly deserve.”

  She watched his tall frame cross the main deck, then climb the stairs to the stern castle where he stood with his back to the ship and his hands gripping the rail. Her gaze traced the wide breadth of his shoulders, then followed his torso down to his trim waist. With a soft groan she turned away and imagined the kiss she truly deserved.

  ~ * ~

  Rose gazed out across the grey water at Calais. Torch fire lined the docks, and even though the hour for supper had come and gone, the wharf still bustled with activity. The firelight allowed her a glimpse of sandy beach, which hugged the shoreline on either side of the harbor. A thrill of excitement shot through her. She could not believe that she was on a merchant ship docked in a French harbor. When she was a young woman, she would always see her brother, Quinn, off on his latest merchant voyage. She would wave as his ship sailed from sight, bound for London, Bordeaux, Flanders, and even Venice. Always, a part of her had longed to go with him to those distant lands.

  “Rose.”

  She drew a sharp breath and whirled around to find Tristan standing close behind her. “You startled me.”

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. The eager look on your face reminded me of my first voyage. I was just eight years of age, but I can still remember my first glimpse of a new shore.”

  “It would be a lie, if I told ye I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of solid ground,” she said. “Although I am almost certain ye mean to tell me that I must wait until morning.”

  “I hope you are not too disappointed, but you’re right. Tonight, I will go ashore and oversee the unloading of our cargo and ensure Philip has everything else well in hand. In the morning, I will come for you.”

  “Will ye not sleep?”

  He smiled. “Eventually, I will collapse on deck with my crew and take whatever sleep is left in the night.”

  “I can help unload the cargo. I always help my brothers—”

  He held up a hand. “Stop right there. On this point, I will not yield. You are not going to haul lumber off my ship.”

  “The more hands ye have, the faster it will go.”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Absolutely, never.”

  “If ye will only just—”

  He grabbed her in a crushing embrace, silencing her with a kiss. Slowly, her body softened against his. She reached her arms around his neck. He hadn’t intended to kiss her for so long, but her lips tasted of honey and she just felt so damn good in his arms. He tugged her bottom lip gently between his teeth as he pulled away. Her lids slowly opened. She stepped free from his embrace and reached for the railing. Her knuckles whitened as she held on. Even in the torch fire, he could see the flush to her cheeks. Coming to stand at her side, he, too, gazed out at the harbor, waiting for his own heart to cease its race.

  After several moments, she said, her voice still strained, “So, have ye decided how we will spend our time here?”

  He cleared his throat. “I have narrowed our choices down to just a few, but the final decision is yours.”

  “Go on,” she said, appearing more at ease.

  “In the center of town, I have a large house with servants who will see to your every need. On the morrow, I can take you to market, and you can add to your wardrobe or your collection of jewels, anything your heart desires.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Forgive me, but I’ve no wish to go to market. I have more tunics and strappings than I will ever be able to wear.”

  A playful glint lit his eyes. “Well, we can always remain on board. My business here will not take longer than a day or so.”

  She shook her head. “I simply must go ashore.”

  He chuckled. “I may have been saving the best for last. I have a very small, very modest cottage a short distance down the coast. There are no servants. It is kept up by the neighbor, and—”

  “Aye,” she said, interrupting. “That sounds wonderful.”

  He smiled. “I thought as much. Then it is decided. In the morning, Philip will take command of the Messenger, while you and I take our leave and spend the night on the coast. By the morning of the second day, we should be back on board, ready to sail across the channel to England.”

  She canted her head to the side and eyed him skeptically. “Is this cottage of yers truly humble, or is it small by the standards of a wealthy merchant?”

  “It is comfortably appointed but still truly modest. I promise you, Rose. You will not be disappointed.”

  She fingered the fine silk of her surcote. “Can I wear my plain tunic?”

  “You may wear whatever pleases you.”

  She smiled. “That does sound like heaven.” She crossed the forecastle and began to descend the stairs.

  “Where are you racing off to?” he said, smiling

  “To change,” she shot back, but then she froze and darted back up the stairs. “Loosen my laces,” she said quietly.

  “What? Here?” he asked in a low voice.

  She ar
ched her brow at him. “Would ye rather accompany me to yer quarters so we can be alone?”

  Heat flashed in his eyes. He cleared his throat. “Right,” he said. “Turn around then.” He quickly loosened her laces, then spread her hair out to make certain none of the crew would notice as she walked by.

  “Until the morrow,” she said, dipping in a low curtsy.

  “Sleep well, Rose,” he said, then bowed at the waist. His gaze followed her slender form across the deck. “I will miss you,” he whispered as she disappeared down below. With a deep breath, he forced his mind to return to the busy night ahead.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rose took off her slippers before she climbed from the dinghy and sank her toes in the wet sand. It felt wonderful to be on shore. Thick fog made the air heavy and lent the landscape an otherworldly feel.

  Tristan offered her his arm. “Are you ready to see the cottage?”

  “Indeed, I am,” she answered, weaving her arm through his.

  They trudged through the soft sand, following a path lined with tufts of stiff seagrass. After climbing up a gentle slope, the cottage came into view.

  She chuckled at his side.

  He glanced down at her. “What is so funny,”

  She shook her head at him. “Ye are, and no mistake. Yer small cottage is more than three times the size of the home I grew up in with my parents, five brothers and wee sister.”

  He scratched his head. “Well, all right. Then it is somewhat modest.”

  She laughed before racing ahead to admire the grounds. Flat, white stones marked the path to the cottage door, and running along both sides were hedges dotted with pink sea roses. Coming up behind her, he clasped her hand and swung open the door. When she saw the inside, she gasped with delight.

  There was just one large room with a bed like she had only heard about in stories with four intricately carved posters and blankets that begged for her touch. A long table was pushed up against the wall beneath a wide casement with a single bench that stretched its full length. Along the back wall towered a large stone hearth and two high back chairs.

  “What do you think?”

  “’Tis amazing,” she gasped the instant before she pressed her cheek to the soft, wool blanket covering the bed.

  “Make yourself comfortable while I start a fire.”

  “If ye insist,” she laughed and scurried on top of the bed and buried her head in the pillows. “This is what it must feel like to sleep on a cloud.”

  “Have you never slept on a real bed?”

  She shook her head at him once more. “We were born to different worlds, Tristan.”

  He looked at her curiously. “Soon you will see my world up close. Tomorrow is the feast of Saint Peter, and we will be sailing to England.

  She froze and grew pale.

  “What is it?” he asked. “What did I say?”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. She slid from the bed and went to stand by the window. Pulling back the shutters, she gazed out at the seagrass bending in the breeze.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, coming to her side.

  She looked up at him with clear eyes. “I’m fine,” she said. Then with a deep breath, she crossed to the hearth and peered into the empty iron pot. “Ye told me there is a neighbor who takes care of this place for ye.”

  “Yes, he’s an old codger named Abram. He lives just over the first hill.”

  She gazed about the room with an expression of wonder on her face. “It seems a sad and amazing thing to have so many homes.”

  “Why sad?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “’Tis just that this lovely place must stay empty most of the time.”

  He nodded. “My parents have reached an age where travel is now uncomfortable. And I seldom come here.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Let us fill it with a little life then. Would Abram have some fresh meat and cabbage he might be willing to part with, mayhap a game bird or two?” she said with a wink.

  “I’m certain of it. What do you intend?”

  “Ye said once that ye wanted to taste my cooking. Well, I’m going to make us a fine meal.”

  ~ * ~

  Tristan sat in one of the chairs by the fire feeling, to his own surprise, perfectly at ease. Usually, he felt restless on dry land, even during brief visits. But at that moment, the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks could be heard through the open window. And no sunset, blue sea, or distant port could compete with his current view of Rose bustling from the table to the hearth with handfuls of chopped meat and vegetables. With her simple, unembellished beauty to gaze upon and the smell of simmering stew and fresh baked bread filling the air, he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so content.

  Rose caught him staring and flashed a bright smile. Her long red curls hung free down her back. Her slim figure moved about with strength and ease. She hummed as she ladled stew into two wooden bowls, which she then set upon the table near the open window.

  “There now,” she said, stepping back to consider her work. The smile that played at her lips told him she was pleased by what she saw. And why shouldn’t she be? He crossed the room to stand beside her and admired the steaming bowls and plate of fresh bannock.

  “Shall we?” she asked.

  “It smells heavenly,” he said, taking his seat. “Thank you, Rose.”

  She sat across from him, but didn’t take up her spoon straightaway. Instead, she closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. “I love that smell,” she said. “Salt air mingling with the scent of fresh stew.”

  Tristan smiled and took a bite. The meat was tender and the flavor rich. He dipped his bread in the sauce. “Rose, you’ve made a truly splendid meal. Mayhap, we can bring some of the fresh meat on board tomorrow so the crew might enjoy a fine stew such as this on the feast day of Saint Peter.”

  Her brows drew together, and a darkness marred her exquisite countenance—only for a moment, a breath. But it was there—unmistakable suffering.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “Forgive me, Rose, but I can keep my silence no longer. I know you are a private woman, and that we have only known each other a brief while. But owing to the circumstances of our relationship, I feel like I’ve known you…well…my whole life somehow.”

  She nodded. “I also feel that. I could almost weave stories of our youth spent antagonizing each other or rambling over the moors. ‘Tis strange, really. Ye’re at once so familiar and still more mysterious than any man I’ve ever known…” Her voice trailed off.

  “There,” he said, leaning forward in his seat. “There it was again.”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “What was there?”

  He paused for a moment, and considered her. Then he stood and offered her his hand. “Let us walk along the shore. You seem most comfortable out of doors, smelling the sea air.”

  She wore a wary expression on her face as she tentatively took his hand. He led her outside and across the field to the beach. When they reached the sand, he sat down and took off his boots. She also left behind her slippers, and they set off toward the sea, their bare feet sinking in the sand.

  “I’ve never known a woman like you,” he began. “You are so much more engaged in the world around you than many of the women I’ve encountered. Privileged women, whether noble or not, are shielded from everything. They keep their eyes averted, never looking headlong. But you’re different. You’re smart, Rose, and courageous and kind.”

  Then he stopped and turned to her. “Forgive me for saying so, but you are also so very sad—not all the time. It lies just beneath the surface. It flashes through you when you gaze out to sea. It is as much a part of you as your laughter and your passion. It is real, and when it comes to the surface, it twists and hurts.”

  Tears stung her eyes.

  He drew closer and cupped her cheek in his hand. “What is it that hides in your heart that can make you so very sad?”

  A strangled sob fled her lips as her hands f
lew to cover her face. Her whole body tensed. He could feel her battle for control. After several moments, her hands dropped to her sides. Tears still pooled in her eyes, but they did not fall. “I did not know the date until you said tomorrow was the feast of Saint Peter,” she said, her voice strained.

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  She swallowed hard. She opened her mouth to speak but the words seemed trapped. He took her hand to help her. Her pain was palpable. It tore through him, tightening his chest and causing his own heart to ache on her behalf.

  She pressed her lips together, fighting back her tears. “Today is my Ina’s birthday.”

  He shook his head, not understanding. “Who is Ina?” he asked softly.

  “My daughter.” The words blurted from her throat, hurried and steeped in anguish. She turned from him and stumbled as she started down the shore. In three strides he overtook her and scooped her into his arms. Her breaths were coming in panicked heaves. He cradled her and hastened back inside the cottage. Then he sat on the bed and held her in his lap. She gripped his tunic and looked at him with pain stricken eyes. “My three daughters and my husband were also slain during the massacre,” she whispered.

  His heart shattered. “Oh, Rose.”

  She nodded and took a deep breath. “Now ye know,” she said quietly as she slid off his lap onto the bed next to him.

  “I am so deeply sorry for your loss, Rose,” he said, wanting somehow to ease her suffering. “I know this must be a familiar platitude by now, but I wish there was some way I could ease your pain.”

  She looked at him, her blue eyes earnest. “Their bodies grew within mine. Their souls, their hearts are tied to me in a way no one else ever could be. Loss burns within me, like I’m constantly on fire, but I don’t want it to stop, Tristan. I don’t want the fire to go out. ‘Tis their souls still within me that I alone carry now, because they cannot.” She sat straighter and swiped at her eyes. “They are my angels, my precious girls. They’re always with me.”

  He squeezed her hand. “What were their names?” he asked softly.

  Tears stung her eyes once more, but she smiled through them. “Ina was my oldest. She would be fifteen today.” Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling a sob.