by Lily Baldwin
Rory:
A Scottish Outlaw
By
Lily Baldwin
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, locations and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental. Any actual locations mentioned in this book are used fictitiously.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. The unauthorized reproduction, sharing, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Copyright 2016 by Lily Baldwin
www.duncurra.com
Cover Design: Cover Designer
ISBN-10:1-942623-39-9
ISBN-13:978-1-942623-39-7
Produced in the USA
Dedication
To Cecilia Mainville (Nonni)
Acknowledgments
I must thank four amazing women. They took this story into their hearts and made it awesome! Thank you to my mom for all your help and support and your eagle eyes. I couldn’t have done it without you. I love you so much. You are the best mom ever! Thank you to Susan. You are essential to me. I love every minute of every one of our pow wows! I love virtually seeing your beautiful smile. Skype makes me love technology. I love you to the moon and back! Thank you to my beloved Kathryn. I am the luckiest wee author to have had your goddess eyes on this book. You are amazing, and I love you so very much. Thank you to Kenzie for your support and encouragement. You help me hold faith in myself. I love you so much I would get matching tattoos with you ;)
Thank you to my husband who is my perfect match and my own true love, and to my daughter for inspiring me every day to reach for new heights. I love you both so much.
Thank you to the best publishing company ever. Duncurra—you are amazing!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
About the Author
More by Lily Baldwin
Other Titles from Duncurra LLC
Chapter One
Scotland
1302
Rory MacVie’s horse nickered and tossed its head. “Hush, lass,” he crooned, leaning forward to stroke her thick, black mane.
“He should be here already,” David hissed. “I don’t like this.”
Rory glanced sidelong at his agitated friend before once more scanning the surrounding woods, still illuminated by summer’s twilight. “Give him time,” Rory said. “Ye’re always too quick to worry.”
Several moments passed in silence. Then Rory rolled his eyes at David who had grabbed up his reins.
“Something’s not right,” David growled. “Let’s go.”
“Ye need to calm down,” Rory began, but then he heard a branch snap deep in the thicket. “Wait,” he hissed, grabbing David’s forearm, stopping him from turning his horse about. “Listen.”
Leaves rustled the instant before a flash of movement through the trees caught Rory’s eye. “He’s coming,” Rory whispered.
A white horse nosed its way into the clearing, carrying a cloaked figure. Rory’s eyes narrowed, taking in the person’s diminutive stature. They had expected a man, not a mere lad. He flexed his hand, ready to grab the sword strapped to his back if need be as he watched the rider turn his horse to face them, stopping several paces away. Rory tensed when a small hand peeked out from beneath the voluminous folds of black cloak and pulled back the draping hood.
“Bloody hell,” Rory cursed under his breath as he locked eyes with an intensely beautiful woman. Flaxen hair shone nearly as white as her snowy skin.
A slow smile curved her lips before she dipped her head and said, “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland forever.
“Alba gu bràth,” Rory said, repeating the secret password of their cause.
“Who the hell are ye?” David growled, his harsh tone causing Rory to wince.
“Don’t be an arse,” Rory snapped before turning apologetically back to the woman in front of them. “Forgive my friend, but we were supposed to be meeting one Alex MacKenzie.”
“And so ye have,” she replied, her lips now stretching into a full smile—lips so luscious Rory could almost taste their sweetness in his mouth. “I am Alex MacKenzie,” she said.
The sharp scraping of a blade leaving its sheath drew Rory’s attention away from the distracting image.
“What are ye doing?” he asked, shaking his head in disapproval as David pointed his sword at the lass.
“She’s a trap,” David snapped. “The English must have taken the real Alex and are baiting us with a pretty skirt.”
An indignant harrumph drew Rory’s gaze back to the woman.
Her eyes flashed bright with anger. “I am, indeed, Alex MacKenzie.”
God’s blood but he loved a spirited lass.
“Aye, then prove it,” David taunted. “Where’s the coin. Ye’ve no satchel, chests or saddlebags. If ye’re Alex MacKenzie, then where’s Scotland’s money?”
She cocked a golden brow before slowly sliding from her horse and landing on the ground with a heavy thud. “Ye spook easily,” she said to David.
Rory chuckled. “Ye don’t know the half of it.”
Once more, she locked eyes with him. “I require yer assistance.”
He needed no urging. In fact, he could think of nothing more he wanted to do in that moment than assist a beautiful Scottish rebel.
“Don’t trust her,” David hissed.
Rory hesitated. Could David be right? Could he be walking into a trap?
Alex raised her brow at him. “Are ye as skittish as yer friend?”
That settled matters. Rory never backed down from a challenge, especially when issued from lips as exquisitely shaped as hers. How could he resist? He slid from his horse and walked toward her, but then she turned her back on him. Confusion stopped him in his tracks. He glanced back at David, but his friend only lifted his shoulders, clearly equally as baffled.
Rory turned around in time to watch her cloak drop to the ground. “My laces, if ye please,” she said.
He stared at her long, slender back for a moment, contemplating what to do. Just as he made it a point never to back away from a challenge, he also never said no to that pa
rticular request. Still, a strange woman asking him to untie her laces in the middle of a vast forest with another man looking on was a first. He cleared his throat and closed the distance between them. Who was he to deny any lass such a simple favor? His fingers worked quickly, and in a flash, her surcote dropped to a heap around her ankles. Then she bent in front of him, giving him a stunning view of her round derriere as she grabbed the hem of her tunic. Standing, she began pulling off the dark green wool.
“If ye please,” she said sharply. The fabric around her head muffled her voice but did nothing to shield him from her annoyance.
He grabbed hold of her tunic and whisked it off her raised arms.
“I should have asked yer friend to help,” she said, glancing up at him. “Perhaps he has more practice undressing women.”
Another challenge.
Rory stepped forward, his eyes scanning the length of her. “In the future, when I remove yer clothes, I promise not to tarry.”
“Then show me ye’re a man of yer word. There are layers to go still.” She flashed him a smile before bending to grab the hem of her second tunic.
He swallowed the groan that rushed up his throat as he grasped the fabric from her hands and began to lift the dress, but he was amazed by its weight.
“Why the hell is this so heavy?” Rory asked.
“Did the prospect of seeing me naked somehow make ye forget why we’re here?” she crooned, her voice low and seductive.
“The coin?” Rory said.
She nodded.
He eased the laden fabric over her head, revealing her kirtle. The thin fabric pressed taut against her full breasts and hugged her shapely curves.
His mouth watered when she bent at the waist, lifting the hem of her under-dress.
“Ye can’t be hiding anymore?” Rory said, tightly clutching the heavy tunic.
She grinned playfully and lifted her kirtle higher, exposing a slender dirk strapped to her thigh. The blade glinted when she eased it from its sheath. Then she dropped her kirtle in place and reached for the tunic he held. She flipped back a portion. Straightaway, he noticed the small square patches sewn into the interior. She pricked at the fabric with the tip of her dirk, catching one of the patches and slicing it open, exposing a silver mark. “The entire dress is lined in them—from the bottom hem, to the neckline, even down the sleeves. ‘Tis a small fortune in silver.”
“However did ye manage to mount yer horse in this thing?” he asked.
“I had a boost,” she said coyly. “I will of course require yer assistance once more,” she said, pointing to her garments still in a heap on the ground.
Setting the coin-filled garment down, he reached for the other tunic. After pulling it down over her head, he smoothed the fabric in place, running his hand down the gentle curve where her slim waist flared to her rounded hip.
“Ye have strong hands,” she said softly over her shoulder to him.
Her praise fueled his ardor. Resisting the desire to tear off the very tunic he had just fitted into place, he grabbed her rumpled surcote and began easing the thick worsted wool over her head. Tying the laces, his eyes drank their fill, memorizing the lines of her narrow waist and rich curves.
She whirled around, surprising him the instant after he cinched the final knot. They locked eyes. Then her gaze dropped, journeying over his person with the same slow and sensual deliberation he had shown her lovely form.
When her eyes once again met his, she released a long breath before saying, “Regretfully, I must go.”
He stepped closer. “Will we meet again?”
Giving no answer, she reached for the reins of her horse. “A leg up please?”
He stepped closer and laced his fingers together. She put a knee in his hands, and he lifted as she pulled herself up and into the saddle with practiced ease.
His left hand lingered on her knee for a moment. He looked up at her, the intensity of her gaze fueling his desire to greater heights. “Will we meet again?” he said, repeating his question.
She lifted one of her shoulders. “Who can say what the future holds?”
Rory clenched his fist to keep from pulling her back off the horse and into his arms. “I hope my future holds ye,” he said, his voice low and husky. “It would be a tragedy were I never to taste those lips.”
She flashed him a smile. “Ye’re in luck.” She leaned over in the saddle, grabbed his tunic and pressed her full lips hard against his. Desire quickly overcame his initial surprise. He reached his hand around the back of her neck and deepened their kiss. A soft groan escaped her when she drew away. “Thank ye,” she whispered.
“For what?” he breathed through a haze of shock and desire.
She smiled. “For being a loyal servant to Scotland.” Then she drove her heel into her horse’s flank and sped off down the forest road.
He stared after her. The sweetness of her kiss lingered in his mouth, never to be forgotten, even as she disappeared into the fading light.
Chapter Two
Rory sat at his usual corner table in the Sunk Ship, a bawdy tavern in the seaside village of Gaillean. Raucous laughter from fishermen, unwinding after a long day at sea, competed with the lyrical voices of barmaids and prostitutes, the latter vying for the attention of the wealthiest, youngest, or handsomest clientele. Painted lips and charcoal-lined eyes flashed in Rory’s direction, but the scowl that furrowed his brow kept the lassies at bay. He lifted a tankard of ale to his lips, took a slow sip and scanned the room. A man named Tamhas with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard raised his mug in greeting when Rory caught his eye. Tamhas was the proprietor of the Sunk Ship and possessed a loquacious tongue, but Rory was in no mood for conversation. On a different night, he might have called Tamhas over; instead, Rory only nodded in greeting, then immediately looked away and eased back in his seat. Resting his head against the cool stones behind him, he stared up at the iron candelabra dangling from the ceiling while he worked to shut out the surrounding frivolity.
“Rory!”
He jolted upright and looked at the man sitting across the table.
David slammed his mug down. “Finally, I have yer attention.”
Rory’s scowl deepened. “I’m right here. Ye don’t need to shout or break Tamhas’s table.”
“Really? Because I’m not so sure about that. I’ve said yer name a half a dozen times, and ye’ve only just noticed. What the bloody hell is wrong with ye?”
Rory shrugged. “Ye have my attention now,” he said dryly, ignoring his friend’s question.
David’s shoulder-length blond hair fell in front of his hard, green eyes as he leaned over the table and hissed in a low voice, “I’m trying to talk to ye about what the abbot said at our last meeting. Remember?” He raked his hand through his hair, uncovering his eyes, which narrowed on Rory. “While a truce is in place between Scotland and England, we’re supposed to rally the people. We’re supposed to be turning farmers into soldiers.”
Rory motioned for David to stop speaking as a barmaid sauntered up to the table holding a tray of brimming tankards. She bent at the waist, giving Rory a view of her smooth, full bosom, which loomed above her cinched bodice. Strawberry ringlets dripped from her temples, framing her heart-shaped face.
Rory fingered one of the curls and swept a slow gaze across her creamy skin, but her overt display did little to stir his desire. His body throbbed with need, but no one in that room could satisfy his hunger. Only one woman had that power—one with the heart of a Scottish rebel.
Rory shifted his eyes, looking down at his fresh tankard of ale. “Thank ye,” he muttered.
“For the love of God, man, what ails ye?”
Rory looked at David in surprise. “If I cared, I would ask the same question of ye,” Rory snapped.
Another woman sauntered by just then, her hips swinging in a sensual rhythm. Rory recognized her as one of the lassies who worked upstairs. He followed the movement of her hips for a moment longer before looking
back down at the golden liquid in his cup, which he found to be the most appealing thing in the room.
David threw his hands up, once more drawing Rory’s gaze. “Bloody hell, Rory. As usual, ye’ve got every woman in this room throwing herself at ye, and ye’re not taking even one kiss, one nibble.”
Rory shrugged. “I see nothing that catches my fancy.”
David rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try to tell me that strawberry tart over there with all the curves escaped yer notice. I’ve known ye a long time. She’s exactly the type to catch yer fancy.”
Rory glanced once more at the red-haired lass who now sat on Tamhas’s lap but kept her eyes trained on him. David was right. Normally, her round bottom would be pressed against his lap. Her luscious breasts bobbing up and down close to his hungry lips. But tonight, he had no interest.
David leaned close. “What occupies yer mind so?”
Rory absently trailed his finger around the brim of his cup. “I was just wondering how long it took Alex to sew all those coins into her tunic.”
“Ah-ha,” David exclaimed, jumping to his feet, the scrape of his chair drawing the surrounding revelers’ gazes. “That chit? That’s what this is all about?”
It was Rory’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sit down, would ye?”
David eased back down, shaking his head. “Ye’ve got yer head in the clouds over a lass.” He leaned forward. “I’m trying to talk ye about rallying the people, building armies, taking back our country, putting a bloody Scottish king on the bloody thrown while ye’re daydreaming about some bleeding lass.” David stood and turned around, gesturing across the room. “A little strawberry tart will make ye forget Alex MacKenzie for good.”
