Rory: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 3)

by Lily Baldwin

  “Ah, sweetling,” he said, but then his brow suddenly furrowed. “Why is it that I feel I’ve not seen ye for an age?”

  She pressed a kiss to the back of his hand. “I’ve not been gone an age, but ye’re right, I have been away this last month.”

  “Oh,” he said. “And where did ye go?”

  Alex pressed her lips together to push down the ache that threatened to grip her heart. No matter how much time passed, she would never grow accustomed to her father’s limitations. On the eve before she left, she had told him about her journey to Haddington. On the day she left, she had said goodbye. She knew every night in her absence, Mary would have sat with her father in her stead and told him that Alex had gone to visit the abbot, and still he had no recollection of her journey. Breathing deeply, she rejected the anxiety that threatened to build within her. She would hold fast to her peace and give her worry for her father up to God.

  Smiling, she said, “I’ve just returned from visiting Abbot Matthew.”

  A slow smile lit his drawn features. “How is the abbot?”

  “He is well. It was a quiet, uneventful visit.” She fought the need to make the sign of the cross. Lying to her father made her feel wretched, but regretfully it could not be helped. If he knew that she had smuggled a small fortune sewn into her dress over several leagues…alone…meeting with strange men in the woods…alone, he would never allow her to leave her chambers again. He might even suddenly regain the strength to walk just so that he could march her to her rooms and lock her away. Of course, come tomorrow, he would completely forget her confession.

  “Ye’re such a good lass.”

  She groaned inwardly as she recalled how she had asked a Scottish rebel to undress her while another man looked on. Then she sat straighter, pushing aside her guilt. After all, how else was she going to remove her surcote? Reckless acts were committed every day in the name of Scottish independence. And although she was a woman, like so many brave Scotsmen, she had heard the call. More than that, because of her aid, Abbot Matthew had the coin to start rebuilding the Scottish cavalry. She may have behaved scandalously, but it was all for King and country. Then a flash of sky blue eyes and full lips passed before her mind’s eye, and she remembered boldly grabbing Rory’s tunic and pressing her lips hard and wantonly against his. All right—so she had to concede that some of her scandalous behavior was not for Scotland, but how was she to resist those lips?

  “I’m sorry, Father,” she blurted.

  “What for?” he said, looking bemused.

  She hesitated and then simply smiled, brushing his hair away from his brow. “For always fussing so much.”

  “I don’t remember complaining. I like when ye fuss over me. Yer mother used to fuss whenever I got the slightest bit ill. I admit it always pleased me. Anyway, ye digress. What of the abbot?”

  Alex smiled. “He is well and vows to journey here to Luthmore before the year’s end.”

  Rare laughter escaped her father’s lips, the sound quiet but unmistakably full of mirth. “What mischief Matthew and I got up to as lads.” He looked at Alex. “Would ye believe it if I told ye he’d bested me with the sword time and again?”

  Her eyes widened with surprise. “Ye never told me that. I can hardly imagine the good abbot wielding a sword.”

  She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. The cool temperature pleased her. So often fevers laid claim to his weakened body, each time stealing away a little more of his dwindling vitality. He reached up with his frail hand and grazed her cheek.

  “I love ye, Da,” she whispered, kissing his cheek. Then she sat back, but her mother’s necklace had laced around his fingers and snapped when she pulled away.

  “Oh dear,” he said, realizing what had occurred.

  Her heart ached at the sight of the broken chain, but she masked her feelings to protect her father.

  “Do not fash yerself, Da. ‘Twas an accident. I can fix it.” She eased back in her chair, rubbing the trinity knot between her fingers. Then she motioned to the untouched piece of bread and full bowl of broth on the other nightstand. “Did ye eat at all today?”

  “Aye, feasts and feasts. Jean can hardly keep up with me.”

  “Liar,” she shot back. Taking the bread, and dipping it in the broth, she held it up to his lips. “Come on, Da, one bite?”

  He shook his head, grimacing. “Nay, lass. My stomach pains me.” He closed his eyes, his voice strained. “And I’m tired, so tired.”

  “Then sleep, Da,” she said, standing. “We’ll break our fast together in the morning.”

  But he reached out and grabbed her hand. “Nay, lass. My own, sweet lass. Stay with me a while.”

  “Nay, Da. Ye must rest.”

  “Alex,” he said, the barest hint of a smile curving his lips. “Just sit with me and keep talking.”

  She slowly sat back down. “What would ye like to talk about?”

  He held her hand in his cold one. “I just want to hear yer voice. Tell me anything. Just…just keep talking.”

  “All right, Da. I’ll stay a while.” She climbed into bed beside him and rested her head on his shoulder like she had when she was child, and told her da about the new slippers she had bought at market for Mary and how beautiful the countryside looked on her return journey north, and how the heather had at last bloomed. It was not long until he had drifted off to sleep. She held him a while, remembering earlier days when his body had been strong and his mind sharp. She remembered the security she had once felt when both her parents had been alive. Pressing a kiss to his forehead, she rose from the bed and moved to stand beside the casement. She pulled back the tapestry and looked out over the moors, painted violet by twilight’s brush. She saw the outline of cottages and the expanse of the MacKenzie village, and the cliffs of Torna Doon in the distance. Then she strained to see what was beyond, to the numerous families who lived scattered along the vast MacKenzie territory. So many people relied on her. As her mother forewarned, the weight of responsibility settled on her shoulders. If she allowed it to weigh her down, she would taste resentment. But she thrust her shoulders back and bravely raised her chin. She would carry on as the true acting chieftain of the MacKenzie, even if none of the world knew.

  *

  In the morning, she awoke and remembered her promise to her father to break their fast together. Alex hurried to the kitchen and helped Jean assemble a tray with fresh baked bread, a bowl of hot broth and a vase of his favorite flowers, mountain Avens, whose white petals curved like small bowls with yellow centers.

  She balanced the tray with one hand and opened the door to her father’s solar with the other. The tapestries hanging over the windows blotted out the cheer of summer’s morning. She set the tray down on his nightstand and crossed to the windows. “Since ye cannot walk outside, let me bring the outside to ye,” she said, sweeping the tapestries aside.

  Smiling, she returned to his bedside and reached for one of the white flowers, bringing the petals to his nose. “These were picked just this morning.”

  Donnan remained asleep.

  She returned the flower to its vase and started to butter a piece of the bread for him. “Wake up, Da. Ye won’t believe the gossip I overheard from the servants in the kitchen.” She paused to reach for a small bowl. “Do ye want some stewed baeberries on yer bread?”

  She waited, but her father didn’t answer. “Come on, Da. ‘Tis time to wake.”

  Still he did not answer.

  “Da?” She leaned closer and saw that his lips were curved in the slightest smile.

  “Very funny, Da.” She cupped his cheek and gasped. His skin was cold to her touch. Her eyes widened. She lunged forward, pulling away the bedclothes. “Da,” she shouted, shaking him, trying to wake him.

  “Da!”

  Then the truth slowly seeped into her unwilling mind.

  Donnan, Laird of the MacKenzie, was dead.

  She climbed into bed beside him just as she had done the night befo
re and wept with her head resting on his shoulder.

  Chapter Five

  Alex planted her feet firmly on the cold, stone floor of the great hall, despite the throbbing ache drumming at her toes and heels. Refusing to yield to her fatigue and the weight of her grief, she stood, receiving her kinsmen one by one.

  Corc, stooped with age, slowly climbed the steps to the high dais and eased stiffly down on one knee in front her. With his head bowed, she strained to hear the words that rasped from his tremulous lips.

  “My lady, with gratitude I served yer father, yer father’s father, and I can even recall the days of yer great grandfather’s chiefdom. Happy and blessed are we who have basked beneath the kind justice of their light.”

  Alex squatted down and gently clasped the old man’s hands. Imbuing her gaze with a warmth her grieving heart could not feel, she smiled and whispered their clan motto. “Luceo non uro.” I shine not burn.

  Corc looked up then and met her gaze. His red-rimmed, faded-blue eyes brimmed with tears. “No light has ever shined brighter than ye, Alex,” he said, his chin quivering.

  Alex gently squeezed his hands. “Ye’re too good to me by far, Corc. May all the angels and all the saints bless yer sweet heart.” Helping him stand, she pressed a kiss to his wrinkled cheek before handing him off to Michael, who helped him shuffle back down the stairs.

  She turned once more to face the line of kinfolk just as a mop of red hair raced at her. Before she could draw her next breath, Cassie’s slim, wee arms encircled her waist in a clinging embrace. Alex’s heart broke a little more when she looked down into the child’s big, tearful eyes.

  “Oh, sweetling! Don’t cry, dear lass,” Alex crooned, swiping Cassie’s cheeks, her own heartache momentarily forgotten in the presence of Cassie’s innocent pain.

  Helen came forward then, her nose red, tears freely streaming down her cheeks. “I tried to keep her at home. But when she found out that yer da died, the poor dear has not stopped sobbing.”

  Swallowing the fresh knot of tears pushing up her throat, Alex looked back down at Cassie. “Ye and me both,” she whispered.

  “I’m so sorry, Alex,” Helen said. Then she shifted her gaze to Mary who stood at Alex’s side. “I hope he did not suffer.”

  “We do not think he did,” Mary said, her voice thick with tears.

  Alex drew a deep breath, fighting to remain composed. “He passed in his sleep.” Her voice broke, releasing a well of tears beyond the barriers of her control.

  Helen pulled both Alex and Mary into a crushing embrace.

  “There, there,” Helen crooned softly. “Ye both cry all ye want. There’s no finer man than Donnan; a sea of tears would not be too many to spend on the likes of him.”

  “Helen,” Michael said, also drawing Alex’s gaze. “Perhaps ye can convince Alexandria to rest for a spell.”

  Mary wiped her tears and nodded. “Please, Alex. If not rest, then at least some food and drink.” Then Mary turned to Helen. “She hasn’t eaten all day, nor has she sat, not once.”

  Helen cupped Alex’s cheeks. “The line of mourners yet extends beyond the courtyard gates. Ye’re no good to anyone if ye faint from hunger.”

  “Where’s William?” Alex asked Michael.

  “He’s gone riding with Gavin to race off some of his grief.”

  Alex’s gaze shifted to Mary. Her cousin’s face was a composition of worry and pain. Slowly, Alex nodded. “I will not sit, but I will have some broth.”

  Michael disappeared and reappeared in a flash with a bowl in hand, along with a hearty crust of bread. He motioned to her father’s imposing high-backed chair. “Sit just while ye eat, my lady.”

  She shook her head, planting her feet wider with new resolve. “That chair will stay empty until it is rightfully filled.”

  Michael bowed his head. “And so it shall, my lady.”

  Alex moved away from the others with her food. For hours, she had stood receiving her kin—not just the villagers living within the protection of Luthmore but also the cottars scattered across the countryside. Days would pass before the entire clan had come to bid farewell to their beloved laird.

  She glanced at the empty chair, and then out across the sea of villagers. Whether conjured by her despair or images of truth, she thought she noticed some of the men eying her father’s seat overly long while whispering to those who stood nearby. She imagined what they said. There is no heir—only she. Who will fill that chair? Did each man want it for himself?

  Whipping wind barreled through the open doors into the great hall, lifting her hair off her shoulders. She whirled around, her eyes drawn to the wind’s source. The banner of the MacLeod appeared, followed by a man of great height with broad shoulders and cold, hard eyes. Behind him followed another man of equal stature, scanning the room with the same harsh gaze. A heavy pulse of thick dread coursed through her. She had known her neighbors would call, but she had not believed they would call so soon. She turned and motioned for a servant, quickly handing off the sustenance she had barely tasted. Then she returned to stand in the middle of the high dais right in front of her father’s chair.

  Gordon MacLeod strode past the line of villagers. Her pulse raced harder. She was weary. The weight of grief bogged down her mind, sapping her strength. She was not ready for a standoff with the MacLeod, but that did not matter—it couldn’t matter. Her people needed her to be strong, and that is what she would do. Steeling her courage, she widened her stance and looked the MacLeod boldly in the eye as he stopped at the foot of the stairs. Despite being on higher ground, his great height reduced the impact of her strategic placement. Still, she elongated her back to claim every advantage of her position. She wanted to rid her people of fear. She wanted them to feel secure in the absence of their laird, especially in that moment of intense, vulnerable grief. Fear was all too easy a pathway to turn down when hearts were broken.

  “Gordon MacLeod,” she said, speaking first. “Ye have come, I ken, to pay yer respects to my father and my kin.”

  The MacLeod dipped his head to her, his brow pinched with a sadness that did not reach his eyes. “Clan MacLeod mourns the passing of Donnan MacKenzie,” he said loudly for all to hear.

  She clenched her fists. He clearly wished to convey his own message to her people.

  The MacLeod turned then, showing her his back, and raised his hand to beckon the attention of everyone in the great hall. “But Clan Mackenzie, know this—while yer chieftain’s chair is empty—I vow to safeguard yer borders.” Then he turned and looked pointedly at Alex, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder and said, his voice still projecting across the great hall. “My son, Eudard, is strong. He’s a warrior. He will watch over ye.”

  Alex tensed as she locked eyes with Eudard MacLeod. An arrogant smile curved his lips. She stiffened. The Laird of the MacLeod had just implied a match between herself and Eudard. The idea of binding her people to a leader as hard and ruthless as Gordon MacLeod made her stomach twist. She had to fight to suppress the disgust from appearing on her face. Drawing a deep breath, she spoke loudly to ensure her voice carried to every villager. “Clan MacLeod is strong, but so too is Clan MacKenzie. I’ve heard tell, Gordon MacLeod, that ye’ve already committed the strength of yer clan elsewhere by forming an alliance with Lord Ruddington, who sits not seven leagues from here in a castle that does not belong to him.” As she spoke, her confidence grew. She stepped down one step, bring herself eye to eye with the MacLeod. “I presume then that yer son will be occupied safeguarding the Englishman’s borders.”

  The MacLeod’s nostrils flared at her refusal of his implied proposal. “Lord Ruddington sends his condolences, and if Clan MacKenzie were to give their allegiance to King Edward, Lord Ruddington and his many knights would provide yer clan with protection and greater wealth.”

  She wanted to rail at him. How could he betray Scotland? But she knew she was not in a position to provoke the ire of the MacLeod. “We have long protected our own borders and wi
ll continue to do so. Our allegiance is to Scotland. I thank ye for yer sympathies.” She turned to Michael. “See that Laird MacLeod and his son enjoy MacKenzie hospitality and provide them with supplies to ensure a fine journey home.” Then she curtsied before turning on her heel and striding away with her head held high. The moment she passed behind the screen, which concealed the stairs to the family rooms, her knees felt like they would give way. Her heart thundered in her ears. She had held her own, but it had cost everything. She scurried up the stairs so that she might break down in private.

  *

  Michael stood just outside the solar and listened to Alex’s sobs. He wanted to comfort her, but having known the lass her whole life, he knew had he shown himself, she would have choked back her tears and swallowed her pain. He shook his head, regretting the enormity of pressure weighted on her young shoulders. For years now, she had been the acting laird of Clan MacKenzie, but always in secret. Now that her father was dead, she would feel the full wait of that responsibility. The eyes of the clan were on her, watching, hoping, waiting—but there was only so much a woman could do. And the presence of the MacLeod today made it clear that everyone was very aware that Clan MacKenzie had no man to assume the role of chieftain. This had to be remedied, and sooner rather than later, but now was not the time. He also knew it was essential that Alex be allowed to grieve.

  Michael’s opportunity to discuss Alex’s need for a husband came just two days after the Laird’s funeral. He sought her in her solar to discuss the harvest. Once everything had been addressed, Michael cleared his throat. “My lady, we need to discuss what happened when Laird MacLeod came to…uh…pay his respects.”

  Alex stood in a huff and crossed to the mantle, taking down her father’s sword. “Pay his respects? That’s a very polite way of saying circling for the kill.”

  “Aye, well that, too. The point is, ye were right.” Michael cleared his throat again as he crossed the room. “Clan MacKenzie has always protected its borders. We do not need the MacLeod or King Edward’s protection.” He paused, waiting for her to look at him. When her eyes locked with his, he said, “But the clan does need a chieftain.”