Rory: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 3)

by Lily Baldwin

  “Nay,” she suddenly blurted.

  Timothy’s brows pinched together. He drew back. “Forgive me, Lady Alexandria, I thought we had a meeting of minds, a friendship if ye will?”

  She reached out and took his hand, feeling guilty for having hurt him. “We are friends,” she said. “Please continue.”

  He eyed her skeptically for a moment, but then he relaxed and leaned closer. “I wish to join the priesthood,” he whispered.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Laughter bubbled up her throat, which she choked back down with a cough. “But of course ye do,” she said. Having gotten over her initial shock, she realized she wasn’t surprised in the least. “Ye would find true fulfillment as a priest.”

  Timothy nodded. “I feel it is my calling, but my father disapproves.”

  “But why?” she asked. “Ye do yer family a great honor.”

  Timothy shook his head. “My father says that it is right and good for a third son, but as his second son, he has forbidden me.”

  She patted his arm comfortingly. “Ye must speak to him again. Tell him ye wish to relinquish the advantages of your birthright to yer younger brother.”

  A flash of coal-black hair caught her eye, and she looked over then to see Rory take Alison’s hand and kiss it before pulling her into a lively reel.

  Alex’s clenched her fists. “Excuse me, Timothy,” she said, standing.

  “Of course, my lady, and I thank ye for yer counsel.”

  Her gaze quickly darted from Rory back to the gentle man at her side. “The abbot will be joining us here at Luthmore in a little over a fortnight. Perhaps ye should speak with him on this matter.”

  “I do believe the abbot has guessed where my heart lies,” Timothy said.

  Alex did her best not to smile. “I am confident that Abbot Matthew is very unaware of just how much ye want to be a priest. Trust me. When he visits, talk to him.”

  Timothy nodded. “I will,” he said with resolve.

  Her smile vanished the moment she turned and saw how closely Rory held Alison in his arms. She stormed across the field.

  “Lady Alexandria,” Adam said, stepping in front of her.

  She came up short, nearly bumping into him. “Forgive me, Sir Adam, I cannot—”

  He thrust a full tankard at her. Some of the contents sloshed to the ground. “I brought you an ale so that we might toast Lammas together.”

  She took the cup from him and raised it high before downing the warm drink.

  “Join me for a dance?” Adam asked.

  She looked over at Rory who laughed at something Alison had said.

  She reached for Adam’s drink and downed that too. Then she grabbed his hand and pulled him toward the dancers, laughing loudly at a quip he never made.

  *

  Rory stopped short and scowled as he watched Alex and Adam join the other dancers. His scowl deepened when she threw her head back in laughter.

  Unlike Robert, Adam made very reasonable conversation. He was intelligent, thoughtful, kind, and even Rory could see that he was handsome. Despite his self-importance, he was clearly not out of the running. In fact, Adam was probably in the lead. He pictured Adam and Alexandria as lord and lady of Luthmore castle.

  “Enough,” Rory growled.

  Alison jerked away from him. “Fine,” she snapped. “Ye don’t have to take the ale. I was only asking if ye were thirsty.”

  He hadn’t realized that Alison had brought him another drink until that moment.

  “Thank ye,” Rory said as he took the cup, his eyes ever fixed on Alex. He threw it back in one gulp, then wiped his sleeve across his mouth and stormed toward the lady who was standing far too close to Adam.

  *

  “Would ye look at those fools?” Mary said to Michael.

  Together, they had been watching Rory and Alex for some time. Rory had been dancing with Alison while his eyes remained fixed on Alex. Meanwhile, Alex danced with Adam, but she kept on laughing too loudly.

  Another peel of laughter reached Michael’s ears. “I like Adam. He’s a fine man, and I’ve heard him tell an amusing jest or two. But he is certainly not that funny.”

  “No one is,” Mary said, wincing. “She sounds like an injured bird.”

  Michael shook his head as both Alex and Rory each downed another tankard of ale. “Both appear to be enjoying their cups more than their dance partners.”

  “Oh dear,” Mary said, shielding her eyes with her hands. “Rory appears to be on the move. Please, tell me he is not going to confront Adam?”

  Michael leaned forward. “Rory has stumbled a little. He’s teetering. He may pass out. Nay, he has found his footing and is once more on the move. He is speeding up. He’s almost upon them. He’s pulling back his fist.” Michael winced. “And…Adam is down.”

  “What,” Mary exclaimed, dropping her hands from her eyes. She spotted Adam on the ground clutching his face in pain. “Oh dear,” she said, standing. “I will go to him.”

  Michael shook his head at the sight of Mary racing to Adam’s side. “It would seem my little Mary is not as uninvolved in this tangled love web as she believes.”

  He chuckled and downed the contents of his own mug. It was Lammas after all. His disapproval could wait for the morrow.

  “Saints preserve us,” he said out loud as Robert suddenly entered the fray and appeared to confront Rory on Adam’s behalf. But then Alex stepped between the two men. He watched Alex lay into Robert and winced, having been on the receiving end of one of her rants more times than he cared to remember. A moment later, Robert stomped off, leaving Alex and Rory alone in what appeared to be a heated debate.

  With a dejected look upon his face, Robert was heading back toward the keep.

  “Poor sod,” Michael muttered. “Robert,” he called out. “Sit and have an ale with me.”

  Brows drawn, Robert sat down and took a long swig from a fresh cup. “Thank ye,” he said with a heavy sigh. Then he turned and faced Michael. “Lady Alexandria does not seem to be at all fond of me.”

  Michael could not help but feel sorry for Robert. “Forget the good lady for now, and let us enjoy an ale on Lammas.” Then he pressed his lips together and silently cursed his own goodness, already regretting what he was about to say. “So, I hear ye know a wee something about horses?”

  Straightway, Robert’s face brightened.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Have ye gone mad?” Alex railed at Rory, pointing to Adam whose head rested in Mary’s lap, the hem of her tunic wadded to absorb the blood gushing from his nose.

  Rory firmed his stance for battle. “We’ve already established that I’m mad. In fact, I believe yer very words were ‘reckless knave.’” He took a step closer, not a bit sorry for having punched Adam in the face, likely breaking his perfect nose. In fact, he felt better than he had in days. And he would feel even better with Alex in his arms.

  Her eyes flashed. “Ye didn’t have to punch him!”

  “I ken,” he growled, wrapping his arm around her waist. “But I’ve a fire blazing within me, and I had to cool it down somehow.” Then he pulled her against him. “I want to be alone,” he breathed. His hand shook with restraint as he gently stroked the back of his fingers down her silky, pale cheek. Then he cupped her face. “I am going to kiss ye, Alex, long and hard. Either I do it now in front of yer clan and precious suitors, or ye lead me to where we can be alone.”

  She sucked in a sharp breath, pushing him away. “Ye read my letter!”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Ye left it out in the open, then let me into yer solar, alone. Ye’re not a careless woman, Alex. Whether ye knew it at the time or not, ye wanted me to see it.”

  “What?” she scoffed. “That makes no sense. Why would I want ye to see it?”

  He crushed her against his chest. “To save ye from marrying someone ye don’t love.”

  Her eyes bore into his with an intensity that belied her denials. Still, she shook her head while at the sa
me time, putting her arms around his neck. “I must do what is proper,” she whispered, her voice growing increasingly desperate.

  “Doing what’s proper is just about the worst thing a lassie like ye could do.”

  Her stomach flipped. She gazed into his burning sky-blue eyes and grabbed his hand, leading him toward the outer wall to the secret passage that led to her chambers. Beneath the ground it was musky and dark. She removed the scorched torch from its sconce and felt for one of the chards of flint she kept on the ground. Moments later, a fire, which mirrored her burning desire, chased away the darkness. She turned around. The fire set his black hair aglow. His eyes bored into hers. She stared at his full lips—lips that had been burned forever into her memory. He continued to stare at her. She stared back, her heart pounding. Then he grabbed her by the waist and thrust her against the wall, his lips seizing hers. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed herself into him. Her hands moved to cup his rough, chiseled jaw and then caressed his strong shoulders.

  He groaned and stepped back, raking his hand through his hair. He stared at her swollen, parted lips. The pulse throbbed at her neck. He burned for her as he had never done before. His body ached. He fought against his pulsing need. How could he resist? There was no other woman like Alex. And the fire burning through his body was mirrored in her own hungry eyes and could be heard in her gasping breaths.

  “It cannot be helped,” he growled, pulling her close once more. His hands wove through her hair. Her soft, golden waves tangled around his fingers as he crushed her lips against his. She clutched his face between her hands, her tongue plunging into his, caressing, teasing, stoking his passion to new heights. With a groan, he tore his lips from hers and turned her around. With quick, desperate motions, he began to untie the laces of her surcote. The fabric gave way and dropped to the ground. Then he whisked her tunic over her head. She turned back into his arms. He stared hungrily at her full breasts, their taut peaks pressed against the thin fabric of her kirtle. He moaned as she cupped her own breasts, her breathing hard and hungry. Then she reached for the belt around his waist, tugging at his tunic at the same time.

  “If ye were wearing a plaid, I would have ye naked in my arms by now,” she said, straining to free his body from his layers of clothing.

  He pulled her against him, smiling wickedly. “I vow to wear a plaid evermore,” he said, his voice husky. He slowly leaned down and caught her bottom lip gently between his teeth. Then he kissed her slowly, his tongue sweeping her mouth in languid strokes while he unclasped his belt. He broke their kiss only to pull his tunic over his head.

  Her hand splayed out against his rock-solid chest, dusted with a light sprinkling of crisp, black curls. She raked her hands down his lean torso before she grabbed his muscled shoulders and pressed her body against his. Her lips claimed his, then moved down his throat, pausing over his racing pulse. The cords in his neck flexed as she continued her slow caress, savoring the salty taste of him. She licked the soft place behind his ear, then continued down, kissing and laving the taut skin of his shoulders and across his chest. She had known sexual hunger before, but never had she experienced such need. An ache, searing and hot burned between her legs. Her heart pounded harder and harder, her breathing ragged as her hands swept down and felt the full, hard length of him.

  Rory’s breath hitched when her palm rubbed against his swollen member. With a growl, he grabbed her, pressing the heat of her against his hardness. He backed her against the stone wall, dropped to his knees, and lifted the hem of her kirtle. He kissed the soft skin of her thighs, parting her legs and raising her kirtle higher. He could smell her desire, rich and hot. With his mouth and tongue, he slowly coaxed her thighs open. Then he buried his lips in her soft pillow of curls and found her sensitive nub, his tongue moving in gentle circles. Slowly, he slid his finger inside her. God, she was tight…so tight.

  He faltered.

  She was too tight.

  His body shuddered as he eased his finger from her slick warmth and rested his head against her quivering body.

  “Please, don’t stop,” she cried, the same pain that was shooting through his body echoed in her cry.

  He took a deep breath, fighting to bring his own body back under control. Then his touch returned to the heat of her, stroking her, savoring the renewed sound of her soft moans. When she cried out, her body shuddered in wave after sweet wave around his touch.

  “Rory,” she cried as soft pants escaped her lips. “That was…I’ve never…”

  “Hush, lass,” he crooned in her ear. “Catch yer breath.”

  He held her close, savoring the feel of her body in his arms. His own body still throbbed with need. He fought the desire to lay her on the ground and bring her once again to the heights of passion, but then her hands came to life. She wrapped her arms around his neck, her full lips claiming his.

  “Nay,” he said, setting her at arms-length. He took the torch from the sconce and gestured deeper into the cave. “Ye go that way, and I’ll return the way we came.”

  “But Rory—”

  “Nay,” he said. Then he kissed her once more before taking several steps back. “Ye’ve saved yer maidenhead for yer husband.” He took another step back. “It will be yer husband who takes it. Go now.”

  She hesitated another moment before she turned and hastened toward the keep. He watched her until she dipped from sight around the bend.

  “And yer husband will be me,” he whispered aloud.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The next morning, Alex walked onto the high dais and softly gasped. Rory stood in the rear of the great hall clad as promised in naught but the MacKenzie plaid. She drank in the sight of his muscular arms and his broad, bare chest, which only hours before she had touched, tasted. Warmth flooded her core. She wet her lips, remembering the force of his kiss, his hot breath on her neck, and the agonizing pleasure of his touch. He smiled slowly, sensually. Overcome with desire, she lifted the hem of her tunic and dashed down the stairs, but the creaking hinges of the great door shortened her flight. Heart pounding, she masked her hunger behind a welcoming smile.

  “Good morrow,” she said to Michael and her three unknowing suitors.

  A bruise framed the bridge of Adam’s nose and darkened the skin around his eyes. He did not return her greeting. Instead, he glared at Rory. Robert, on the other hand, dipped his head in a respectful bow, but his smile did not reach his eyes. Michael also appeared tense. Timothy alone received her with genuine goodwill. Unfortunately, Timothy wanted to be a priest. She expelled a long breath. Her pursuit of a husband was not going well.

  Rory crossed to her side then, his close proximity instantly stealing her breath.

  “What are ye doing?” she whispered.

  He offered her his arm. “Taking ye to church.”

  Her heart started to pound. Only Rory could say that in a way that made it sound like a sin.

  “Sir Adam will escort Lady Alexandria to Mass,” Michael announced, putting emphasis on Adam’s title. “Rory, I need ye in another capacity.”

  Alex bristled, scowling at Michael. For a moment, she hoped Rory might deny her steward, but in the end, he dipped his head in acquiescence and turned to follow Michael from the hall.

  “Rory,” she called out to him before realizing she had yet to invent an excuse to do so. She searched her mind, feeling the weight of everyone’s eyes on her.

  “This is what ye’re looking for.” He reached into his new sporran and withdrew her broken chain. “I fixed it for ye.”

  Her hand flew to her throat and felt her talisman beside his silver cross. “Thank ye,” she said, taking her old chain from his hand. “That is very good of ye.”

  He started to turn. She grabbed his arm. “I hope to see ye after Mass.”

  His sky-blue eyes alone spoke his promise before he dipped his head, his lips curved in a soft smile.

  She tore her eyes away, dreading the awkwardness of her waiting company, but to he
r immense relief, Mary suddenly appeared from behind the screen.

  “Cousin,” Alex exclaimed as she crossed the hall and took Mary’s arm. Then, instead of rejoining the noblemen, she hastened toward the doors to the courtyard, calling out for the men to follow, thereby avoiding an offer of escort to the chapel. Although more than likely such an offer would not have been forthcoming. Both Adam and Robert were still clearly upset with her—not that she blamed them. Her conduct at the festival had been outlandish at best. But the sight of Alison in Rory’s arms had driven her mad with jealously. Doubtless, her behavior had not escaped Michael’s notice, which would explain his dismissal of Rory. Still, she was lady of Luthmore. How dare Michael admonish her in public? Worst yet, how could he send Rory away against her obvious wishes?

  During Mass, she struggled to block out Robert’s strangled crooning all the while her tongue sharpened and her agitation with Michael grew.

  After everyone had filed out into the courtyard, she charged at Michael who sat in wait with the stable master. “We must speak.”

  Michael nodded curtly and led Alex out of the courtyard. Together, they circled the outer wall. When they reached the far side, she laid into him.

  “Where is Rory?”

  “I put him to work in the fields as is his station.”

  “Ye sent him to labor in the fields? What is the matter with ye? He is our guest!”

  Michael’s eyes flashed. “What of yer duty? Is that not the more pressing question?”

  Fury pulsed through her. She snatched the veil from her head, then turned her back on him. “My laces if ye please,” she snapped.

  “Alex—” Michael began.

  “My laces if ye please!”

  She felt Michael fumble with the laces of her fine surcote. Finally, it loosened and fell about her waist. She pushed it down and stepped free from the thick embroidered fabric. Then she picked it up and tossed it at him before storming away.