Rory: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 3)

by Lily Baldwin

  The abbot smiled sadly and nodded. “The solution set in place is, I’m afraid and dumbfounded to admit, our best course, especially considering where ye’ve chosen to place yer heart.” The abbot turned and looked sharply at Rory. “I should have known better than to send ye along in the first place.” His face softened, and he took hold of their hands. “But given both yer temperaments, yer difficulty following even simple instructions, yer knack for finding danger, and yer overall complete disregard for propriety—I should have known ye’d fall in love at first sight.” Then looking at Alex, he said, “In the letter I sent promoting the attributes of Adam, Robert, and Timothy, I should not have cautioned ye against Rory. In doing so, I fear I turned him into forbidden fruit. I should have recommended him above the others, given ye my blessing, and told ye he was a perfect, law-abiding gentleman. Then ye would’ve stayed clear of him.”

  Alex smiled at the abbot, then gazed up into Rory’s deep-set, heavily lashed eyes. A rakish smile curved his full lips. His black hair fell in careless waves to his broad, thickly muscled shoulders. Keeping his promise to her, the Mackenzie plaid slashed across his bare chest and bunched dangerously low at his waist. He continued to wear his tall, black leather boots. “Honestly, Abbot,” she said, never taking her eyes from Rory’s. “Do ye think I would have believed ye if ye had?”

  The abbot chuckled. “Never.”

  “With all due respect, Abbot,” Rosie chimed in, “’tis too late for all that, anyway.”

  “Which brings us back to the real matter at hand,” Michael said, his sensible reminder drawing everyone’s gaze.

  “Right ye both are,” Abbot Matthew said. Then he cleared his throat and looked at Alex. “The day grows old. We still have yer death to feign and yer funeral to plan.”

  Alex pressed her lips together in a grim line.

  “Well, those aren’t phrases ye hear every day,” Rosie said, swiping at the tears wetting her pink cheeks.

  The abbot crossed the room and put a comforting arm around Rosie’s shoulders. “True,” he said. “But then ‘tis not every day someone robs the king’s palace.”

  Feeling a renewed sense of pride, Alex lifted her chin and locked eyes with the abbot. “Alba gu bràth.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rory left the keep in the dead of night and made his way on foot to the base of Torna Doon where Michael had tethered a horse for him to ride into Luthmore at first light. He walked the horse in circles to make good his pretense of having traveled through the night, returning for the first time to the castle—at least as far as the rest of the clan was concerned. Having spent the past three days concealed within Alex’s chambers, it was, indeed, his first time entering the courtyard. Straightaway, he was struck by the stillness. Sunrise usually sparked a whirl of activity, castle servants going about their morning duties, children playing, warriors readying to train. But the usual din was silenced in the wake of the news Rory knew they would have already received; their lady’s health was failing. The grim weather mirrored the apprehension and sadness on the unsmiling faces that looked up to note his return. Gloomy clouds hung heavy with rain that fell in big, cool droplets. No sooner had his booted foot hit the sodden earth when a broad-shouldered man ducked beneath the stable doors.

  “Rory,” Gavin called before starting across the courtyard with Adam falling in line beside him. Both men appeared weary, their expressions as joyless as their surroundings.

  Feigning a look of confusion, Rory’s brows came together while he hastened to meet them. “What is it?” Rory said. Then he gestured to the encompassing misery. “What has happened?”

  “Alex is ill, gravely so,” Gavin said.

  Rory raised his brows in a moment of forced surprise an instant before he turned on his heel and headed toward the keep.

  “Where are you going?” Adam called after him.

  “To the keep. I must see her,” he called over his shoulder.

  “She will not see you,” Adam shouted.

  Rory froze, then turned back around. “What do ye mean?”

  Adam lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “No one has been permitted to see her. Only my Mary—I mean to say—only Lady Mary and Rosie have been permitted into her chamber. They’ve hardly left her side since ye left.”

  “That was the case until two days ago,” Gavin corrected. “But now, Michael and William have been called to her side.” Gavin’s voice cracked. “She’s taken a turn for the worse. They do not think she is long for this world.”

  Rory put a hand on Gavin’s shoulder. “Let us out of this rain,” he said, steering the men toward the kitchens.

  Stepping through the archway, he heard soft sobs combined with the din of chopping and pots clanging. Rory’s heart broke when he saw Jean’s puffy eyes and trembling lips.

  “I can’t even bring her a tray like I used to when she was just a sweet, wee lass,” she cried while adding chunks of meat to broth nigh brimming out of a bread bowl. “They make me leave it outside her door.” Her sobs continued as she lifted the tray in her trembling hands, the broth sloshing over the crusted edges. “They say ‘tis a pox.”

  Rory’s stomach twisted with guilt. More than anything, he wanted to bring Alex’s kinfolk relief. He wanted to shout at the top of his lungs that their lady was still as vibrant, bold and brave as ever. But then flashes of memory from the Berwick massacre stole his breath. Mass graves filled with the bodies of innocents: men, women, and children. King Edward’s heart held no mercy. If he knew Alex had a hand in robbing him, the might of his hammer would demolish Luthmore castle. Unbidden, the images of the villagers in the courtyard, slowly milling about, fretting and grieving over their lady’s health were suddenly slain, their bodies broken and strewn across the courtyard. Rory shook the images from his mind. That was exactly what he and Alex were trying to prevent with her feigned demise. Now, if Richard Ash were to return to England and gain Edward’s ear and force an inquiry—Edward would learn that the Lady of Luthmore had taken ill before the heist occurred and died from her illness.

  Rory opened his arms to Jean. She turned her plump face into his chest and sobbed out her grief. He held his silence, steeling his heart against her sorrow and that of the servants crying soft tears around him. Their lives would be spared, and, in time, their broken hearts would heal.

  Very soon it would all be over. He knew when night arrived, Alex would bid goodbye to her family.

  *

  Alex choked back her tears. “I love ye, Will.” She swiped at the tears streaming down her brother’s freckled face. “Look after Mary for me, and keep doing the rounds with her.” His sobs tested her resolve. She took a deep breath. “Hush now, sweetling,” she crooned. Then she cupped his cheeks. “Look at me, Will MacKenzie. I’m not really dead.”

  Will nodded and buried his face in her neck. “I ken,” he cried. “I just love ye ‘tis all. And I’m going to miss ye.”

  She took a deep breath, reminding herself this was not goodbye forever. Then she reminded Will, “When ‘tis safe, ye and Michael will come and visit me. All right?”

  Wiping his sleeve across his nose, he nodded. “All right.” Then a smile suddenly stretched his face wide. “I’ve never left Luthmore before.”

  She chuckled and ruffled his hair. “Ye see, ‘tis the makings of a fine adventure.” Wiping his nose again, he kissed Alex once more, then crossed the room to stand by Rosie.

  “Take care of him,” Alex said to Rosie.

  Michael stepped forward. “I knew ye weren’t just going to visit Abbott Matthew. Although of all the foolhardy things I imagined, what ye really were doing—being part of a secret rebel movement—was not one of them.”

  She smiled. “This is when ye soften the sting of yer words by saying ye wouldn’t have me any other way.”

  A sad smile crinkled his eyes. “But ye’re very much mistaken, because I would rather have ye here. Still, I am proud of ye, and yer father and mother would be proud of ye, and Robin for
that matter. And I suppose Scotland needs every brave soul she can find—even if that brave soul is ye.”

  The door opened just a crack and the abbot squeezed into the room. “I’ve given the bad news to Father Kenneth, and he agreed to lay yer body to rest in hallowed ground rather than yer family’s tomb, to prevent the spreading of the pox.” He crossed to where Alex stood and clasped her hands. “’Tis time, my child. Soon Father Kenneth will ring the bell, and Gavin will come for the coffin.” He turned then and looked at Michael. “Did ye weigh it down?” he asked.

  “We did,” Michael confirmed. “And nailed it shut.”

  The abbot nodded and turned to Alex. “We must be on our way. Rory will have made his excuses by now and will meet us on top of Torna Doon. I shall take ye that far before I return to assist Father Kenneth with yer funeral.”

  She nodded, tears stinging her eyes. “I am nearly ready to go.” She turned to Mary and pulled her cousin into a fierce hug. “Give our people every comfort, especially Helen. Tell her I died peacefully.” Then she pulled away just enough to remove her necklace. “This is yers now,” she said, placing the chain Rory had mended over Mary’s head.

  Eyes wide, Mary clasped the trinity knot. “But yer mother gave ye this.”

  Alex wiped the tear she felt course down her cheek. “My mother gave it to me so that I would remember that the wellbeing of the people comes first. Remember her words, Mary, but also remember mine—yer life matters too. Make yerself happy.” Then she stepped away. “I love ye all,” she said while she swept her cloak around her shoulders. Then, grabbing the satchel she’d packed, she lifted the trap door. The abbot handed her a torch. She took it and looked at her family. “This is not goodbye,” she said once more, her chin quivering before she began her descent—taking the first steps toward her new life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Rory stood at the top of Torna Doon, waiting, watching. The August sky would not truly blacken until closer to the midnight hour, lengthening the purple glow of twilight. When he first glimpsed her shadowy form, he hurried forward and swept her into his arms and kissed her with all his love, all his longing. He wanted to soothe away her pain with promises of happiness together.

  He pulled away and cupped her cheeks, staring deep into her eyes. “I love ye, Alex. I will always love ye.”

  The abbot chimed in behind them. “Rory, ye ken they’ll be no more women or reckless chances now. ‘Tis the end of the road for ye.”

  Rory smiled, his eyes never leaving hers. “Nay,” he whispered, stroking her cheek. “’Tis only the beginning.” Then he fell to his knees. “Be my wife.”

  Laughing, she bent at the waist and threw her arms around his neck. “Ye know I will.”

  Smiling so wide his face hurt, Rory stood and wrapped his arm around her waist, presenting himself and Alex to the abbot.

  “Ye heard her, Abbot. Say the vows before she changes her mind.”

  The abbot chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ve told ye before, Rory, I’m not a priest. I cannot marry ye properly, although I can give ye a blessing. Join hands.”

  Rory turned to face Alex. He clasped her hands, turning them over. His thumbs stroked her calloused palms. Then he bent his head and kissed her.

  “Ahem,” the abbot said.

  Rory stood straight and smiled, meeting Alex’s adoring gaze. “I love ye,” she whispered and rose up on her tip-toes, kissing him again.

  “Ahem,” the abbot repeated.

  “Sorry, Abbot,” Alex said, smiling.

  “Shall I begin?”

  Rory nodded, resisting the need to crush Alex to his chest and kiss her until her legs gave way.

  “Never forget how ye first met,” the abbot said, his voice rich with solemnity, but then he shifted his body to the side and winked at Alex. “In yer case, this should be easily done.” Clearing his throat, he resumed his reverent posture. “Hold fast to the wonder now in yer hearts, and bring that wonder to every word shared and every deed done, however small or big. Do this and yer love shall flourish. For God is love, and He resides in both of ye, binding ye to one another.” He stepped back and bowed his head. “I humbly bless this union in His name.”

  Alex jumped up, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing him with all her might.

  “Now, when ye make it to Colonsay, be sure to have yer marriage solemnized by a priest. And remember, ye can’t consummate this union until ye do,” the abbot warned.

  Rory looked at Alex who looked back with eyes wide. He put her down. Then rubbing the back of his neck, he turned to the abbot. “Well ye see, Abbott—”

  “Nay,” Abbot Matthew interrupted, throwing his hand up. “Stop right there. I can’t hear confession, and I would rather not know.”

  Alex stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll miss seeing ye as often as I do.”

  The abbot smiled. “I will miss ye too, my child, and ye, Rory. But before ye go, there is one last thing I must say. Ye have both suffered enough to know the sanctity and fleetingness of life. And ye have both done more than yer share for the cause. Scotland thanks ye. The one thing I ask is that ye both retire yer masks.” He reached for Rory’s hand and then for Alex’s and brought them together, placing his own hands on top of theirs in blessing. “Quiet yer restless souls and let go the cause. Others will pick up where ye’ve left off.”

  Rory nodded and gave a shrug. “One more Saint has been unmasked—indirectly at least,” he said, winking at Alex.

  After bidding the abbot farewell, Alex and Rory mounted their horses and rode out of MacKenzie territory. “We head west then to Colonsay?” she asked.

  Rory nodded. “The last time I saw Jack, that is where he was heading. ‘Tis where my Father’s people hail from. But remember my vow; I care not where we go, just take me with ye.”

  She smiled. “Colonsay it is. We will join the rest of the Saints. ‘Tis too late for me to ride with ye and yer brothers, but at least I will be able to meet them all.”

  “Jack, my oldest brother should be there, and Ian too.”

  “Which one is Ian?”

  “Ian is the youngest, although he’s as big as an ox. His size can be intimidating at first, but ye’ll find he’s as soft and mild as a lamb until provoked, then…well…”

  “Well…what?”

  “He has a fierce temper to match his red hair, just like my sister, Rose.”

  “Will Rose be at Colonsay?”

  “Aye. She will.”

  “Don’t ye have another brother? I remember the Saints had five riders.”

  “Aye, Quinn, but I do not know if he has made it yet to the Isle.”

  Alex mentally tallied the MacVie brothers. “And Alec is in London makes five.” She thought of Rory’s older brother with his beautiful stony face and hard eyes. “I pray Alec’s soul finds peace.”

  Rory nodded. “That has always been our hope, too. Who can know—mayhap one day, his heart will feel light, and he will join us all on Colonsay.”

  Alex smiled at the idea. “How long will the journey take?”

  “My guess is we could be there by the week’s end if we rode hard.” He cleared his throat and looked at her sidelong. “But we needn’t rush.”

  “What did ye have in mind?”

  “The Harborage is a fine place for a couple of Scotland’s rebels to pass some time.”

  Leaning out of her saddle, she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Ye’re a rogue and a rebel.”

  “Aye,” he whispered and kissed her slowly, passionately. “And ye’re my perfect match.”

  Epilogue

  One year later at Luthmore

  Michael took a sip of ale, then set his tankard down on his writing table and eased into his chair. His bones ached in protest. How he longed to lie down after several long days of celebration, but he wanted to write his letter while the memories were still fresh. He spread out a fresh piece of parchment, then dipped his quill into the ink pot…

  My Dear Abb
ot,

  I hope to somehow convey to ye in writing the joy that right now fills my heart. Sir Adam Lennox married Lady Mary today. I wish you had been able to witness the elegance and solemnity of their wedding. The chapel and courtyard were nigh bursting with villagers. Our kin even gathered on the bridge and surrounded Luthmore’s outer wall. The entire clan came to honor and celebrate the new Lord and Lady of Luthmore Castle. Spirits and hopes are high. I am confident Clan MacKenzie will prosper under the compassionate and sensible leadership of Adam and Mary.

  Father Timothy performed the ceremony with such richness and devotion of spirit. Blessings rain down upon us, for he has agreed to take over the chapel here when Father Kenneth retires.

  Ye will also be happy to know that Sir Robert is also doing well.

  Michael chuckled, then wrote, Very well, in fact.

  He sat back and took a long gulp of ale. During the wedding, Robert had been missing from his usual spot at the high dais. Instead, he had joined the stable master at one of the trestle tables and, at his side, avidly listening to his every word, was Cara, the beautiful and clearly besotted stable master’s daughter.

  Michael took up his quill. I do not think it will be long until Father Timothy has another wedding to perform.

  He laughed out loud as he imagined Robert waiting at the altar astride his prize stallion while the bride trotted down the aisle on a dappled gray mare.

  In other news, William has grown a hand taller and has begun his squire training. Helen is again with child. Corc, bless him, spends every evening with the healer, Morag. We all suspect a romance is brewing there.

  As for me, with a Lady of Luthmore who wears shoes, I have found time for a little leisure. With that in mind, I hope this letter is the first of many to come. We all look forward to yer next visit to Luthmore.

  -M

  P.S. I know you will see this letter to its rightful owner.

  About the Author

  Historical romance author, Lily Baldwin, loves writing, Scotland, her wonderful husband and beautiful young daughter—though not necessarily in that order. She has a BA in anthropology from the University of New Hampshire, and an MA in International Studies from Birmingham University in the UK. She daydreams constantly, and gets her best story ideas while running; she is even training for a half-marathon. She also finds inspiration in Nature, a quality revealed through the powerful description and drama in her books.