by Lily Baldwin
Brother Augustine cupped the babe’s head. “’Tis a wonder he slept this long.”
Catarina nodded and pressed kisses to James’s forehead and cooed, trying her best to calm him.
*
Quinn stepped back, giving Catarina space and time to soothe her baby, but after a while, he realized the babe’s sobs only worsened. Drawing close, he tried to decipher exactly what she was doing. She kissed his forehead again and again and hummed a gentle tune, but she barely rocked him nor had she fixed his blanket. The unshed tears gleaming in her eyes were all the encouragement he needed to offer his aid.
“His arms have come free from the swaddle,” Quinn said.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and nodded before turning back to her baby. Brows drawn, she started to tug on the fabric while at the same time trying to hold down James’s squirmy arms.
Once more amazement struck Quinn. “Do ye not know how to swaddle him?”
She looked up at him. In the bright moonlight, he glimpsed wet tears now streaming down her cheeks.
“No, I do not,” she said, her voice trembling. “My husband was very strict about James’s care. I…I was able to hold James once, sometimes even twice a day, but it was Elizabeth, my nursemaid, who tended him.”
Understanding pained Quinn’s heart as he looked at Catarina with fresh eyes—she was a mother who had never been allowed to mother. “Let me show ye,” he said softly.
He crossed to her side and untied the bundle he carried. He laid the blanket out and set aside some fresh linens. Then he gently took James from her arms. “First, let’s remove the soiled cloths.” He unwrapped the strips one by one. “We’ll bury those to avoid leaving a trail,” he said. Then he set about swaddling James in fresh strips, adding an extra layer beneath his bottom.
“There now,” Quinn said, scooping James into his arms. “Now, walk about like this and rock him. He’ll find the movement soothing.” He paced back and forth with a little bounce in his step. “Ye try,” he said to Catarina.
She backed up a step. “No,” she said, “You are doing so well already.”
Ignoring her protest, Quinn closed the distance between them and placed the baby in her arms. “Now walk about and rock him.”
She mimicked his movements and after a while, James’s cries lessened. She smiled at Quinn, and the sight of her unabashed joy broke his heart. To keep a mother from her child was unforgivable. He swallowed the anger that rose inside of him. It was too late to undo the past. He grabbed the bundle. “Come. We must away. I’m afraid he’s going to keep on fussing some until we find some milk.”
With a gentle hold above her elbow, he led her away from the tunnel. Soon, they reached a wide field of flax. “Keep low,” he said, and they remained hunched over until once more a thick canopy of forest surrounded them.
It was nearing late spring, and they were close enough to the Highlands that the night sky never fully claimed its cloak of darkness. Under the prolonged twilight sky, Quinn could see a farm in the distance. James’s whimpers had turned to pained cries.
“His wait is over, my lady,” he said, pointing to the farm. Desperation flooded her eyes. He hated to leave her, but it could not be helped. “Keep rocking and soothing him just as I showed ye.”
Catarina had never felt more helpless as she watched Brother Augustine cross the open meadow, bent low to keep out of sight. James’s cries hurt her heart in a way nothing ever had. She had never been allowed to stay in the room when he had begun to fuss. Henry had often reminded her that she was a lady raising a lord, a master of men. Her role was not to nurture an infant. He feared she would be unable to part with their heir when he turned six and would be sent away to foster with another noble family. She had pleaded with him, arguing that she would rather make the most of the time they had together and deal with the heartache when James moved away. But Henry, as he had in all things, insisted he knew best. And now, she was a mother incapable of soothing or caring for her son. And although she was grateful to Brother Augustine for his help, it pained her that a celibate monk knew better to care for her baby than she.
She paced among the trees, staying out of sight but close enough to the forest edge to watch for the brother’s coming. Suffering imbued James’s hungry cries, twisting her from the inside out and bringing stinging tears to her own eyes. She pressed her wet cheek to his wet cheek and cooed in his ears promises of relief. When at last she spotted Brother Augustine hunched over, crossing the field, her heart filled with gratitude.
He jogged the last distance to her side, holding up a costrel. “Goat’s milk for James,” he said, smiling. Then in his other hand he held up a dead pheasant. “And for us,” he said. “Although ye and I will have to wait until later on.”
With a shaky laugh, she reached for the milk, but then her smile faltered, her joy smothered by panic and the continued din of James’s desperate cries. “How can we administer the milk? Surely, he cannot drink the same as you or I.”
“’Twill be alright, my lady,” Brother Augustine soothed. “After my sister birthed her third child, she fell ill and was unable to nurse for days, but her daughter did not go hungry.”
She chewed her bottom lip while she watched him open the bundle and set aside the clothing he had taken from Elizabeth’s cupboard and the extra linen cloths before he spread the blanket wide.
“First we’ll change over his swaddle again, and then we’ll feed him,” he said. “Lay him down.”
Catarina watched in amazement while Brother Augustine’s clearly practiced hands swaddled James in a flash. Then he gathered her son in his arms and took hold of one corner of the blanket. “Dip this in the milk,” he said.
She nodded and unplugged the costrel and dipped the tip of the blanket then handed back the sodden fabric. She watched him gently press the wet tip to James’s mouth, wide still from his painful cries. And then to her amazement, James latched right onto the fabric and began drawing out the milk.
“Miraculous,” she breathed. Kneeling beside them, she stoked her baby’s soft scalp while he fed.
“May I try,” she said to the monk and was surprised when he said, “Of course,” and immediately placed James in her arms.
She smiled nervously. “In my heart I expected you to refuse me just as Henry would have.”
Brother Augustine pressed her hand. “He is yer son, born of yer body.”
Catarina looked into his kind, black eyes and despite the horrors of the last day, she could not help but feel blessed. A savior had come to her in the form of a holy and chaste man. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for all you have done. Truly, the lord will bless you for your kindness.”
She relaxed into the rhythm of feeding James. A magic filled her heart as though angels’ wings beat inside of her. Her face ached from smiling. She had simply never experienced a feeling so wondrous as feeding her own baby.
“This method will not sustain his health for long,” Brother Augustine said. “But it will satisfy his needs until we get where we’re going.”
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“We mustn’t linger. The farther we are from Ravensworth the better. Given what has already transpired, I hate to imagine what more Sir Rupert is capable of.”
Catarina shuddered at the mention of Rupert’s name, but Brother Augustine was right. If Rupert could murder his own brother and blackmail his brother’s widow—there were no limits to his wickedness. She pressed a kiss to James’s forehead. His eyes were beginning to show hints of amber like hers. “You will live,” she whispered in his tiny ear. “I promise you. Whatever I must do, whatever I must sacrifice, you will live and reclaim your birthright.” The tiny baby in her arms stared back at her, filling her with peace, and then slowly, his lids grew heavy.
“He sleeps,” Brother Augustine said, jumping to his feet. Then he took the blanket and folded it into a triangle and gently secured James close to the warmth of her chest. “This will help ye carry him. It�
�ll take some of the weight away.”
“But he is so light,” she said.
“Aye, but he might not feel so light after we’ve covered enough ground to consider making camp.”
“Making camp?” she gasped. “In other words, we are to sleep out of doors.”
Brother Augustine smiled. “Do not fash yerself, my lady. I’ll teach ye how to do that too.”
Chapter Eight
The morning sun had started its ascent. They had walked through the night. Quinn longed to push on until they reached the village of Rùnach where friends lived, but he glanced at Catarina. Her breathing had become labored. And although she had issued no complaints, he knew she suffered. Short of taking leisurely rides in the countryside, to the best of his knowledge, ladies’ bodies were seldom challenged. As if to help Quinn make up his mind, James began to fuss.
“Follow me,” Quinn said, quitting the path. “We will rest here for a few hours.”
She closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed.
He found a small clearing amid tall Scots pines. “Let me help ye,” he said when she reached to untie the blanket knotted behind her neck with one hand.
“Would you spread it out on the ground so I can lay him down.” Her brow furrowed with worry. “I wish we had another blanket in which to wrap him. He might catch cold.”
“The morning is warm, but ye’re right to be cautious.” He reached his hands over his head and pulled off his thick, black robe, which he then spread out on the ground. He looked at her expectantly. “’Tis soft enough. Go on and lay him down.”
She clutched James close while she seemed to look him over. He glanced down at himself to see why she was so transfixed—tall black boots, fitted black hose and black linen tunic, belted at his waist. He raised a questioning brow at her.
She fidgeted with a piece of James’s swaddle. “I had no idea that was what a monk wore beneath his robes.”
Quinn lowered his eyes. For a moment he had forgotten his disguise. He shrugged his answer, choosing to ignore her questioning gaze. He would keep the secret of his identity as long as he could, but he had no wish to lie to her again. Turning on his heel, he called back. “I’m going down to the river. Ye’ll have yer privacy. When ye’ve finished with James, please change into the tunic I took from yer maid’s room.”
*
Catarina’s fingers shook as she swaddled James in fresh linens. When he started to fuss, she scooped him up and pressed him close. “Hush,” she whispered in his ears. “Please, not now.” Her eyes darted in the direction Brother Augustine had left. She rocked James and soothed his tears while her heart started to pound and her head reel. The sight of Brother Augustine stripped of his black robe had terrified her. In his tall black boots, fitted black hose, and black tunic he could not have looked less like a man of God. How could chastity belong to his rugged attire or his deep-set, black eyes.
She dipped the tip of the blanket in milk and allowed James to suckle for several minutes before she bundled the heavy robe around him, encircling him in warmth. When once more he slept, she stood and slowly crept down the path toward the sound of a rushing river. She froze when he came into view. He was squatting beside the river. Up until then she had not noticed that his hair was not shorn, it had simply been bound. Now, black curls fell free past his bare shoulders. The sight of his naked, muscular back shifting while he splashed water over his face and head caused her mouth to dry up. Hard muscles rippled down his arms. This was not a man accustomed to fasting and sedentary study. Then a glinting light caught her eye. Atop his shirt, a long dirk caught the glow of the rising sun.
Her muscles tensed. She swallowed and darted forward, lunging to grab the blade. He whirled about, surprise widening his eyes when she thrust the gleaming tip at him.
“You are no monk,” she hissed. She could barely draw breath. Her heart pounded her head.
Slowly, he stood up. Her eyes traveled the length of his wide chest, chiseled stomach, and narrow waist. Power exuded from every inch of his wet body.
His arms remained relaxed at his side. “Ye do not need that, lass,” he said, his tone soft. “Ye need not fear me.”
Her stomach twisted as she stepped back, still keeping her weapon trained on the stranger. “I am not your lass,” she bit out, despite the fear mounting in her mind. “I am your lady.”
His black eyes held hers. “Yer husband is dead, yer father a traitor to the crown. Ye’re no lady just as I am no monk.”
“I knew it.” The words rushed from her throat. She backed away. Her eyes darted left than right, taking in the length of river. She had to get away. Whoever this man was, he had lied to her. Then her eyes widened. “What else have you lied about?” Panic sunk its claws into her quaking heart. “You have lied about it all. Haven’t you? My father and sister. Everything. Who are you?” she cried. “Who are you really?”
He reached out his hands. “Breathe, my lady. I’ll not hurt ye. My name is Quinn MacVie. And ye’re right. I’m no monk, but that doesn’t make me a bad man.”
He took a step toward her. She sucked in a sharp breath and scurried back, waving the dirk about. “Stay where you are.” Desperation made her voice shrill.
“Yer father and sister bade me come, to protect ye, to keep ye safe. What I told ye about yer father is true. I am sorry it is so, but that won’t change what’s happened nor will yer doubts.”
“But why did you lie to me? Why did you pretend to be something you are not?”
“I pretended to be Brother Augustine to gain entry into Ravensworth and to get close to ye.”
Tears stung her eyes. In the matter of a day the safe and satisfying life she had led had been snatched away.
“I am yer friend,” he said softly.
She looked at him through a blur of tears, wanting so much to believe in him. “How can I trust you?”
His black eyes bore into hers. “Because, by now Rupert has assumed consciousness and turned yer people against ye.”
She faltered. The dagger shook in her hand.
“Ye’ve no choice but to trust me.”
The dagger dropped with a dull thud on the ground. The trees and bushes spun around her in a dizzying blur of brown and green. She could not breathe. Whoever this man was, he was right. She had no choice, but to trust him. Her hands gripped her temples. “I cannot breathe.” Her heart thundered in her ears. Then strong arms and a richly masculine scent surrounded her.
“I’ve got ye, lass.” His words sounded distant as if he were across the glade, but his strength and the heat of his body cocooned her. She still could not draw breath. She grasped for him just as her legs gave way. A rush of air cooled her face as he whisked her into his arms. Her own arms flung around his neck, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the horror of her reality.
“I’m still the same man.” He said, quietly in her ear. “Look at me, my lady.”
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
“I ken that robe represented something to ye,” he said softly. “I ken it made ye feel safe. Trust me—it feels terrible to tell ye that I’m not a monk.”
She allowed his gentle words and warm embrace to soothe her. But when her world stopped spinning, she looked him hard in the eye. “What are you then?”
“Pardon me?”
“What are you then if not a monk. You are not a nobleman. Therefore, you must have some profession.”
She saw the hesitance in his eyes. “I used to be a fisherman,” he said.
“Go on,” she said, crossing her arms.
He cleared his throat and set her on her feet.
“Before that I sailed with a merchant ship.”
“Interesting, but what do you do now?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and pressed his lips into a thin line. Then he threw his hands up. “I’m done lying to ye. Do ye promise not to panic?”
She shook her head. “No.”
He spun away from her, raking his hand through his hair. Then he tu
rned back. They locked eyes. After several moments, where the only sound she heard was the pounding of her own heartbeat, he said. “I’m a thief.”
Her hand rushed to her heart. “Oh God,” she gasped, turning away.
He grabbed her arm from behind and tugged her back around. “I’m not a bad man, my lady. I do not steal for selfish gain. We’ve the support of Brother Matthew of Haddington and Bishop Lamberton himself. I fight in the name of freedom, against King Edward whose sword claimed both our mothers’ lives and countless lives more. I’m here, leagues from home, on the run with ye. I’m standing by ye when no one else is.” He stepped closer. “Ye’re not alone. Trust in me, Catarina. Quinn is every bit the man Brother Augustine was. I’ll prove it to ye. Trust me as yer father and sister trusted me. I’ll not lead ye astray. I’ll take care of ye.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I’ll make sure this has a happy ending.”
Bone-weary with fatigue and heartache, her knees once more grew weak. Perhaps it was exhaustion clouding her judgment, but at that moment, staring deep into his black gaze, she believed in the strength of his conviction. All evidence showed his goodness. Never had a man treated her with such care and respect. And was that not what she hoped her people would do for her—remember her goodness? She had been a kind and fair lady. She pressed her lips together against the fullness of her emotions. And when she could, she took a breath and whispered, “It is good to meet you, Quinn.”
A slow smile stretched wide across his lips. “’Tis fine to meet ye, my lady.” He drew closer still and rested his hands gently on her shoulders. “’Twill all be alright in the end. I promise ye.” He took her hand then and led her back to camp where he spotted the kirtle and tunic bunched on the ground. “Now that we’ve settled that, I will finish making preparations for our rest. Ye must change out of yer gown.”
She wrinkled her nose at the garments in his outstretched hand and shook her head. “Out of the question.”
Not expecting a refusal, he faltered for a moment, but then thrust his hand out. “Yer gown is covered in blood. Take these.”
