Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2)

by Lily Baldwin

  Jasper reached down and scratched one of the hounds behind the ear. “This is Molly. She follows my command. The others follow her. If I command Molly to attack, ye can be sure she will.”

  Rupert looked down at Molly. She was a black and tan with brown eyes, droopy jowls, and long ears. “What is the command to attack?” Rupert asked.

  Jasper gathered the leashes, shortening their length before he said, “Finish it.”

  “Finish it,” Rupert whispered to himself. Then he reached down to pet Molly, but she snarled and bared her teeth at him.

  Rupert smiled. “Yes, I think they will do nicely.” Then he looked Jasper hard in the eye. “Do not disappoint me,” he said, before turning on his heel and returning to the high dais. His eyes settled on Stephen. He shook his head and looked out across the hall to his men. “Look at how my poor brother mourns Henry’s passing. Will we allow his murderers to go free?”

  The men pounded their fists on the table, calling for action.

  “Will you stand with me, brother?” Rupert said for Stephen’s ears alone. But Stephen’s eyes remained downcast. “For Henry,” Rupert insisted.

  Stephen sat back in his chair. His face was drawn, his eyes red. “Do you swear upon all the sacraments that you speak naught but truth?”

  Rupert clamped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “You know I do.”

  Stephen slowly stood. “Then I have no choice but to stand with you.”

  Rupert’s confidence grew. He grabbed Stephen’s arms. “Thank ye, brother, for that is what we are, and nothing is more important than brotherhood.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Quinn and Catarina came to the edge of a large field. New shoots of wheat strained to touch the darkening sky.

  “’Tis the gloaming hour,” Quinn said. “But not to worry, my lady. You will sleep under a roof this night.” He pointed to a neat line of cottages on the other side of the field. “There lies Rùnach. Home to dear and trusted friends.” He grabbed her elbow and pulled her through the field. “Mind the new plants,” he said.

  Two days ago, Catarina would have turned her nose up at the sight of such poor accommodations. But having spent the previous night fleeing for her life through narrow tunnels and spiny forests and, in the light of day, gleaning little sleep on the hard forest floor, her heart lightened as she watched smoke curl up from the thatched rooftops. She could not have imagined a more welcoming sight. And most importantly, a warm place for James to rest and some much needed milk.

  Lightning slashed the darkening sky. A shift in the air cooled her face as ominous clouds gathered overhead.

  Quinn fanned out his cloak, shielding Catarina and James the instant before the first, big drops fell. “Quickly,” he said, taking her elbow and jogged her toward the cottage on the far left. He rapped on the door and swung it wide, not waiting for an answer.

  Catarina glimpsed an open room with a warm fire in the center and several people sitting at a table in one corner. The sight of strange faces drove her to hide behind Quinn who startled her when he threw his head back and whooped.

  Quinn could not have been more surprised or happy to see two of his younger brothers, Rory and Alec, sitting at the table.

  “Quinn!” Rory beamed, jumping to his feet and hastening to the open door.

  Quinn pulled Rory in a fierce hug. And gestured for Alec to come closer. He grabbed Alec by the back of the neck and pressed their foreheads together, just for a moment not wishing to make Alec uncomfortable. “’Tis good to see ye, brothers,” Quinn said. Then his glance darted around the small room. “Where’s Jack and Ian? Where’s Bella?”

  “Where do ye think?” Rory said. “They’re on the run. Jack plans to lead them to the Isle of Colonsay.”

  “Colonsay!” Catarina blurted behind him.

  Quinn turned, drawing Catarina to his side. “But that is so far away,” she said.

  “Nay, ‘tis not so far, not really.”

  Quinn looked to Rory for support, but his younger brother’s gaze was already occupied, pursuing Catarina’s shapely curves.

  Quinn resisted swatting him upside the head. “Keep yer eyes to yerself, Rory.”

  Rory smiled, looking entirely unrepentant. “Can I assume then that yer mission was a success?”

  “Somewhat,” Quinn said. “This is Bella’s sister, Lady Catarina.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes as Rory bent in a low bow. “My lady,” he said.

  At that moment, James, who was snug beneath Catarina’s mantle, started to cry, causing Rory to falter. Quinn pulled back the draping fabric, revealing James to the room. “A baby?” Rory said, his eyes wide. “Bella did not mention a baby.”

  Quinn threw up his hands. “That is precisely what I said.”

  Catarina clutched James even closer while she eyed the large men surrounding her. The one called Rory was too gorgeous by far, even handsomer than Quinn, although until she saw Rory she would not have thought that possible. His black hair curled to his shoulders. His blue eyes shone beneath thick, black lashes, and he had a smile that trapped your gaze. Straightaway, she did not trust him. She had met men like Rory at court—rogues every one of them, intent on nothing but exploiting women for their own pleasure. Alec, on the other hand, could not have seemed more different than either Quinn or Rory. He wore his straight hair very long down his back. His eyes were black like Quinn’s, but their guarded depths somehow appeared darker, as black as the new moon. Even now he watched her. A shiver shot up her back beneath the weight of his heavy gaze.

  “Foolish men,” a woman’s voice erupted from the other side of the room. “Trust ye fine gentlemen to stand about like dolts while a lady and her sweet babe shiver in the doorway, dripping wet.”

  Quinn wrapped his arm around Catarina’s waist and ushered her into the room to stand by the fire. Pulling the wet mantle off her shoulders, he gestured to the other woman. “My lady,” he said. “This is Freya.”

  Catarina smiled at Freya who dipped in a low curtsy in reply. “My lady.”

  Freya was as lovely as a summer blossom with creamy golden skin, bright green eyes and rich dark hair. “Rest, my lady,” Freya said, leading her away from the fire to one of the now empty chairs at the table. Then she bent at the waist and pulled back the linen to better see James’s face. “Aww,” she cooed. “He is adorable.” A fresh wave of tears burst from James’s trembling lips. “Allow me to tend him for ye.”

  Catarina smiled, passing James into the crook of Freya’s welcoming arms. “He needs milk and fresh linens.”

  Freya bobbed up and down, soothing the infant with a gentle croon. Then she turned to Rory. “Stop gaping at the lady’s beauty and be useful for once. Fetch me some goat’s milk.”

  A sensual smile curved Rory’s lips. Before taking his leave, he bowed first to Freya then to Catarina.

  Quinn rolled his eyes again before pulling a couple chairs over to the fire. He motioned for Alec to join him while Freya helped Catarina.

  “So then ye do not ken how Jack and Bella fair?” Quinn whispered.

  Alec shook his head. “With Edward’s men likely hot on their heels, he spent little time in camp. He came only to warn us about what had happened and to tell us his plan to take David and Bella to Colonsay. As the birth home of our father, he trusted they would be welcomed there.”

  “What of Ian?” Quinn said. “Where is he?”

  “Ian offered to take Jack’s wee lassies by wagon separate from Jack.”

  Quinn considered Jack’s lassies. They were a pack of five orphaned girls ranging in age from just four to eleven. After the Berwick massacre, hundreds of Scottish children had been orphaned and exiled from what had become an English city overnight. Quinn and his brothers had placed dozens of children with families and dozens more awaited new homes, relying on the generosity of monks. Jack looked upon his lassies as if they were his very own children. He never could have left them behind, but he also never would have run with them—to do so would only put them at
risk. Quinn smiled then, thinking of his youngest brother, Ian, coming to the rescue. Ian was the best and biggest of them all with the truest heart and the fiercest temper. With Ian as their guide, Quinn did not doubt the children would find their way to Colonsay. Quinn looked across the room at Catarina, laughing with Freya as they both smiled down at James’s wriggling hands and legs.

  “Yer holding something back,” Alec said.

  Quinn closed his eyes not wanting to face the complex truth just yet. At length, he sighed. “Events at Ravensworth did not unfold as expected.” Then he proceeded to tell Alec about Rupert’s unspeakable crimes.

  “He will hunt for her,” Alec said, confirming Quinn’s worst fear.

  Quinn drew a ragged breath. “I ken.”

  “Ye cannot risk taking her to Colonsay, not until ye’ve proved her innocence.”

  Quinn nodded. He knew that too, but then he thought once more about Jack’s lassies and something he hadn’t considered struck his heart.

  “Ye know ye can’t run with a baby,” Alec said, guessing his thoughts.

  Quinn sagged in his chair and closed his eyes. “It will break her heart.”

  Alec shrugged. “Better a broken heart than for Rupert to get his hands on the rightful heir to his ill-gotten title.”

  “How do I tell her?”

  “If ye do not wish to be the one, I will tell her.”

  Quinn sat up and shook his head. “Say nothing, Alec. Ye’re too hard. I will tell Catarina when the time is right.”

  “There is no right time to tell a mother she must leave her child behind,” Alec said, his voice flat.

  Quinn leaned his head back against the wall. “Aye, but some moments are better than others. Let her rest. Ye must sense the horrors of her last days. Give her this time to garner strength of spirit. She feels safe here. Let that continue.”

  Rory returned and brought a jug of milk to the women.

  Quinn looked around then, noticing for the first time that Freya’s brother was absent. “Where is David?”

  “He is running messages for the Bishop but is expected to return sometime early morning,” Alec replied.

  “’Tis why we are here,” Rory said, joining them. “The Bishop has asked us to aid David. Scottish nobles are trying to rally the people.” Rory’s eyes glinted. “A new army is forming.”

  “I see. So ye’re here to help the Bishop, and all this while I thought ye came here to convince Freya yer not the rogue we all know ye to be,” Quinn said.

  The MacVie brothers had first met Freya and her brother, David, five years before on the outskirts of Berwick after the massacre. Freya and David had managed to escape, but their parents were both slain. Freya had only thirteen years at the time. But Jack had found them a new home in Rùnach with an elderly couple who had lost their three children to influenza. Sadly, the couple had recently passed away but had left their cottage to their adopted children.

  “David is changed,” Rory said, a grim set to his lips. “His hatred for the English consumes him.”

  Alec nodded. “It has made him hard.”

  Quinn glanced at Catarina before turning back to Alec. “Ye said he does not return until morning?”

  “Aye, and he will not welcome Catarina in his home,” Alec said, bluntly confirming Quinn’s concern.

  “Surely if I took David aside and spoke to him—”

  “Ye don’t understand,” Rory interrupted. “Nothing ye could say in Catarina’s defense would soften his regard. He has become singular in his focus.”

  “Then we will have to leave before he comes home,” Quinn said. “She has been through so much already without being subjected to his anger.”

  “Aye, ye must,” Alec said.

  Quinn turned and looked at his brother. Alec’s face was an emotionless mask, but Quinn knew deep inside him, beneath the walls he erected years ago against his heightened senses, beat the heart of a compassionate man. “This is going to hurt her,” Quinn said.

  Alec simply nodded.

  Drawing a deep breath, Quinn stood. “Catarina,” he said. “We must speak.”

  *

  Dawn’s first light brightened the horizon as Catarina stood, her head reeling, outside Freya’s cottage. A grip like a strangled claw grasped her heart, squeezing out all hope. She backed away from Quinn, clasping tightly to James.

  “Please, my lady, just hear me out,” Quinn said. “They will be looking for a woman with a child. Ye cannot hide with a babe. If ye would have yer son live to reclaim his birthright, then ye must let him go.”

  Catarina shook her head, tears stinging her eyes. “Let me be taken. I care not for my well-being, only for his.”

  “Rupert will find him if he remains in yer care, but if ye give him to my brother, Rory will see him safely brought to the Bishop Lamberton. The good bishop will conceal James within a monastery or convent. He will be cared for, and when the time is right, we will collect him.”

  Tears flooded her eyes. “But he is my son.”

  “Aye, he is,” Quinn said. “And he deserves a chance at life. Ye’re accused of murder. There will be a bounty on yer head. Prize hunters will follow yer trail. Worse yet, given yer father’s treasonous actions, King Edward himself is likely to send soldiers after ye, once he hears Rupert’s spun tale. Ye’re running for yer life, Catarina, and I with ye.”

  Rory stepped forward then, drawing her gaze. He reached out and gently cupped James’s head. “The bishop is no more than half a day’s ride from here,” he said gently.

  She looked down at James and then met Quinn’s pained gaze. She knew he was right. She knew they were all right. Even Freya had fumbled momentarily to find the right words to say—listen to Quinn. But how could she give up her child? It went against every instinct in her body, heart, and soul.

  Freya stroked a soothing hand down Catarina’s back. “He needs a warm bed, my lady, and a steady supply of milk.”

  Desperation shot through her. She jerked away from Freya’s touch. “He needs his mother,” she cried.

  Quinn cupped her cheeks, forcing her to meet his gaze. “That he does,” he whispered. “Which is why, I want his mother to stay alive.”

  “But you said separating a mother from her child was unforgivable,” she said, her voice breaking.

  “Lead the devils away from James. That is what ye must do for yer son. They will follow ye while he is spared.”

  Sobs escaped her lips as she pressed kisses to James’s sleeping cheek. “Take him,” she whispered. “Take him from my arms, because as sure as my heart still pounds in my chest, I cannot give him to you.”

  Gently, Quinn reached for James and took hold of the small baby. Then he turned to Rory. “Godspeed, brother.”

  She felt Quinn’s arms surround her and collapsed into his warmth. “My lady.” She looked up at Rory through a blur of tears. James rested in the crook of his strong arm. He took up his reins, his ice blue eyes locking with hers. “Yer son’s safety is assured. Ye have my word.” Then he turned and rode away.

  Chapter Twelve

  She could barely remember their hasty walk through Rùnach to the port or climbing into Freya’s skiff, and yet there she sat hours later far from where she had last held her precious son. Back straight, ankles crossed, she stared beyond the stern at the barren blue canvas of sky and sea. Her arms wrapped around herself, clasping at the painful shadow where so much feeling had once lived. She could still feel the weight of James like a ghost in her empty arms. The whipping wind dried the tears leaking from her eyes before they even had a chance to fall. Surf splashed as they collided with rough waves. She knocked against the sides, but felt nothing, no pain. The suffering inside her kept her physical discomfort at bay. She kept as straight as she could and unfurled her arms, looking down at her empty hands. She had lost it all, her whole life. Her son, her father and sister, her security and title. She glanced back at Quinn. His thoughtful black eyes met hers, but she turned away. She knew it was only a matter of ti
me until he too slipped from her grasp.

  When the sea had calmed and the sail hung slack, Quinn put the oars to water. “Do ye wish to know where we are going?” he said.

  She did not answer.

  “We travel to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Caithness, the home of the Sinclairs. Some years ago, I sailed with the youngest of the laird’s sons on the merchant ship, La Vierge. When the ship used to dock at Berwick, Hamish Sinclair would take his meals with my family. I know we will be welcomed.”

  She stiffened. “I am English, remember?”

  Quinn shook his head. “It will not matter. Hamish owes me.”

  “Regardless of any debt owed, they will not harbor a murderer.”

  He stopped rowing. “Catarina, look at me.” She turned wet, aching eyes on him. “Do not doubt yerself.”

  Her empty hands balled into tight fists. “My father is guilty of treason. My mother was the daughter of a commoner, not to mention that I am a woman. My word is the only thing which holds less worth than my life.”

  He shook his head. “That is not true.”

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “To those who hold power that is the only truth.”

  She turned from his goodness and looked instead to the cliffs rising high above her head. Their stony surfaces caught the warmth of the setting sun and glowed orange like violent towers of fire.

  “Surely that is how this will end, ablaze in loss and fire,” she murmured.

  She sat unmoving as Quinn rowed toward shore. When the hull dragged the sand, he swung over the side into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore. Still, she sat fixed in place like stone while he carried the blankets, a large sack of oat flour, a bow and quiver of arrows, and other supplies from Freya into a cavern he had spotted from sea. She did not move when he reached out his hand to her or while he eventually lifted her limp body from the boat and carried her into the deep cave. He laid her down on a blanket. Her head rolled to the side, her stare vacant.