Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2)
Read Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) Online
Authors: Lily Baldwin
Quinn
A Scottish Outlaw
Cover Art Created by Earthly Charms
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues are the creation of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.
All rights are retained by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the individual autho
r
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Copyright 2016 Lily Baldwin
ISBN-10:1-942623-25-9
ISBN-13:978-1-942623-25-0
Produced in the USA
I would like to thank my husband for his incredible support and love. You are my forever love. Thank you to my daughter—you inspire me daily. I love you with all my heart. Thank you to Susan—I love you to the moon and back.
“Open the doors,” Quinn shouted outside the stables of what might have been a bustling village were it not the middle of the night. The swollen moon cast cool light across the barren village green and narrow road. He knocked again on the worn wooden door. Surely, someone slept within. A flicker of candlelight across the road snaked his gaze toward one of the small cottages. He glimpsed a shadowed face the instant before a flap of hide fell back in place over the cottage window, concealing its occupant from view. At least someone had heard his plea. Now, if only the stable-master would stir.
“Wake Up. I need a horse,” Quinn yelled, emphasizing each word with a hammer of his fist upon the door.
Still, aid did not arrive. With a growl, he pounded the door harder, again and again, until at last he heard the bar slide away. He stepped back as the doors swung wide. Orange lantern light fell upon a grizzly looking man with thick brows, a wide, flat nose and long, tangled brown hair. A line of spittle that had dried to his chin and his glazed eyes proved that Quinn had, indeed, dragged the man from a sound sleep, and judging by his deep scowl, he was not at all pleased. Holding his lantern high, the man glared at Quinn.
“What the devil are ye…” His raspy voice trailed off, and his eyes widened as he looked Quinn over.
Pulling his weary mount behind him, Quinn barreled into the stables, his long, black robe swirling about his feet. Inside, the air smelled of fresh-cut hay. Quinn grunted his approval. “I need a horse,” he said, turning back to look at the stable-master.
“Forgive me, Brother,” he said, making the sign of the cross. “I did not expect to find a monk beating down my door at this hour. ‘Tis after midnight. I thought to find a lad new to his breeches and too far into his cups.”
“I need a horse,” Quinn repeated. He hadn’t time for conversation. Promises had been made. A life was at stake. “I’ve pushed this beast too hard.” He tossed the man his reins.
Frowning, the man slipped the handle of his lantern on a nearby hook before his attention turned to the mare. He stroked her muzzle. “Ye’re a pretty lass,” he said, revealing a row of square, yellow teeth when he smiled. “But a tired one to be sure.” He looked beyond the mare to Quinn. “She’s young and will recover,” he said, wiping at the white foam that had gathered on the horse’s bit.
Nodding his approval, Quinn gestured to the line of stalls stretching out behind them into darkness. “Another mount and hurry. ‘Tis a matter of great urgency.”
Without hesitation, the man hastened to the nearest stall. “I’m called Adam MacDonough,” he said, fumbling with the latch. “Remember my name in yer prayers. I wouldn’t deny a man of God aid, and neither would my lord. He wouldn’t dare.” Adam opened the gate, then quitted the stall a moment later with a white, speckled mare in tow. “I will pray for yer quest, Brother,” he said while saddling the horse. “What’s yer saint’s name?”
“Augustine,” Quinn bit out, rubbing the back of his neck while he waited impatiently for the man to finish.
Adam’s straggly hair swept the dirt floor as he leaned down and tightened the cinch before he straightened and handed the reins to Quinn. “Brother Augustine, will ye say a blessing for me?”
Quinn looked away from the disheveled man’s imploring gaze. He had no wish to add to his list of sins by committing such a blatant blasphemy. It was one thing to dress the part of a monk. Surely, God would turn a blind eye to a simple disguise. But to perform a blessing in His name—even Quinn had to draw the line somewhere. Keeping silent, he gathered his long robe and swung up into the saddle. Wishing to at least offer Adam his thanks, he glanced down, but the stable-master’s eyes had fixed on the hilt of the large dirk sticking out of Quinn’s boot. Quinn quickly dropped the voluminous folds of his black robe in place, hiding the weapon from view. “’Tis
my
soul that’s in jeopardy. Pray for me,” Quinn hissed and tossed a handful of coin on the ground. “To appease the nobleman who owns this beast.” Then Quinn turned his horse away from the startled man and drove his heels into the mare’s flanks, racing back out into the night.
For five years, Quinn had routinely broken one of the ten commandments—
Thou
shall not steal
. He was a thief, robbing English nobles on the road north into Scotland alongside his four brothers. But the MacVie brothers were not hell bent on riches and wealth. They had become highwaymen to fight against the tyranny of King Edward of England, giving their gains to a cause greater than themselves, the righteous call of Scottish sovereignty. Over the years, Quinn had stolen chests of coin, jewels, fine tapestries, costly robes, anything that might fetch a price. Now, once again, he was bent low over a saddle in pursuit of a prize, but what he had agreed to steal was unlike any plunder he had stolen before. He rode north through Scotland, urging his horse to race faster, not in pursuit of gold or jewels. He was after something infinitely more valuable. He was after a woman, an English woman, Lady Catarina Ravensworth to be exact.
What few knew at that moment was that Lady Catarina’s father, Lord David Redesdale, had just committed treason only hours before. But word would spread and soon everyone would know, including King Edward. If caught, David would be drawn and quartered for his crimes, but, luckily for David, he and his youngest daughter, Bella, had fled from their fortress in England with Quinn’s older brother, Jack, at their side. Now outlaws on the run, they would have to move fast to escape the violent wrath of King Edward, but if anyone could lead David and Bella to safety, it was Jack. However, just before they left, Bella expressed grave concern for her sister’s well-being. She told Jack and Quinn that her sister was wed to a cruel English lord who would punish Catarina for her father’s disgrace.
The thought of Lord Henry Ravensworth drove Quinn to push his horse harder. There was nothing more loathsome than a man willing to raise his fist against a woman or child. Judging by Bella’s distress, Quinn had surmised her brother-in-law to be just that sort of man. Now it was up to Quinn to steal Catarina away before news of David’s treason reached Lord Ravensworth.
Quinn had ridden along the coast for some hours when at last the horizon began to brighten. He tugged on the reins, bringing his horse to a halt and inhaled the pungent scent of low tide. Up ahead, the torch fire of Ravensworth Castle blazed against the waning night sky. He slid from his horse and stroked a soothing hand down his horse’s muzzle. It would only encourage suspicion were he to arrive at Ravensworth with a winded beast. He looked down at his black robe, the very robe he had worn to gain entry the morning before into the Redesdale fortress. As a humble monk, he would walk the remainder of the journey, and by the time he neared the gate, the sea should be slashed with the golds and pinks of dawn. A slight smile curved his lips. Brother Augustine would have no trouble gaining entry into Ravensworth Castle. Then his smile vanished. Leaving the castle with the lady of the keep—now that was the real challenge.
Lady Catarina knelt in front of the stained-glass image of Saint Catherine in the rear of the castle chapel. Morning sun filtered through the window casting out jewel-colored lights, which danced around her, skimming the ground, her white tunic, even alighting upon her folded hands. She marveled at their radiance before closing her eyes to savor the silence found in that heavenly sanctuary. The quiet she gleaned in solitude between morning mass and the breaking of her fast in the great hall was her favorite part of each day. Once again, daybreak and prayer had banished the regret placed in her thoughts by the torment of her restless sleep. The night played tricks on her mind, the stars pointing her toward unfulfilled desires. But in the clear light of day, she stood on solid ground where reason and practicality reigned. Once more she understood that life could never be perfect, not in a world where so many evils—from the ravages of disease to the violent whims of kings—threatened the lives of innocents. Her secure existence at Ravensworth Castle was blessed…even if she was unhappy.
A shift in light told her it was time to bid her sanctuary farewell until the morrow. She dared not delay, for as much as her husband, Lord Henry Ravensworth, did not love her, he did, most assuredly, love punctuality. With a prayer of gratitude offered to her patron saint, Catarina started to stand, but a hand clamped hard on her shoulder, forcing her back down. She twisted her neck, looking up and met cruel eyes shadowed by thick, black brows.
“Let go of me,” she snapped, glaring at her husband’s brother, Sir Rupert Ravensworth. She squirmed free and scurried toward the door, but heavy footsteps followed. He grabbed her from behind and jerked her around, pressing her flush against his powerful body. He dipped his head, bringing his face close to her neck. “You smell of lavender,” he breathed, inhaling deeply. “What I would give to see you steeped in a warm bath, the water barely covering your dark nipples.”
“You’re disgusting,” she spat, wrinkling her nose against the foul stench of his breath, a now all too familiar scent of garlic and stale beer.
He pulled away just enough for his gaze to rake over her body with slow deliberation. “Stop fighting me,” he purred, his muddy brown eyes heavy with drink. She tensed beneath his visual assault. He drew closer, once more pressing her against him. Then cool metal grazed her cheek. She strained away from his iron hand, a replacement for the one of flesh and bone that he had lost five years earlier, fighting Scottish rebels at the battle of Dunbar. Catarina grimaced, wishing it had been his head that had been severed from his body instead.
“So soft,” he whispered, leaning closer.
“Mass has ended,” she gritted, straining to push him away. “Your brother, our lord and my husband, expects me in the great hall.”
His exploration of her body continued undeterred. “If you do not care for the touch of iron, my other hand works just fine.” He bent her, arching her back like a willow laid low by harsh wind. “So do my other appendages. One in particular grew hard and thick the moment I saw you standing alone, without your guards, without even Stephen to protect you.”
With all her being, she wished her husband’s youngest brother, Stephen, would walk into the chapel at that moment. She strained to see the door. Surely, Stephen would have noticed her absence by now and would come looking for her. Despite her prayers, the chapel doors remained close, forcing her to renew her attempts to reason with the most unreasonable man she had ever met. “Henry will want to know why I have been delayed.” She grunted when he grabbed her breast, a leering smile spreading his lips wide.
“You wish to run back to my spineless brother?” He squeezed harder.
She winced but refused to cry out.
“One day, I will have you. Your mouth mine to explore. Your naked breasts mine to suckle. Your heated loins mine to ride. And on that day, oh, what pleasure I will take from your willing body.” He laughed and shoved her toward the door. “Run along now. Run to my brother. I’ve given you something to think about while you go about your day.”
Catching her balance, she summoned the courage to plant her feet firmly apart, her hands on her hips. “Do not for an instant believe I will think of you beyond this moment. It is
you
who will be tormented by thoughts of me. Only remember this—you will never
have
me, willing or otherwise.” She turned on her heel, her head high and walked calmly from the chapel. But when the door shut behind her, she leaned against the wood, closing her eyes—just for a moment, one precious breath—before she checked the position of the sun in the sky.
“Blast,” she cursed.
Lifting her skirts beyond the demands of decorum, she sprinted across the empty courtyard toward the kitchens. Weaving her way among cooks and serving maids, she passed through the pantry to the servant’s entrance of the great hall where she stopped to straighten her headdress. Then she smoothed the layers of her ruffled wimple in place and adjusted the belt about her waist. With a deep breath, she opened the door and walked deliberately into the large crowded room, making her way to the high dais where her husband, Lord Henry Ravensworth, sat alone.
Standing, he hissed through his wooden smile, “You are late.”
She dipped in a low curtsy before taking her seat. “Forgive me, my lord. I was delayed after mass.”
He sat beside her, his face a pleasant mask. “Smile. No one else need know of my displeasure.”
She faced forward and smiled while he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “How am I to maintain order in my keep if my own wife flouts my wishes? You are to be waiting for me behind the screen so that I may appear with my dutiful wife at my side for all meals. You will never again scurry in from the servant’s entrance like a blasted scullery maid.” Clearing his throat, he sat back in his chair.
She raised her brow, her smile never faltering. “I did not scurry, my lord,” she said gently to cover her insolence. “I chose my course through the kitchens to ensure your pantry met with your high standards.”
From the corner of her eye, she watched him adjust the cuff of his tunic over his wrist while he scanned the hall. When he motioned for one of the servants to come forward, she knew she was forgotten. Something else in his perfectly ordered world must have been out of place.
“Good morrow, Sister!”
Catarina smiled at Stephan, her husband’s youngest brother, while he bounded up the stairs to the high dais. She had to bite the corner of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his exuberance. Henry did not appreciate displays of emotion—happy or otherwise. “Good morrow, Stephen.”
He came to a halt in front of her. “What is the matter?”
Her eyes widened slightly before she caught herself. Stephen could always see through any facade she wore to mask her true feelings. She swallowed down the truth and tried to make her last words to Rupert ring true—she would force him from her thoughts. Anyway, he had no real power over her. Lord Henry Ravensworth did not share his armor, or his horse, and he certainly did not share his wife. As much as Rupert’s wandering hands and disgusting threats revolted her, she knew they would amount to nothing—not while Henry lived. Just as her husband would severely punish a stable hand who might abuse his horse, if any man dared touch her, he, too, would be made to suffer, and Rupert knew this—not because Henry doted on her. Her husband protected her only because she was his, his property.
Indeed, if Henry knew what had just happened in the chapel, he would not be now sitting at her side, dipping his fingertips in the washing bowl. Rupert would be in irons. Still, she would never confess Rupert’s obscenities, because she knew her life would only change for the worse. Henry would doubtless increase the number of guards on her heels. Two already followed her whenever she stepped foot from the keep. They would have been with her in the chapel that morning had she not insisted she be allowed to pray in solitude. Frowning, she realized her mistake.
“I have a slight headache,” she said in answer to Stephen’s questioning gaze.
“Well, it is no wonder when you have been cooped up for the past two days.” He plunked down in the chair beside her. “Ride with me today.”
She smiled at Stephen’s enthusiasm. As the third son, Stephen lacked the responsibility Henry shouldered and the entitlement that—as second son—drove Rupert’s jealously and ambition. Her eyes darted sidelong at Henry for a moment before she replied, “A ride is not included in today’s schedule.”
Stephen rolled his eyes. “I would not be at all surprised if he started scheduling your visits to the garderobe.”
Catarina choked on her smile. “Do not let him hear you or else he might.”
Stephen’s laughter rang out just as two castle guards entered the hall from the courtyard, followed by a large cloaked figure with a black hood pulled low over his shadowed brow.
Stephen leaned close and whispered, “A Benedictine monk. Father Kenneth will be no doubt be pleased.”
Catarina hid her smile behind her hand. Father Kenneth possessed a pleasant enough countenance, but after nearly forty years of service to Ravensworth Castle, he found the daily rigors of priesthood overly tasking, which he never let anyone forget. The short, rather stout priest availed himself unduly of Catarina’s time with complaints about his various aches and illnesses. She did her best to hear of each new condition with a compassionate heart, but when he lamented an itchy elbow as if he were riddled with smallpox, she struggled to remain sympathetic. In truth, for a man of nearly sixty years of age, Father Kenneth celebrated excellent health.
Catarina studied the monk’s approach. His black hooded cloak stretched across wide shoulders, the breadth of which were greater than those of either guard flanking him. She straightened in her seat when, suddenly, he raised his head just enough to lock eyes with her. Black eyes, deep-set and knowing, bore into hers.
“He is staring at you,” Stephen whispered.
She blushed and lowered her eyes to break the connection, but still she could feel the intensity of his gaze.
“My lord, I present Brother Augustine of Glenrose Abbey,” one of the guards said.
She looked sidelong at Henry. He motioned for the monk to come forward. “You may speak, Brother.”
She tried to resist looking at him again, but curiosity got the better of her. Brother Augustine stood before Henry with his head still humbly bowed. “My Lord Ravensworth, I ask for yer charity, a modest place to rest and simple fare to ensure I might continue our Lord’s good work.”
His voice was deep. She dipped her head in an attempt to glimpse his face.
“Where is Glenrose Abbey?” her husband said.
“Near Dunshire.”
Henry sat back in his seat. “You will sleep here in the hall and take your meals here as well. Father Kenneth will require your assistance in the chapel for the duration of your stay.”
Brother Augustine bowed to Henry and then turned, once more meeting Catarina’s gaze. “Lady Ravensworth?”
She nodded and extended her hand. Large, warm fingers enclosed hers. She watched with what she hoped was concealed fascination as his full lips pressed against the back of her hand. She looked sidelong at Henry to see if he had noticed the monk’s lingering kiss, but he had turned his back to her and was engaged now in conversation with Stephen. She shifted her gaze, locking eyes once more with Brother Augustine. “The Lord above reminds us of something,” he said.
She tugged her hand free. “And what is that?” she said, growing increasingly uncomfortable every second those steady black eyes held hers.
He stepped closer. “The lamp of the wicked will be put out.” He dropped her hand and backed away. A smile curved his full lips the instant before he spun on his heel and left the hall.
She fought to keep her mask of indifference in place. The monk’s searing eyes and threatening words had unnerved her to her core, but she did not want Henry to know. She had learned long ago—the less Henry knew the better. She took a sip of wine to wet her dry lips.
The lamp of the wicked will be put out
. What could he have meant? Had he glimpsed wickedness in her? Or did he reveal a flaw in his own character? Either way, she would not soon forget Brother Augustine.