Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) (4 page)

He looked at her. His eyes started out cold, then flashed with fire. “What’s the question bitin’ at yer tongue?”

She jumped a little in her seat but then swallowed her fear. “Are you going to kill me?”

He smiled. And then to her surprise he threw his head back and laughed, showing white, even teeth. Her eyes widened with surprise. She certainly found nothing at all diverting about her question.

“Fair enough, Princess. Let me put yer mind to rest. I have no wish to hurt ye. Earlier today I would have taken yer last coin and all yer bonny jewels, but my brothers and I would never have harmed ye.”

“All of those men are your brothers?” she asked, her voice sounded small and soft, unrecognizable to her own ear. She was Lady Redesdale. She too was used to obedience. She sat a little straighter, imbuing her posture with strength she hoped would spread to her whole person.

He nodded in answer.

She took another bite of bread. “Why did you save me?”

He shrugged and looked away.

“Have I wronged you somehow? Or are you merely angry because you did not get your chance to rob me?” She felt her ire rising. She was tired of being afraid, and she would be damned if she was going to explain herself to a common highwayman. She jumped to her feet.

“I demand you return me to my father, or if you wish you can take me on to my intended destination, my sister’s home at Ravensworth Castle.”

“Ye can keep yer orders to yerself, Princess. As I’ve said before, ye’re not goin’ anywhere.”

“If it is money you desire, then I assure you, my father will pay handsomely for my return.”

“Ye’ve had my answer,” he said.

She scowled, turning away. Sweat had gathered on her brow. The heat and stress of the day were undeniable. She pulled a handkerchief from beneath the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed at beads cascading down her temples. He grabbed her arm and jerked her back around.

“I’ll never ken a noble woman’s attire. Ye’re suffocatin’ yerself in all that fuss.”

“You speak as if I had some say in what I wear.” She paused and blatantly passed her gaze over his homespun shirt and hose. “Like your own attire, my dress is befitting my station.”

For a moment, a sneer twisted his rugged features. She had pushed too far. He stepped forward, and to her surprise, his face softened. He cupped her cheeks between his rough palms, and leaned close. She trembled beneath the warm currents of his breath.

“Why must convention cover a woman’s hair?” His fingers slid under the sides of her wimple where it met her cheeks. “It is almost always her greatest beauty.” His lips grazed her skin causing her heart to skip. Before she could draw her next breath, he ripped the fabric, exposing her head and neck. Her body betrayed her as a sigh of relief escaped her lips, having been released from her own personal prison.

“What is yer name?” he said, uncoiling her hair.

“Bella,” she breathed. “Is…Isabella.”

He laced his fingers through her freed hair. Did he think the color beautiful? Her sable brown locks had always seemed plain to her at court—oh for pity’ sake, what did it matter? She should have been fighting his presumptuous attention. He was a thief and her abductor. She met his gaze with the intention of telling him exactly what he could do with his wandering hands, but the moment their eyes met, she was struck by his intensity. God’s blood, if he had wished to unnerve her, he had succeeded; she felt vulnerable and exposed. His hands dropped to his sides, and he turned his back to her. Her courage returned.

“If you were a gentleman, you would take me home.”

He whirled around and crushed her against him. “Never mistake me for a gentleman, Princess.” He pressed a kiss hard to her lips. She pushed against his chest and struggled in protest, but he held her fast. Then his lips softened. His hold softened. She softened, lulled by his whispered caress. He tore his lips away. He was as unpredictable as a summer storm. Without thinking, she drew her hand back and slapped him hard across the face. His head snapped to the side. She held her breath, thinking the end was nigh.

He rubbed his cheek. His lip tugged into a lazy sideways grin. “Ye’ve gumption, my lady,” he said before turning to leave. Then over his shoulder he said, “I like that in a woman.”

Jack stormed from his hut. His mind raced. God’s Blood, she was beautiful. He raked his hand through his hair. But she was the enemy. He had no business kissing her or pitying her. By God, he had robbed dozens of English nobles. She was no different. Her title belonged to King Edward. Were it not for the support of his nobles, nobles like her, his cruel hammer would not have possessed the power to thrash Berwick to oblivion. No doubt she remained oblivious to her king’s cruelty, living within the confines of her gilded cage. The attack against her today had likely been her first taste of suffering. Her smooth, flawless palms had never known toil. She could not imagine the heartache of a world torn asunder or the murder of ones so dearly loved. He closed his eyes against the images that flashed in his mind: A little girl with a basket of apples, a woman whose laughter had been as warm and rich as her black eyes, a man who had taught Jack self-worth. His parents and youngest sister had perished during the massacre, their bodies buried in one of the mass graves. He shook his head, chasing away the painful images. Nothing could bring them back.

Quinn caught up to him. “Jack, we have to talk about what we’re goin’ to do with the lass.”

Jack grabbed a hold of Quinn’s shirt, jerking him close. “
We
aren’t goin’ to do anythin’,” he hissed. Then he turned and looked pointedly at all his brothers save Alec who had likely retreated to his own quarters for the evening. “Listen to me, all of ye. Stay away from the lass.”

Quinn’s concern for Isabella had angered him more than it should. Isabella…Bella, with soft green eyes like new spring leaves. “Damnation,” he cursed, meeting Quinn’s amused gaze—and Quinn was meant to be the smart one of the lot. “Wipe that smirk from your face. I’m not in a jokin’ mood.”

“Ye ken she’s a lady, Jack?”

Was his attraction to the lass so transparent? “What of it?” Jack growled.

“Ye remember that ye’re a commoner?” Quinn said.

“And an thief,” Rory chimed in.

Jack shrugged. “We’re all commoners and thieves.”

“Aye,” Quinn said. “But ye seem to be the only one forgettin’ it.”

Jack let go of Quinn’s shirt and took a deep breath, then turned on his heel.

“Where are ye goin’?” Quinn called after him.

“To talk to Rose. The Princess needs a change of clothes.”

“Och, if Rose hears wind of their bein’ another female in camp she’s goin’ to declare a feast day and throw a party,” Quinn said, laughing.

“She’ll have your hide if she finds out you supported Alec’s idea of throwin’ her in the hole,” Jack shot back.

“It wasn’t my idea!”

“True, but one expects that sort of thing from Alec.”

Jack wove his way through the wooded path that led to his sister’s hut. After their homes had been destroyed and they had taken to the woods to make new ones, Rose had made but one request—privacy from her five brothers.

When he came upon her, she was just adding some scraps to the pottage.

“’Tis high time ye came by to show me yer body still in one piece,” she said, disapprovingly.

Jack leaned down and placed a kiss on Rose’s cheek. Her red hair was pulled away from her face, and her kind blue eyes smiled up at him. She and Ian resembled their father while the rest of them took after their mother with their black hair.

Rose scrutinized his face. “Whatever ye’re broodin’ about stop it, ye hear? Now why don’t ye sit down, eat some stew, and ye can tell me all about the lass ye kidnapped.”

Jack swore under his breath for which he received a cuff upside his head. “Rose, could we have one visit where ye don’t beat the hell out of me for once.” He pretended to look cross, then gave her a pinch around the middle that bent her over with laughter. Rose’s two weaknesses were easy to exploit. She was extremely ticklish and a champion for anyone or anything she deemed as weaker.

“Who told ye?” Jack asked before enjoying a bite of stew. “Let me venture a guess, Ian.”

“Nay, ‘twas Rory. He told me about her fine looks.” Her smile vanished. She stopped stirring the pottage and pointed her spoon at him. “Ye listen to me, Jack MacVie. Ye keep Rory away from the poor lass. Ye know what he’ll do. Love her and leave her, he will.”

An image of Rory plying Isabella with his charms flitted through Jack’s mind. He put down his bowl.

“What’s the matter with my stew?” Rose said, scowling.

“’Tis delicious, but I’ve no appetite suddenly.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Trust me. Rory will not lay a finger on her, unless he’s interested in losin’ one.”

Rose clucked her approval. “See that he doesn’t.”

Jack stood. “I need to borrow one of yer tunics.”

Rose scrutinized his form from head to toe, then shook her head. “Nay, it won’t suit ye.” Then she threw her head back with laughter. “I ken it is for the lady. Wait here,” she said before disappearing inside her hut. She emerged moments later with what Jack recognized as her finest tunic and surcoat, reserved for their yearly sojourn to Inverness.

Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

“Rory said she is the daughter of Lord Redesdale. She is accustomed to finery. We should try to make her feel at home.”

Jack grabbed the violet silk tunic from Rose’s hand. An image of Isabella clad in the soft gown with her olive skin and pale green eyes stirred his desire. Despite being dirt smeared, she had smelled like an angel. He closed his eyes and felt the curve of her lips yielding to his own. Christ, but she had tasted of honey. His eyes flew open. “Nay, absolutely not.”

He stormed inside Rose’s hut. Anyway, he had no intention of pampering his princess. It would be good for her to taste life’s meager offerings. Jack flipped open Rose’s chest and shuffled through the clothing until he came across a stained, threadbare woolen tunic. “This will do nicely.”

“Nay! That is my oldest work dress. I only wear it when the task is truly filthy, like cleanin’ out the animal pens.”

“Perfect,” Jack said, walking past her and stepping outside.

“What has the lass ever done to ye?” Rose called after him.

He ignored both her question and the scolding tone in her voice. He owed the lady nothing—he had already saved her life, which he was certain she would soon forget. Noble ladies were all narcissistic creatures—puddles had greater depth.
Then why had he kissed her?
He thought back to that moment in his hut. She had been standing before him, willing herself to appear brave and resolute despite how terrified she must have been. She had thrust out her chin, putting her full lips on display. Then she had made that quip about him not being a gentleman. She had practically dared him to kiss her, and now that she had had time to ruminate on his ungentlemanly advance, he was certain to hear all about his uncouth manners and inferior station.

Ready for battle, he stormed inside his hut, but the scene that awaited him could not have been more surprising. She was asleep, lying on his pallet, and despite the warmth of the day, wrapped tightly in his blanket. With great care to be silent, he laid the bundle of clean but worn clothing beside her, lit a candle against the advancing shadow, and sat down at the table and watched her sleep.

After an hour passed, she began to stir. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, which had been warmed pink by the fire. She opened her eyes and straightaway spied the bundle he had left her. Sitting up, she unfolded the tunic and smiled. He had expected disdain. She was supposed to turn her nose up at the crude garments, not delight in them as though they were made of the finest silk. She smiled, smelling the clean fabric. He leaned in, drawn by her pleasure, but his movement caught her eye. To his surprise, she held up the tunic and dipped her head. “Thank you for this.”

Not knowing how to respond, he gave her a curt nod. “I will leave you to dress. When ye’re finished, come join my family by the fire, Princess.” This time it had been a struggle to lace his words with malice. 

“Wait,” she said.

He turned around and gave her an expectant look.

“Will you not tell me your name?” she said.

He started to turn away, intending to deny her, but then he paused and shook his head before facing her once more. “John MacVie, after my father,” he said. “But ye can call me Jack.”

~ * ~

Isabella ran her fingers through her hair, working out most of the snarls. With nothing to tie it up, she swept her hair from her shoulders, letting it fall free down her back. She had not intended to sleep when she had laid down on Jack’s pallet, only to cease the spinning in her head. But her body took for itself what it needed, and now she felt all the better having rested. She smoothed her hands over the soft, worn fabric of her borrowed tunic. It had caressed her curves like a whisper when she pulled it on. Smiling, she closed her eyes and savored the unusual feeling of being unbound. Her own clothing was designed to contain and restrict, but now she could move and breathe and feel. She longed to step outside, to invite the night air on her neck and shoulders, but she hesitated when she stood in front of the door. Jack had made it clear that he had no wish to harm her; however, she hardly felt safe. Her fingertips touched her lips, still swollen from his hard kiss. He was nothing like the men at court, nothing like Hugh. Hugh’s slim build and soft hands seemed childlike now that she had felt Jack’s hard strength. He terrified her, but fear alone had not set her heart to race when he drew near. His smell, his rough hands, and deep voice excited her, and the quietness she had glimpsed in him kept her wondering about the real man beneath the mask. She threw her hands up, feeling betrayed by her own thoughts. Taken as a whole, his behavior toward her had been hostile. Confusion forced her hands to clench as she continued to stare at the door. Anyway, he was a thief and a scoundrel.

“Damnation,” she cursed. Nothing made sense. All she knew for certain was that she was tired and hungrier than she could ever remember being. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool, spring night. Closing her eyes, she inhaled fresh air laced with scents of cooked meat and herbs. Her stomach growled. She looked toward the fire. Four sets of male eyes stared at her. A self-conscious hand smoothed back her free flowing hair.

Ian dashed toward her. “Lady Redesdale, I’m so glad ye’ve joined us.”

She smiled up at Ian’s dancing eyes. “Good evening,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She still did not know how to behave. Were they her kidnappers or saviors?

Rory stood. “My lady,” he said, taking her hand and giving her a wicked grin. As his eyes grazed over her form, she had the distinct feeling that he could see exactly what she concealed beneath her borrowed garments. She shivered when he kissed her hand. Damn his eyes. He was more beautiful than any man should ever be. She was relieved when Quinn shoved him aside. “Rory, the lady is not tonight’s supper. Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Ye must sample the stew our sister, Rose, has made.”

Isabella’s heart skipped with relief when she noticed the woman sitting on a log by the fire. She was trim with a beautiful smile and thick, curly red hair that fell to her waist. She must have been near thirty and was just as pretty as could be.

Isabella dipped in a low curtsy in front of Rose. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your meal.”

“Och, sweetling, ye’ve done nothin’ wrong, lass. I’m delighted ye’re here.” Rose patted the log next to her. Isabella sat and looked across the flames. Jack’s eyes bore into hers. In fact, all of the MacVie brothers were staring at her, save for the one she heard called Alec whom Isabella did not see anywhere, which was just as well given he had been the one who first suggested sticking her in the hole.

“Jack MacVie, turn yer eyes elsewhere. Can’t ye tell yer makin’ her nervous? Nay, in fact, eat yer supper, all of ye.” Rose stood and offered Isabella her hand. “The lady and I are goin’ to sit over there.”

Brows drawn in a deep frown, Jack started to stand, but whether to voice his protest or follow after, Isabella knew naught. Either way, Rose gave him no quarter.

“Ye just sit back down, Jack,” she snapped.

Isabella’s eyes widened. She stood and hastened after Rose. It would seem she had misjudged Jack as the leader of the MacVie siblings. Clearly, Rose was in charge.

“I cannot imagine anyone talking to Jack that way,” Isabella whispered when she drew alongside Rose.

“I am three years Jack’s senior. The eldest MacVie, and I make sure that none of my wee brothers forget it.”

Isabella could not suppress her smile. “I would not call any one of them wee.”

Rose sat beneath a large oak. Isabella joined her, leaning her back against the cool trunk. “This is better. Thank you, Rose.”

Rose smiled and handed her a bowl. “Hush now, my lady, and have some stew. Ye must be famished.”

Isabella gladly accepted the wooden bowl. The stew was thick with chunks of rabbit and tasted of Rosemary and garlic. “This is delicious.”

“As hungry as ye must be, my lady, I’d wager even the poorest fare would be pleasin’ to yer pallet.”

Isabella smiled. “Believe me or not, Rose, but this is very fine.”

Rose surprised Isabella by blushing. “Thank ye, my lady.”

They sat in comfortable silence while Isabella finished her stew. She soaked up the last of it with a thick bannock. It had been a simple but truly satisfying meal. She almost felt like herself again. But then she glanced across the camp at the fire. Jack’s gaze was still on her, his face impossible to read. She looked away, unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze. She looked to Rose for distraction.