Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) (5 page)

“Are ye married?” Isabella asked.

Rose cast her gaze downward and shook her head. “My husband and three daughters were killed durin’ the massacre.”

Isabella’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh, Rose, I am so sorry.”

Rose raised her eyes, which glistened with unshed tears. “’Tis done. Naught can bring them back. Some days are harder than others.” Her voice cracked. “There are mornings when I wake and I must force myself to breath and command my feet to walk. Those are my hollow days. And then there are days when I taste joy.” Her lips lifted in a sideways smile not unlike Jack’s. “Just a taste mind, but those are good days.”

Isabella swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat. “By the grace of God,” she whispered.

Rose nodded and patted Isabella’s leg. “Ye’re right about that. Anyway, most days leave little time for rememberin’. I’ve got my brothers to care for, and they are good to me.”

Isabella lifted a skeptical brow. How good could a pack of thieves be?

“I ken what ye’re thinkin’, but ye’re wrong. They are all good and decent men. Quinn who is six and twenty is just two years younger than Jack. He is the best of us, to be sure. He has a head for learnin’. The monks have taught him how to read and write. He can do his numbers, and he speaks Latin and French. His patience seldom runs out. I’ve told him time and again to take his vows and join the monastery, but like the rest of my brothers, he has a great appreciation for the fairer sex.”

Isabella arched a brow at her. “Rory certainly does.”

“Ye’ve felt his rovin’ gaze, no doubt. At two and twenty, he is the second youngest. And I swear to ye, he’s been seducin’ women since the cradle. The attention he received as a baby was more than ye can imagine. Never could a woman walk by him and not ooh and ahhh. He didn’t learn to walk until he was near two. He never had to. He spent most of his time in his favorite place—asleep with a bosom for a pillow. Too pretty for his own good, Rory is.”

“His lashes would be the envy of every lady at court.”

Rose threw her head back and her laughter rang out, easing Isabella’s spirit.

“And then, of course, there’s Ian. He’s the baby.”

Isabella could not hold back a chuckle. “Baby? You can imagine my terror when I first saw Ian the giant with his horrible black mask. But can ye imagine my even greater surprise when he took it off, and the giant was no more than a lamb.”

“A lamb to be sure, well, if a lamb also had a deadly aim and a fierce side the likes of which ye would not believe.”

“I cannot imagine his countenance in any other way than happy.”

“He is that, most of the time. But push him to anger and his temper flares. ‘Tis the red hair.” She winked, lifting a lock of her own strawberry curls. “Oh, and what a voice he has. I tell ye, he sings like an angel. He’s just nineteen. His red hair and sky blue eyes were a blessin’ from our mother, but his size is all da.”

“It would seem your father was a large and handsome man,” Isabella observed.

“Aye, that he was.”

“Forgive me, Rose, but you missed one brother? The one most eager to throw me into the hole.”

“Oh for pity sake! That would be Alec.”

“What is he like?” Isabella asked.

“Alec is four and twenty. And do not be mistaken, my lady, I highly doubt Alec would have been eager to throw you in the hole.”

“He’s a true saint,” Isabella said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Sorry,” she muttered.

“I ken Jack is keepin’ ye here against yer will. Ye’re entitled to yer displeasure. But, in truth, Alec is neither a saint nor a sinner. Oh, how should I put it? He just would have been unconcerned.”

“You mean he doesn’t care?”

“Not the slightest. Sadly, he cares for precious little in this world.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“Some wounds run too deep to heal. ‘Tis just Alec’s way.” Rose paused, then with a sigh, she said, “Sorry, lass. I know it must sound like I’m makin’ excuses for him. ‘Tis just I have a special place in my heart for Alec. He has suffered greatly. He was always a queer sort of lad. He has the sight, ye ken. He knows all manner of things before they happen. The day before King Edward attacked Berwick, my husband and daughters had taken ill. I had no bayberry to bring down their fevers so I enlisted the aid of my youngest brothers. On the next day, Alec was supposed to join us in the woods near the city to forage for herbs, but when the time came to leave, he refused. He said that durin’ the night he had dreamt the world was on fire, then went to the kirk to pray. When Edward attacked, Ian, Rory, and I were safe in the woods, but Alec remained in the city and witnessed it all. ‘Tis a miracle he’s alive.”

“What of Jack and Quinn,” Isabella asked. “Why were they not in Berwick when the king attacked?”

“Once upon a time, Jack and Quinn were fishermen.” She cleared her throat and brightened her sad eyes. “Right. Enough sad talk. And I’ll spare ye my account of Jack. I figure ye’ve learned enough of him for now.”

Isabella’s thoughts wandered straight back to Jack’s kiss. Did Rose know how acquainted they had become? Isabella hid her blush by busying herself with stacking the dirty bowls. She felt a nervous jump in her belly.

Rose stood, dusting off her hands. “Now that ye ken a little more about my younger brothers, are ye ready to rejoin their company.”

Wishing she could just remain beneath the cool tree, she nodded reluctantly. “If we must.”

Isabella was sitting on a log by the fireside very nearly alone with Jack who had chased the rest of his siblings away with his glib tongue. Rose had gone to bed more than an hour before—right after Jack had denied her request for Isabella to bed down with her. At that moment, Isabella had discovered that Rose, like Ian, had a temper to match her hair.

“She cannot sleep in your hut. ‘Tis indecent, Jack,” she had said.

But Jack had been unyielding, arguing that he was responsible for everyone’s safety including Isabella’s.

“How do ye intend to keep Lady Redesdale from escapin’ if she had a mind to do so?” Jack had said to Rose. 

Isabella had pledged not to attempt to leave their camp. Still, Jack had only grown increasingly adamant. Finally, Rose could do naught but storm off in a huff. Having been forced to find a new champion, Isabella had looked to the younger brothers with pleading eyes, but none would shoulder her cause. One by one, they had all retired.

Now, only she, Jack and Quinn remained. Isabella stared hard at Quinn who shifted in his seat. Nigh jumping to his feet, he said, “I bid ye goodnight, Lady Redesdale.” And with a bow, he was gone. It took all her restraint not to call after him and beg him not to leave her alone with Jack. 

“’Tis time, Princess.”

Her eyes locked with his. “Time for what?”

A slow smile spread across his face. “’Tis time for sleep.”

She arched a brow at him. “Sleep?”

“Ladies do sleep, do they not?”

She rolled her eyes and stood. Chin raised high, she turned on her heel and started toward his hut. She had not taken three steps before he was standing in front of her, blocking her path.

“Ye’re eager to make it to my quarters.”

“Eager is a strong word,” she snapped.

One side of his mouth lifted in a cocky smile before he bowed low at the waist. Then he straightened and offered her his hand. “Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he said, mimicking her speech.

Fists clenched, she pressed her lips together to restrain the slew of rebuttals fighting to break free. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unnerved her. Making a show of flipping her hair off her shoulder, she stormed around him and strode away in possession of her dignity—or so she had thought. Glancing back over her shoulder, she froze in mid-step. He stared after her with that same quiet expression on his face that he had worn earlier. A shiver shot up her spine as a slow smile tugged at the side of his lips. Confused, she whirled back around and raced the rest of the way to his hut. Her heart beat her chest as she opened the door. She was about to let it close behind her, but decided in the last moment to release a taste of her frustration and, instead, slammed it shut. She scowled at the thin branches laced together. The flimsy door was incapable of demonstrating her true state of upheaval. She paced the room, muttering the scathing remarks she now wish she’d let loose. How dare he speak to her with such disrespect and then a moment later look at her in that warm, appreciative way as if she were the conjured meadow or steady sea? She backed away from the door, her eyes scanning the room for something heavy enough to bar his way. Her scowl deepened when she eyed the small chest and lightweight table and chairs. None of the sparse furnishings offered sufficient weight to keep Jack out. Still, she was too confused and exhausted to face him.

She expelled a sigh of defeat just as the door swung wide. He stepped into the small room, which seemed to shrink around her with the addition of his massive frame. Despite the tongue lashing she longed to give him, she instinctively backed away, pressing against the thatched wall. Her frustration was giving way to trepidation. She was alone at night in the woods with a man who was both savior and captor. At that moment, she certainly felt more captive than saved. There was nowhere to run. He eyed her as if she were a fine cut of meat at market.

From his sporran he pulled out a thin linen robe. “Courtesy of Rose.”

She stared up at him unable to speak. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears. Despite how she tried to think of something else, her mind fixated on the last time they had been alone in his hut. As if of their own accord, her eyes traveled to his full lips, lips that had been pressed against her own. She tried desperately to hold in her mind the many reasons she should dislike the man standing in front of her, but when she met his gaze, she suddenly felt as if she were drowning in a black sea. His eyes bore into hers. He took a step toward her. Her breath hitched. Again he stepped closer. She fought to swallow, but her throat suddenly felt thick. He stood so close now. She opened her mouth to protest, to punish his audacity and pride, but the words did not come. Her objections remained lodged in her throat along with her thundering heart as he planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head. Surrounding her, he enclosed her in a cage of muscle and his all too familiar woody scent. He was so big and strong and smelled so good. He was unlike any man she had ever met. The intensity of his ebony gaze burned through her like wild fire. He drew closer still. She could not breathe. Slowly, he bent his head, lowering his lips until they were a breath away from hers. A sweet ache coiled in her stomach. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to touch hers, but they never came. A cool breeze caressed her cheek and forced open her eyes the instant before the door shut behind him.

Her knees gave way, and she slid to the ground, resting her head against the thatched wall. “Jack,” she whispered.

She hid behind her hands. Dear Lord above, her body had been awakened by the last man on God’s green earth she should ever want. Her mind was spinning out of control as the day’s events combined with the tumult of new sensations coursing through her body. She gripped her stomach, feeling as though she would be sick again, but it was not bile that pushed for a way out. A wave of tears stung her eyes, and she collapsed beneath the weight of the day.

~ * ~

With hands in tight fists, Jack plowed his way through the grove. His heart thundered in his chest, igniting a searing pain that pulsed at his temples. He stormed around a copse of birch trees and passed into a small glen, heading straight for a clear, deep brook. Jerking his tunic over his head, he dove into the icy water and let the chill ease his body. God above, he wanted her.

“Why?” he growled out loud.

He had spent less than a full day in her company, and here he was fixating on her, burning for her. Hell, he had nearly taken her against the wall, and what drove him near to madness was that she might have actually welcomed his touch. He closed his eyes then to better remember her parting lips and quick breaths as she held still, waiting for his kiss.

He should have taken her. What sort of lady would not fight the advances of a commoner, and a thief at that? Perhaps she was free with her kisses and made light of her virtue with the English lords in her treacherous King’s court. He should have had his way with her. Then he would not now be paying for his self-control. With a curse, he dove once more beneath the water. That was not his way. He was not a rake like his younger brother, Rory. He was a thief—that was the beginning and end of his sins and likely enough to reserve him a place in hell as it was.

Water sluiced off his shoulders as he strode from the brook. His body remained hard and hungry for her, despite his cold bath. Pausing only to grab his tunic, he headed straight back through the woods no more relieved than before he set out. When his hut came into view, he stopped and forced his lungs to fill. Then he blew out before taking another deep breath. An English lady had no business occupying his thoughts. He had to remain focused on what mattered most—the many people dependent on him for their very survival. His attraction to the Lady Redesdale was a physical and emotional betrayal on his part. How dare he dally with the enemy?

Striding past the pit fire, which had smoldered down to a pile of ash, he walked right up to his door and stopped. Lips pressed tight, he considered his options. He never had any intention of forcing the lady to sleep with him in his hut. He had always planned to sleep just outside in front of the door, thus barring her way from escape. But if he were honest, sleeping with her was exactly what he wanted. He reached for the door, but his fingers froze in midair. His already erect length grew harder just thinking about her stretched out beside him. His hand dropped. He lay down on the ground, lacing his fingers behind his head. He stared up at the stars and tried to think of something other than silky brown hair and pale green eyes.

Scowling, he lifted his head off the ground. Had he heard something? He held his breath. A quiet, muffled noise reached his ears. It was she. He pressed his ear to the door. Mayhap, she slept but not soundly, and it was her unrest he heard. A soft hiccup emanated from within. Or perhaps she had the makings of a slight illness, and it was her blocked nose that he heard. Then an unmistakable whimper reached his ears, and he could no longer deny that she was crying.

“For pity’s sake,” he muttered, shaking his head. He stood up and eased the door open. There, in the middle of his pallet, she sat with her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed into her hands, muffling the sound.

“Princess?” he said, quietly.

Her hands jerked away from her face, and she turned wide, glitteringly wet, exquisitely beautiful, pale green eyes on him.

His heart broke. He had never been able to withstand a woman’s tears. The hard front he had been struggling to hold in place since they had first met melted. At once, she was no longer Lady Redesdale. She was just Bella, a woman who had been through a great deal that day.

“Don’t cry, Bella. Please don’t cry.”

Hugging her arms around her legs, she buried her face, hiding her tears.

“Go away,” she sobbed.

He wrapped his arms around her. “Hush, lass,” he crooned. Gently, he picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Her wet cheek pressed against his bare chest. He sat down on the chair and gently rocked her. Her soft body yielded to his.

“Never ye mind. Ye just cry it out, lass. Ye’ve earned yer tears.”

Whether it was his urging or just the weight of the day, she did just that. Her arms came around his neck. He breathed in the lavender scent of her hair and held her tighter. Slowly, he stroked her back and whispered softly in her ear.  “There, there, love. ‘Twill be alright. Just let it out. Cry all ye want.”

Her body trembled in his arms. Tears dripped down his chest. She buried closer to him, and he pressed a kiss to her brow. He let her cry until her tears ran dry. Then, even with her sorrow spent, she did not move but kept her arms around his neck. He savored their intimacy, and he continued to rock her, imagining the sea cradled them both.

After a while, the heat of her breath warmed his chest at regular intervals. He knew then that she had fallen asleep in his arms. He stood and carried her to his pallet. He knelt and laid her down, but her arm held tight to his neck. Gently he tugged, but she stirred. Having no desire to wake her, he stretched out beside her, pulling her into his arms.

Her head rested on his chest. His fingers grazed her silken skin.

“Damn,” he muttered. “This feels good.”