Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) (7 page)

Her hands fell away. She pressed her lips together tight and swiped at her wet eyes, but she still did not meet his gaze. “My mother,” she whispered. And then her eyes locked with his. “And my father.”

“They were both slain in the chaos?”

She shook her head. “My mother was stabbed through the heart and her head split open.” A sob tore from her throat and she covered her mouth with her hands. “My father survived those days, untouched by blade or fire. His body lives, but he does not reside inside of it. Every day I lose a little more of him to his grief. He shuts out life and me along with it.” She sagged in his arms. “Five years have passed, but it has not truly ended. The world is still on fire.”

He lifted her into his arms and carried her further down the bank of the stream to a slope, shaded beneath a large oak tree. He sat, cradling her in his arms and rocked her gently. Then he pulled away just enough to see her face.

“Our youngest sister, Roslyn set out that morning to help my mother sell apples.” His voice cracked. “My parents were also slain.” Expelling a long, slow breath, he rested his head back against the tree and stroked her soft waves. The song of the stream surround them. He swallowed the remainder of his lament and waited for the familiar numbness to return. After a time, she sat up and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her tunic. Still holding her in his lap, he grazed his hand down her thigh, touching the tattered fabric. “Forgive me for givin’ ye such an ugly tunic to wear.”

She shrugged. “If it is so ugly, then you won’t mind if I never give it back.”

“Could an English lady used to silks and lace truly be happy in homespun wool?”

She smiled and breathed out a heavy breath. He could see the tension ease from her shoulders. “I already am.”

His eyes passed over her olive skin as he studied her face. “We aren’t so different,” he breathed.

Pale green eyes locked with his. “It would seem not.”

For a moment, he almost believed he had found himself in her heart, but then truth raised its ugly head. Suddenly, he was staring across an endless, uncrossable gray chasm, to where she stood, draped in wondrous colors that his rough hands could never hold. His heart sank as he forced the truth from his lips. “Except that ye’re a noblewomen and I a commoner.”

To his surprise, she reached out and cupped his cheek. “I am the daughter of Lord David Redesdale but also of Annunziatta Santospirito.” Tears once more filled her eyes, but she smiled through them. “And she was the daughter of an Italian merchant. She was a commoner, but there was nothing common about her. And I see nothing common about you, Jack MacVie.”

A rush of fire exploded in his heart. He cupped her face between his hands and lightly pressed his lips to hers. She trembled. Then her arms came around his neck. He dug his fingers into her thick hair, and she leaned into him. Their lips and tongues moved in unison as the world faded away. Chest heaving, she tore her lips free. “I do not understand what is happening.”

He pressed his forehead to hers. “Neither do I,” he said, breathlessly.

“Jack!”

He jerked around. Quinn raced toward them.

“’Tis Bishop Lamberton. He just arrived and wishes to speak to ye and the lady.”

His chest tightened. He looked down at her. Slowly, he pulled her arm from around his neck and brought her palm to his lips. Then he dropped her hand and stepped back, putting space between them. “Our stolen moment is over, Lady Redesdale.”

Jack had first met Bishop Lamberton on the open road shortly after the massacre. Having concealed dozens of newly orphaned children in the woods, Jack and Quinn had set out to hunt. After all, empty bellies needed to be filled. When the bishop’s carriage approached, they had tossed their bows and full quivers into the brush to conceal that they had been hunting on monastic land. The bishop had been kind. He bade them not be afraid and gently pulled the truth from Jack. It did not take Jack long to realized he had made a powerful ally. Jack led the Bishop through the woods to where he had hidden the children. Together, they called on Abbot Matthew at the monastery and obtained permission for Jack and his band of youthful exiles to hide in the woods. On another visit, the Bishop had arrived when the MacVie brothers had been practicing swordplay with sticks, their favorite pastime since they were lads. He had left soon after only to return again later that day with swords for each of them.

“You have the skill, my son, which the good Lord has given you,” the Bishop had said when Jack solemnly wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his new sword. “Now, you have the tools, which
I
have given you.”

On his next visit, the bishop had brought five black masks and five shirts of gleaming black mail. And so the Saints were born. Jack and his brothers became highwaymen for a higher cause. By robbing the English nobility riding north into Scotland, Jack provided for the children in his charge and contributed toward Bishop Lamberton’s first concern—fighting for Scottish independence.

As Jack and Isabella approached the bishop. He made the sign of the cross and blessed them both.

Bishop Lamberton smiled at Isabella. “Are you well, my lady?”

“I am, Your Excellency.”

“And I trust, my friends have shown you every due respect.”

Jack cringed when he remembered Alec’s suggestion to throw Isabella into the hole with Quinn’s approval. He also remembered his stolen kiss and sarcastic addresses. He closed his eyes waiting for Isabella to confess all to the good bishop, but she merely smiled. “They have all behaved like perfect gentlemen.”

He looked down at her. Her eyes locked with his and did not waver.

Bishop Lamberton cleared his throat, snaking Jack’s attention. “We have a situation. You were right not to leave the lady defenseless in the wood, but she cannot stay here any longer.”

Jack pressed his lips together. He wished it otherwise, but he knew the bishop was right. An English lady gone missing in Scotland meant trouble for everyone. “What is yer plan?”

“We must return her to her father,” the bishop stated.

Jack nodded. “I will take her.”

“You, an exile and thief? That is a truly dreadful idea. The only thing worse would be to include your brothers in your folly. Then you can all be captured and hung together. Aye, I’m sure Rose will be thrilled by your idea.”

Quinn stepped forward then. “The good bishop does make a point, Jack.”

“Abbot Matthew will take her. He will tell Lord Redesdale that the lady was found by them in the wood and kept safe and guarded within the monastery, which by the by is where she will sleep tonight.” Bishop Lamberton turned to Isabella and smiled. “The less the good abbot has to lie, the better. Although to combat the tyranny of men, even the godliest must bend the rules,” he said with a wink. Then he offered Isabella his arm. “Come, Lady Redesdale. You may bid farewell now to your valiant rescuers. I shall take you to the monastery myself. You leave tomorrow at first light.”

The Bishop had a firm grasp on Isabella’s arm as he walked toward his carriage. Panic seized her. She jerked away.

“Is there something the matter, my child?” the bishop said, turning back to look at her with questioning eyes.

Her mind raced. She had no answer for the bishop. Certainly, she knew she should be relieved. She wanted to go home—did she not? Then she met Jack’s dark eyes and knew it was he who had fixed her feet to the ground. He was like no man she had ever met. She thought of the children he had saved and how much he had suffered. He was still a thief, a commoner, and a Scotsman, but he was also a hero. Her hero.

“Lady Redesdale,” the Bishop said.

She tore her eyes from Jack’s and looked at the bishop. “We must away,” he urged. “No good could come from you staying here a moment longer. No good for anyone,” he said with a knowing look at Jack.

She nodded and bit her lip to fight back the tears that had suddenly filled her eyes. That was it then. She was to say goodbye and never see Jack again. She would return to Berwick, trapped within the walls of her home where she would wait for her wedding to Hugh. She was Lady Redesdale after all, and English ladies did not marry thieving Scotsman—no matter how compelling or forbidden.

“Lady Redesdale!”

She jerked her eyes once more away from Jack’s. “Forgive me, Your Excellency,” she whispered. Then she turned back to Jack and dipped into a low curtsy. “Thank you,” she said before she turned and followed the bishop.

Bishop Lamberton climbed inside and offered her his hand. She reached out, but then her breath hitched as someone grabbed her from behind. She jerked around and saw a flash of Jack’s black eyes the instant before his lips claimed hers and the world fell away. Her soul cried out, knowing it had found its mate. His lips molded to hers. His scent engulfed her. She longed never for the moment to end. She wrapped her arms around his neck and gave herself over to him. She did not doubt at that moment that the angels had put her in Jack’s path, but they were not in heaven. And men made rules that controlled her life.

Jack tore his lips away. His breath coming in great heaves.

“That will have to be enough,” the bishop said behind her, not unkindly.

It could never be enough.

Jack stepped away, his black eyes burning through her soul. She sat beside the bishop all the while never breaking eye contact with Jack. She watched him as the carriage pulled ahead. She traced every line of his broad shoulders and strong features into memory.

“Drink your fill, my lady. You will never see him again.”

Isabella followed behind a tall, lanky monk with a stooped back. Despite his gangly appearance, he walked like a swiftly moving cloud, soundlessly gliding down the narrow halls of Haddington Monastery. They passed through a maze of shadowy corridors lit by torches. She felt as though they were burrowing into the dark belly of a mountain. The silent monk turned down yet another hallway. Along each side were roughhewn wooden doors. At the end of the hallway, he opened a door, revealing a small but clean cell. The furnishings consisted of a narrow wooden platform, which had a folded blanket on top of it, and a small table with a candle and wooden rosary beads.

Bishop Lamberton had warned her to expect modest accommodations. She was not bothered by the poverty of her surroundings, but the gloom was hard to bare. With a heavy sigh, she spread out the blanket upon the hard planks and laid down. The candle flickered, casting dancing shadows upon the low stone ceiling. Her eyes moved over the stones, and they became a bare canvas for her to paint her dreams. She easily conjured Jack’s image as though he were above her, just out of reach.

Ye know I shouldn’t be here, Princess.

“I know, but who could find out,” she said aloud. “There is no one here but us.”

Actually, Princess, ye’re alone. I am only a fantasy.

“I know that, but now I do not feel so lonely. So why don’t you just cooperate and call me Bella?”

As ye wish, Bella.

She smiled and blushed despite knowing she talked only to herself and not to him.

“I love how you kiss me. It is so different than Hugh’s kisses.”

Her imaginary Jack scowled.
Who’s Hugh?

She shrugged her shoulders. “He was my best friend. Now, he is my betrothed.”

Were ye not goin’ to tell me ye’re to be married?

“There was hardly time between you rescuing me, offending me, and then sweeping me off my feet.”

Don’t change the subject, Princess. Who is he? A stuffy English lord with pasty skin and soft hands.

She nodded. “He is soft compared to you, but he is also a good man.”

If he is so wonderful. Why am I here, and not Sir Hugh?

“He is a lord actually.”

Jack’s scowl deepened.
Fine. Why am I here, and not Lord La di da.

A sad smile curved her lips at her imagined jest. “He doesn’t stir my soul,” she whispered.

Jack flashed his sideways grin.
And I do?

“Yes.” Her hands flew to cover her face. Then she took a deep breath and dropped her hands. He smiled at her, his eyes full of feeling.

I wish ye could be mine, Bella.

Brows drawn, she shook her head. “Surely, there is a way.”

His smile diminished, and his eyes grew dark with yearning.

Nay, lass. I am a Scotsman, and ye’re my enemy.

Her heart sank as his image faded. Blinking back tears, she stared at the cold, hard stone. If she could not make a romance with Jack work even in her dreams, then surely it was hopeless. More than ever, she wished she had never set out to visit her sister. Before she had felt listless and wanting, but she had no taste of desire, no face to imagine. Now she would have to walk through life trapped by a wimple and a passionless marriage, all the while knowing the feel of strong hands on her skin.

She turned on her side, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes. Again and again, she relived her last kiss with Jack.

A soft rapping on the door stirred Isabella awake. A dull ache throbbed at her temples. She stared at the stone ceiling overhead. The weight of her heavy heart pinned her to the hard platform bed. She drew a shallow breath and closed her eyes, wishing to retreat into slumber, but the knocking grew louder. Whoever waited outside her cell was not going to leave her to her misery. Wiping sleep from her eyes, she stood and pulled open the door. The tall, stooped monk who had been her guide the night before stood with eyes downcast. Once again, he did not speak but motioned for her to follow. After twisting back the way they’d come, he led her down another dark, cool hallway that let out into a small courtyard.

Shadow still hung heavy in the sky. She filled her lungs with fresh, warm air, glad to be free from the confines of the cloisters, but her relief was short-lived. She expelled the breath with distaste. It was a treacherous lie, as potent as any betrayal. Within the tantalizing, crisp spring air one breathed life’s beginnings, its very origins, but her life had been stagnant before she had even taken her first breath. It was the same as countless women who had come before her: Women with voices unheard. Women with passions left to wane until all desire faded. The space afforded her life was a fraction of the size of the monks’ starved cells. She was crammed into a dark hole, and the world ignored her screams. Her fists clenched. She would relinquish every luxury of the body to feel the richness of soul that only love could provide. She would rejoice in the feel of rough wool on her skin if the hands that swept her tunic from her body stoked her passion.

“My lady?”

Her head jerked up and she met Abbot Matthew’s kind, patient eyes. She cleared her throat and uncurled her fingers.

“The wagon is ready.” He gestured toward the open gate. Monks with hoods pulled low over their faces waited as if in prayer for her to join them on the benches lining the sides of a rough-hewn wagon. Their solemn reception mirrored her life—disciplined and stark, void of the pleasures that ignite the spirit. 

Freedom is stolen moments.
Jacks words hit her hard in the gut. She was no thief. If freedom was stolen, she was doomed to be chained.

She had tasted rapture. Her blood had ignited. Her soul struck deep with a yearning but now left cold and hollow. How could she return to the echoing grandness of her lonely fortress? She pictured the vast, empty rooms full of lost dreams and teeming sorrows. Very soon, she would leave behind one prison to join Hugh in another. The towering walls became waves, high and fierce, crashing around her, swallowing her youthful heart. She was not meant to be caged. With word and deed her parents had taught her that love was as essential to life as water or food. It sustained one’s soul.  

Her tall, gangly monk bowed to her before taking her elbow and helping her climb into the wagon. None of the monks already seated moved from their pious positions while she claimed her place on one of the benches. As they passed through the gates, their carriage pulled by a team of donkeys, she glimpsed the sun peeking out from beneath the horizon. She gave her despair over to the soft pink light. It tinted the morning fog, which writhed and shifted across the surface of a distant lake, but its sensual dance made her long to feel Jack’s lips on her skin. She closed her eyes against the dawn and allowed the countryside to pass unseen. Their journey could never be long enough. Too soon they would be in Berwick. The city walls would be higher than when she left, blocking her view north into Scotland where love dwells. 

Pounding hooves caused her eyes to open. She stood. A dozen knights approached on horseback, carrying banners bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms. Hugh rode lead.

“Bella!”

He had seen her. Her heart pounded her ears. She took a deep breath and prayed for strength. She could not deny her truth. She was Lady Isabella Redesdale. She swept her unbound hair away from her face and knotted it demurely at the nape of her neck. “Abbot Matthew,” she said, her voice steady, though beneath the surface of her calm facade, she struggled against the inevitable. “Stop, please. The lord approaching is my betrothed.”

“Yer what?” She heard a voice say.

She sat down and stared at the monk in front of her. His body was still, his head solemnly bowed. Her eyes followed the outline of broad shoulders. Could it be? She clasped her hands in her lap to conceal how her fingers shook and leaned forward in her seat. Narrowing her eyes, she strained to see through his ink black hood.

“Isabella!” Hugh’s voice jarred her from her trance.

“I am here,” she called, though her eyes remained fixed on the monk.

“Praise be to Mary and all the Saints, you’re alive.” The wagon shook as Hugh climbed onto the back.

She had no choice but to look at her betrothed. He stood with open arms. Forcing a smile to her lips, she rose but shifted her gaze back to the monk in front of her. It had to be him. His closeness stole her breath. All she had to do was reach out and she could once more wrap her arms around his neck.
Throw back your hood
, her thoughts commanded.
Claim me as yours.
Still, the monk did not break his solemnity.

Hugh crossed to her side. “Are you hurt? Can you not walk?”

Mayhap her heart played with her mind. Mayhap the man across from her was a monk and in desperation she imagined Jack’s voice. She swallowed her hope and turned to face Hugh. His fine, blue eyes held nothing but tenderness and concern. She tried to speak but the words stuck in her dry throat.

“My flask,” Hugh said to his footman who hastened to carry out his bidding.

She closed her eyes and allowed him to tip the flask to her lips. The rush of liquid brought her throat back to life. At last, she found the will to answer his question. “I am well, my lord.”

He smiled with relief. “You cannot imagine my fear. Word of the attack arrived just this morning.” He stroked his fingers down her cheek. “I thought I would never see you again.” She dropped her eyes in shame. Hugh was all things decent and good, her dearest friend from youth. Why could she find no love for him in her heart?

“Come, my darling,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “I will take you home.”

She nodded, allowing him to draw her forward. As she stepped past the monk, she let her handkerchief drop from her fingertips at his feet. Gaze downcast, she watched strong fingers dart out from long, black sleeves and grab it.

Jack.

Her chest tightened. She could not breathe. Her legs trembled, ready to give way. Hugh’s arm came under her knees and lifted her, holding her close. He pressed a kiss to her brow. “I am here now,” he whispered. “You need not fear, not anymore.” He passed one of his guards. She listened numbly to his command. “Take four men and ride with the monks to Berwick. Lord Redesdale and I will hear their testimony. The rest of you ride with me.” He set her on the saddle, then swung up behind her. Their horse leapt forward as they galloped away.

Hugh held her close. “I know your heart as well as my own, Bella. I will take you away from here and back to Berwick as fast as my horse will ride.”

Fresh tears filled her eyes. Regarding the contents of her heart, Hugh could not have been more wrong.

~ * ~

Jack remained still, his head bowed as if in solemn prayer, despite how he yearned to cast aside the monk’s cloak and chase after Bella and her betrothed. His chest tightened. That fiend of a lord had called her Bella. His fingers curled into tight fists. Of course she was betrothed. After all, she was a lady with title and duty. What had he been thinking? Well, that was just it—he hadn’t been thinking, only feeling, yearning for a woman who had no business even talking to the likes of him. Despite her mother’s humble birth, she was still an English lady. He glanced down at the handkerchief in his hand. His thumb stroked over the “B” elaborately embroidered with silver thread.

“So Saint Peter is now Brother Peter.”

Jack’s shoulders stiffened. It was Abbot Matthew who spoke. He lifted his head and cast off the black hood. Cool, spring air swept over his neck and ears, exposed now by his newly shorn hair.

“Good morrow, Abbot.”

The older man gestured to the seat beside him. Jack stood and climbed onto the driver’s seat. The abbot snapped the reins, and they set off toward Berwick with the English guards in lead.

“How long have ye known it was me?” Jack said.

The abbot smiled. “I know every member of my order at a glance, even with their hoods drawn.”

Jack raised his brows and dipped his head to show that he knew he had underestimated his old friend.

“Anyway, ye’re twice the size of any monk I’ve ever known,” the abbot said, chuckling. “So which of yer brothers is back there?”

A smile tugged at Jack’s lips. “Quinn.”

“I suspected as much,” the abbot said. “Saint Augustine is now Brother Augustine.” He shook his head. “Ye ken Bishop Lamberton will not like this.”

Jack shrugged. “It could not be helped.”

“Then ye’ve decided to fight for her?”

Jack looked the abbot hard in the eye. “I’m not leavin’ Berwick without her, even if I have to kidnap her again.” His gaze shifted. He looked at the road ahead and then at the tired team of donkey’s easing them forward at a snail’s pace. “Could we go any faster?”

The abbot pulled a little on the reins, slowing their progress. “The wait is yer penance for lyin’ to me and stowin’ away on my wagon.”

Jack grabbed the reins from the abbot’s hands and snapped them hard against the donkeys’ backs. “I’ll go to confession.” They surged forward. “Forgive me, old friend, but I’ve a prize to steal.”