Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (16 page)

“Good girl, Molly,” Jasper called out. The dogs howled and quickened their pace.

“Damn it,” Stephen cursed under his breath. Molly had once more fastened on Catarina’s scent. 

Rupert glanced back at him, an eager glint in his eye. “Hurry, Stephen.”

A knot formed in the pit of Stephen’s stomach as he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and rode up alongside his brother.

“Scan the trees,” Rupert said. “This time I am certain we’ve got her.”

Stephen could not share Rupert’s enthusiasm. He wanted justice for his brother’s death, and more than anything, he wanted to know the whereabouts of James. Nothing mattered more than finding Ravensworth’s heir. And although he longed for the blasted hunt to end so that he could go home, he had no wish to see Catarina hurt. The idea alone broke his heart. Praying silently that she was nowhere in that thick forest, he did as he was bade and scanned the trees. And then his heart sank. Ahead of them was a figure fully cloaked in plaid. The billowing fabric obscured the person’s shape, but judging from the height alone, he knew it could, indeed, be Catarina.

“It is she,” Rupert shouted as his horse jumped out in front of Stephen’s, passing Jasper and the dogs.

Stephen charged after him, never taking his eyes off Catarina.

In moments, Rupert was upon her.

“No, Rupert,” Stephen shouted as Rupert leaned in his saddle, reaching out to grab her, his fingers splayed wide, seizing a hungry fist-full of plaid. The tartan soared through the air, leaving its owner bereft of cover. 

Stephen’s breath rushed from his lips the instant before Rupert released a pained bellow to the sky.

A young man lay in a heap on the ground, covering his sandy blond head with his arms.

Stephen pulled on his reins and slid from his horse, determined to reach the boy before Rupert who still seethed in his saddle, staring up at the sky with his hands closed in tight fists.

Stephen knelt beside him. “Speak quickly, boy, if you value your life. Who are you?”

The boy lifted his head, revealing a face with a smattering of bright freckles. “My name is Thomas Munroe of the clan Munroe. This is my father’s land. I am on my way home.”

Stephen grabbed the back of Thomas’s head and leaned close. “Listen to me. Get on your feet and run. Run faster than you’ve ever run before.”

Thomas’s green eyes widened. He nodded furiously, then jumped to his feet and bolted through the trees.

“Stop him, you fool,” Rupert snarled.

“Let him go, Rupert. He’s a boy. He is nothing to us.”

Rupert shifted in his saddle. “Crossbows,” he bellowed to his men. “Bring him down!”

No one reached for their weapons.

Rupert released a vicious snarl before he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and charged at Sir Edgar.

“No,” Stephen choked out, his heart lodged in his throat as Rupert drew his sword and swung. Edgar’s head dropped to the ground. An instant later, his body slid from his horse. Stephen squeezed his eyes shut but winced when he heard the thud. The forest began to spin. He gripped his head with his hands against the horror, his mind reeling. The thud of hooves forced Stephen’s eyes open just as Rupert pulled his horse near. “Do not blame me, Stephen. If you hadn’t let the boy go, Edgar would still be alive,” he hissed. “His death is on your head, not mine.”

Shock forced Stephen’s mouth agape, but any reply he had was trapped beneath horror and disbelief.

Rupert shook his head as he sneered at Stephen’s cowardice. “You bring shame to the Ravensworth name.” Then he whirled around and stormed toward Jasper. “What are your dogs playing at? Are you trying to make a fool of me?” Grabbing fistfuls of Jasper’s tunic, he jerked him close. Jasper’s pale blue eyes betrayed nothing, his face as impassive as stone. Rupert snarled at the commoner’s indifference. “Fail me again, and I will skin your dogs alive, starting with Molly.”

A low, thick growl sounded. Rupert looked down. Molly’s jowls rippled as she bared her teeth at him.

“At least someone here has courage,” he shouted for all to hear. Rupert glared at his men. Stephen was staring at him as though he were some kind of monster. Jarret and Aldwin and his other knights had begun to dig a grave for Edgar, using their shields to scoop away the earth. Rupert’s eyes narrowed. He knew they all despised him. Every single one of them wanted to see him fail. He could trust no one. He locked eyes with Stephen. “Least of all you,” he snarled.

“I know not of which you speak,” Stephen said, his voice cracking before he turned away.

Again Molly growled. Rupert kicked her in the belly. She cried out and circled behind Jasper, her tail between her legs.

“I am your master’s master,” Rupert shouted at the dogs. Then he spun on his heel and stormed toward his mount. “Leave Edgar. He does not deserve the honor of a proper burial.”

Stephen whirled around. “No, Rupert. You cannot mean that.”

Rupert ignored Stephen’s protest. He swung up into his saddle. “Jasper,” he snapped. “Cast your mutts. Find her scent again.”

Catarina’s breath heaved as she followed behind Quinn. They raced along the river, but then he stopped and eyed the swift current. “The water is moving too quickly for yer scent to linger on the surface. The dogs will not be able to pick it up.” He stepped down into the river. The water rose past his knees. Then he turned and clasped her waist, lifting her. She sunk to her thighs.

“I hope Thomas is alright,” she said, shivering with cold. Regret broke her heart.

Quinn cupped her cheek. “Every man deserves a chance at redemption.”

Catarina swallowed the knot in her throat. She knew Quinn was right but that did not lessen her worry. As he pulled her upriver against the swift current, her thoughts remained fixed on Thomas. After they had started their race away from the dogs, Thomas had suddenly bade them halt. He confessed to searching his father’s land for the black haired noblewoman in the hopes of collecting the reward. He even admitted to secretly rejoicing his luck when their paths crossed. That first day, he had started to lead them to where he’d heard the English lord had made camp. But he claimed that not half a day past when he acknowledged the undeniable goodness of Catarina’s heart. He knew she was incapable of the vileness of which she’d been accused. That was when he had redirected their journey. He told them that he had even planned to bring them to his father’s clan and offer them sanctuary.

“But it is too late for that,” he had said. “But not too late for ye.” At first, when Thomas had demanded her plaid to lead the dogs away, Catarina had refused, arguing that it was too dangerous. At her refusal he seized the blanket from her shoulders, thrusting his hand out to stop Quinn’s interference.

“Given what I wanted to do in the beginning, I owe ye this,” Thomas blurted, backing away. “If ever I am going to think well of myself again, I need to do this. Let me save ye so that I know ye’ll always save a place for me in yer heart.” He reached for Catarina then and crushed her into his arms, placing an awkward kiss on her lips. “I’ll never forget ye,” he said.

Then he had turned and bolted away, dragging her plaid through the leaves and pine needles.

Catarina pressed her lips together to choke back her tears as she remembered Thomas’s sacrifice. And again she prayed for his safety. But all too soon, fatigue drained her mind of all thought other than fighting to keep her feet moving, one in front of the other. Her lungs strained. She grew increasingly clumsy. Once more, she stumbled. Her muscles tightened while she strained to remain upright. Still, she waivered and planted her foot down hard to keep her balance but cried out as pain shot through her foot.

Quinn stopped and looked back at her. “Are ye hurt?”

She dared not slow their course. “No,” she lied, pushing through the pain.

On they raced, through river and forest. More than once, they were forced into the open, tearing across the heather. Her mind grew hazy, her legs seemingly moving of their own accord. And then suddenly she was flying. Quinn’s arms surrounded her, cradling her to his chest. She buried her face in the crook of his neck and surrendered to exhaustion.

When another dense patch of woods appeared in the distance, Quinn finished his race to reach the cover of leaves before he sat Catarina down with her back against a tree. He rested his hands on his knees while he struggled for breath. At length, he slumped down beside her.

“Are ye alright, my love?” His eyes passed over her. His heart ached at the sight of her weariness, wishing he could save her from it all. And then he saw her feet peek out from beneath the tattered, soiled length of her tunic. One foot boasted a mud-encrusted slipper, but her other foot was bare.

Frowning, he said, “Where’s yer slipper?”

She tucked her toes beneath her tunic. “I lost it.”

“Ye lost it? But when?”

Eyes downcast, she said, “Back in the river.”

“That was ages ago,” he exclaimed. He lifted her hemline. “Is that blood?” His heart sank. He grabbed her foot and tilted it to see the bottom. Blood smeared with mud and bits of grass but none of it could conceal the wide gash. He grabbed for her, scooping her into his arms and carrying her deeper into the woods. His eyes darted in all directions until, at last, he found a small stream and near it, a copse of birch trees. He hastened to the stream and placed her foot into the water. She winced and tried to jerk her foot free from his grasp, but he held firm.

“Brother Matthew taught that a clean wound stays healthier,” he said as he flushed the mud and grime from the gash. He frowned at the wound’s ragged edges, doubtless from their flight through forest and over field. He clenched his fists, turning away to hide his concern from her. But inside he raged at himself. Why had he not carried her the whole time? He never should have allowed her to put one toe on the ground. Fighting for calm, he swept away leaves and debris from the forest floor with his hand. Then he turned back to her, a smile curving his lips. When he spoke his voice held a calm that belied his true panic. “Come and rest. I will not be far. I must forage for herbs. I plan to make a poultice for yer foot before I bandage it.”

“Is it very bad?” she asked, her brows drawn.

“Nay, lass,” he said, shaking his head. “But I’ve some knowledge of healing, and I think it best to tend to it properly.”

He passed over the thicket, searching for a less densely wooded area. Arrowroot needed at least partial sunlight to grow. He had passed bushels of it earlier when they were racing through tall grasslands, but little good that did him now. He scanned the ground in search for tell-tale white flowers, but it was not the buds he was after. The leaves of arrowroot could stop the bleeding. At last, he found several large clusters. He tore the plants up by the roots, then headed back to camp where already Catarina slept.

He plucked the arrowroot leaves and crumbled them up with a handful of mint. Using a little water, he squeezed the mixture together in his hand to get it to bind. Then he packed her wound with the thick, fragrant paste. Using strips torn from his tunic, he then wrapped her foot to keep the poultice in and dirt out.

“Is there anything you do not know how to do, Quinn MacVie?”

He glanced up at her sleepy eyes as he tied the final knot of her bandage. She looked pale. His chest tightened, but he hid his worry with a slow half smile. “I want ye to rest,” he said, stretching out beside her. 

She reached out and touched his face. “But you have hardly slept for days. I know you did not sleep at all when Thomas was near. You need rest.”

She was right, of course. He hadn’t slept the night before. In fact, he had only been catching patches of sleep since they had left Sinclair land. He remained ever watchful. After all, she was his to protect. This had become far more than another job, far greater than even his promise to Bella and Jack. This was his life—for she was his life now. And he would be damned if anything happened to her.

“Lay down and rest. Please,” he said. “Do not fash yerself about me. I’ll be fine. We used to go days without sleep on the merchant ship if there was a storm. And on the fishing boat if the catch was good, we wouldn’t stop to sleep. I’ll be fine. I promise. Just rest, my love.”

She closed her eyes, a smile curving her lips while he stroked her brow and crooned a tune, his voice soft and low. When her even breaths reached his ears, he sat back and rested his head against a tree and watched her sleep.

Some time later, she opened her eyes. “I’m thirsty,” she gasped.

He touched her brow. “Damn it,” he cursed under his breath. It was hot. He lifted her head and held the costrel to her lips. After she took a few weak sips, she closed her eyes again.

“I’m going check yer wound,” he said.

He unwrapped the strips and rinsed away the poultice. It looked raw. He mixed the poultice again and repacked the wound. After, securing the strips of tunic, he gently stroked her warm brow. “Tell me how ye feel?” he said gently.

Her eyes opened. “Tired,” she said. Her heavy lids closed again. “I love you, Quinn,” she whispered.

Fear clamped tight around his heart. “I love ye.” He pulled her close. “I love ye,” he said fervently. “I love ye, Catarina.”

Her lips curved into the slightest smile. “Lay with me.”

He laid back and stretched out beside her, holding her close. His hand traced the swell of her hip and then threaded through her hair. He listened to her steady breathing. The gloaming hour had ushered in a cool breeze. He closed his eyes and held her tight, fighting against the fear growing in his heart.

~ * ~

Quinn raced through the dark forest, pulling Catarina behind him, dogs hot on their trail. Rumbling howls and gnashing teeth spurred him ever faster. Catarina’s fearful cries tore at his heart, but he dared not slow down. Ahead, he glimpsed an opening. He skidded to a halt. A pillar of fire had shot up from the ground, like a raging beast blocking his way forward. He turned back. Another blazing tower surged up from the earth. Billowing waves of heat scalded his skin. He turned again but every direction he moved he had to jump back, as fiery fingers lashed out. He reached behind, pulling Catarina close against his back. He turned again, and he heard a burst of fire but the way forward remained open. An instant later a piercing scream rent the night, and he felt the fire’s heat behind him. He whirled around. Red-hot flames engulfed Catarina.

Quinn jerked awake. Catarina still lay in his arms, but she burned with heat. She burned like the very fire he had dreamed consumed her. He felt her brow. It was bone dry.

“No,” he said, his heart racing.

She shivered in his arms, her teeth rattling, her shoulders quaking. “Please, God,” he prayed, jumping to his feet, his eyes searching. He could find some Willow Bark and make a brew that might bring down her fever, but he had nothing to build a fire, no flint or steel. Even if he could easily light a fire, he still had nothing to boil water in. He gripped his head between his hands.

She called out, “No, Henry,” her head jerking from side to side.

He dropped to his knees.

“James,” she whispered. Tears trailed down her hot cheeks.

He wrapped his arms around her. “’Twill be alright, Catarina,” he whispered.

He stroked her hair and tried to wake her, but she would not respond. He pressed the costrel to her lips, but most of the water dribbled down her chin. Laying her back down, he stood and raked his hand through his hair, his heart pounding. He did not have the tools nor the skills to make her well, and she was running out of time. He checked her wound once more. It had begun to fester.

“Damn it,” he shouted. “This is not how this ends.”

He grabbed her, lifting her into his arms as he started out in the direction of the hills beyond which Thomas had said was a village. He had no choice. To save her life, he had to risk it all and bring her out into the open.