Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (9 page)

She could barely remember their hasty walk through Rùnach to the port or climbing into Freya’s skiff, and yet there she sat hours later far from where she had last held her precious son. Back straight, ankles crossed, she stared beyond the stern at the barren blue canvas of sky and sea. Her arms wrapped around herself, clasping at the painful shadow where so much feeling had once lived. She could still feel the weight of James like a ghost in her empty arms. The whipping wind dried the tears leaking from her eyes before they even had a chance to fall. Surf splashed as they collided with rough waves. She knocked against the sides, but felt nothing, no pain. The suffering inside her kept her physical discomfort at bay. She kept as straight as she could and unfurled her arms, looking down at her empty hands. She had lost it all, her whole life. Her son, her father and sister, her security and title. She glanced back at Quinn. His thoughtful black eyes met hers, but she turned away. She knew it was only a matter of time until he too slipped from her grasp.

When the sea had calmed and the sail hung slack, Quinn put the oars to water. “Do ye wish to know where we are going?” he said.

She did not answer.

“We travel to the outer most reaches of Scotland, to Caithness, the home of the Sinclairs. Some years ago, I sailed with the youngest of the laird’s sons on the merchant ship,
La Vierge
. When the ship used to dock at Berwick, Hamish Sinclair would take his meals with my family. I know we will be welcomed.”

She stiffened. “I am English, remember?”

Quinn shook his head. “It will not matter. Hamish owes me.”

“Regardless of any debt owed, they will not harbor a murderer.”

He stopped rowing. “Catarina, look at me.” She turned wet, aching eyes on him. “Do not doubt yerself.”

Her empty hands balled into tight fists. “My father is guilty of treason. My mother was the daughter of a commoner, not to mention that I am a woman. My word is the only thing which holds less worth than my life.”

He shook his head. “That is not true.”

Her eyes flashed with anger. “To those who hold power that is the only truth.”

She turned from his goodness and looked instead to the cliffs rising high above her head. Their stony surfaces caught the warmth of the setting sun and glowed orange like violent towers of fire.

“Surely that is how this will end, ablaze in loss and fire,” she murmured.

She sat unmoving as Quinn rowed toward shore. When the hull dragged the sand, he swung over the side into the surf and pulled the skiff ashore. Still, she sat fixed in place like stone while he carried the blankets, a large sack of oat flour, a bow and quiver of arrows, and other supplies from Freya into a cavern he had spotted from sea. She did not move when he reached out his hand to her or while he eventually lifted her limp body from the boat and carried her into the deep cave. He laid her down on a blanket. Her head rolled to the side, her stare vacant.

Catarina felt adrift in despair. The acrid scent of smoke filled her nose and the crackle of burning logs, her ears. Sorrow bound her in a knot of fear and regret, pulling her into a dark place where it hurt to breathe. And then black eyes met hers. Quinn stroked her cheek, lying opposite. “There was a woman born long ago on a remote island in the Hebrides.” His deep, rich voice penetrated her tangled thoughts. “The people who lived on that island took great pride in the land and sea. The woman’s father had been a fisherman and her mother the village midwife. One day, the island was attacked by Vikings who killed without mercy. Like a shoal of fish, the villagers had clung together, running for their lives. Her foot caught and she fell. Cries of agony echoed around her as the dead piled upon her. Buried beneath the tangle of bodies, she glimpsed her mother’s lifeless eyes, her father’s hands, and her sister’s long legs. The horror stole her breath, and she fainted dead away. When at last she came to, everyone was slain but her. For weeks, she toiled, burying the dead. Her parents were the last. Then with the carpenter’s tools, she built a boat, though her hands bled. She set sail, and fierce storms tossed her hard-earned vessel. She awoke washed up on another island, waves lapping her aching body. Sitting up, she met kind, blue eyes belonging to a lad who fell in love with her then and there. After they married he agreed to return to the island of her birth and so too did all of his brothers and their wives who were drawn to new fishing waters. By the time, her second son was born, her beloved island bustled once more with life.”

She turned onto her side to face him, though her body ached in protest. “Why have you told me this?” she whispered.

The fire cast his black hair with a warm glow. Emotion imbued his dark, soulful eyes as he reached out his strong hand to cover hers. “Life is never too bleak to fight for.”

She looked away. “I am not strong like you,” she whispered.

“Look at me, Catarina.”

She did, and he slowly stroked his fingertip down the bridge of her nose. “My mother bore and raised six children. My sister, Rose, bore three daughters and buried them all after the massacre. Women give life. Women heal life. When men can no longer bare the pain, they leave while women standby as life slips away. Do not for a moment, doubt yer own strength.”

Once more, tears flooded her eyes, but it was not fear or grief that made her cry. It was the exquisite pain that follows hope. She felt the heat of his body the instant before his arms came around her, pulling her close. Gently, he rocked her. She wrapped her arm around his neck and gripped his tunic in her fist. “I will fight,” she whispered again and again until at last fatigue bade she rest.

Salted wind filled the sail, propelling them swiftly up the Scottish coast. Quinn inhaled deeply, reveling in the spray of the waves. He had missed everything about being on the water, rocking and swaying to the pulse of the ocean, the constant sound of the surf striking shore, the birds circling overhead. Despite the grim nature of their journey and the dangers awaiting them on shore, he could not help the smile that spread his lips wide. This is what he had always lived for. Whether a fishing vessel or merchant ship, he felt the power of the sea in his soul and understood that she was the true mistress.

Once more Catarina had her stiff back to him. He could only imagine the displeasure of her countenance. When the waves collided with their small boat, she knocked against the side. Small grunts reached his ears every time her rigid body hit wood.

He called out to her. “My lady, there are three things in this world that are formless and can slip between yer fingers and yet so powerful they’re able to cut through stone. Do ye ken the three of which I speak?”

She glanced back, and just as he had suspected, she looked miserable. “I am in no mood for riddles,” she snapped.

“Time, wind, and water,” he said, ignoring her displeasure. “All three have the power to crumble rock and yet can be as gentle as a caress.”

“I fear I see no point to your rambling, other than to distract me from the pain shooting up my battered side.”

“I’m trying to tell ye that ye’re holding yer body as rigid as a bleeding statue. Yer fighting the sea, but ‘tis a battle yer bound to lose. She is the stronger lady by far.”

Releasing a frustrated screech, Catarina shifted in her seat, turning about to face him. “What do you suggest I do then?”

She looked at him expectantly. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he hesitated. His head tilted just a little to the side as he seemed to consider her. She slammed once more into the side of the ship. “If there is some relief you can provide, please delay no further.”

A gleam lit his black eyes. “Ye must surrender control. Give yerself over to those forces that are greater than yerself.”

She stiffened. “Are ye suggesting that I surrender to Rupert?”

He shook his head. “Nay, my lady. Rupert is a man, nothing more, nothing less. A strong wave will flatten him the same as any man or woman. What I mean to say is that ye must forget yerself. Let yerself go.”

He stood up. Instinctively, she thrust her arms out toward him, expecting him to lose his balance. The boat rocked, and she knocked into the side, but Quinn remained upright. He seemed to hover, to float as if stepping on the surface of the sea itself. She could not help but admire his easy stance. He took two quick steps forward and then squatted down in front of her.

“Close yer eyes,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow at him.

His full lips curved in a sensual smile. “Ye’ve no choice but to trust me.”

She took a deep breath, straightening her spine, and closed her eyes.

Her breath hitched when his large hands suddenly gripped her waist. Her eyes flew open. “How dare you?”

“Trust me,” was his whispered reply.

She slowly narrowed her eyes before allowing them to shut all the way. A shiver shot up her spine as his hands returned to her waist. They gently pressed her one way and then the other.

“Match the rhythm,” he crooned. “Move with the waves.”

She squeezed her eyes, trying to concentrate and jerked to one side.

“Nay, lass,” he admonished softly. “Don’t force it. Just feel.”

She jerked in the opposite direction. Frustrated, her eyes flew open. “I cannot.”

He chuckled. “Stop trying so bleeding hard. Here, give me yer hands.”

She shook her head, gripping firm to the rails. “I am not letting go again.”

He gently but firmly pried her hands off the sides of the skiff. “Close yer eyes again.” This time he pressed her hands to his waist. She felt his body move and found herself matching his rhythm. Soon the sway of the waves, the sounds and scents of the sea moved through her, around her, beneath her and above—she lost where her body ended and the world around her began.

“It is like a dance,” she whispered, opening her eyes.

He smiled. “Aye, like making love.”

Warmth rushed to her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands.

He gently tugged her hands away. “Forgive me. I did not mean to embarrass ye.”

Still flustered, she kept her eyes downcast. “I am not embarrassed.”

“My mistake,” he said.

“I have a child,” she blurted.

“Of course ye do,” he said. “So ye ken what it means to be with a man.”

Did she? She wasn’t so certain anymore, not if being with a man was supposed to feel anything like riding the waves with Quinn.

Quinn sat back but kept his eyes locked with hers. The sun had cut through the clouds alighting her black hair with streaks of rich burgundy. Her brown eyes shone like gold. 

Catarina cleared her throat, growing restless beneath the intensity of Quinn’s steady gaze. She swallowed hard, resisting the need to look away. “Stop staring at me,” she whispered.

He didn’t stop. She felt as though he were putting her face into memory, marking every line. She cast her eyes down unable to continue meeting those soulful, black eyes, but the moment she pulled away, she felt his absence. Once more she looked up. Still, he held her gaze, and then a smile slowly curved his lips.

She lifted her chin. “What are you staring at?”

“Ye, my lady. I am staring at ye.”

Her stomach fluttered. “Oh,” she said. Her desire won over her discomfort. Seizing courage, she stared right back.

~ * ~

Once again Quinn slid knee deep into the water and pulled the skiff ashore. Then he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her into the air, carrying her to dry sand.

“The evening is warm,” he said, placing her down on her feet. “We’ve plenty of sun left. There’s a patch of wood beyond this cove. If ye situate the camp, I will hopefully bring us some fresh meat.”

At the mention of food, Catarina’s mouth watered, and her stomach growled, betraying her need. 

“Have some bannock while I’m gone to satisfy yer hunger. But save room in yer belly—for tonight, we feast.” He smiled, grabbing the bow and quiver of arrows. Then he turned on his heel, scrambled up the coastal rocks and disappeared from sight. She chewed her bottom lip as she scanned the shore. Quinn had asked her to ready their camp, an easy enough task. He had already carried their few supplies into the small cave where they would sleep. She marched into the cave. If she could run a castle with dozens of inhabitants, she could ready a simple camp.

She dusted off two rock surfaces that would have to serve as stools. Then she remembered the sea grass and purple primrose they had sailed past. Smiling, she sat on one of the clean rocks and slid off her slippers. Then she gathered up the hem of her tunic and tucked it into her belt before leaving the cave. Her body tensed when the first frigid wave lapped her toes, but she fisted her hands against the shock and picked her way down the coast to where the long grasses had staked its claim on the land, despite how the ebbing waters longed to drag the sand out to sea. Filling her arms, she carried a bushel of grass back to the cave and spread it on the ground. After several trips, the cave floor was fully lined and soft to tread upon. She piled more of the long grasses near the rear of the cave where they would rest. Then she scattered flower petals over her makeshift rushes and breathed in the perfumed air. Smiling, she headed back outside and gathered seashells and smooth white stones, which she arranged in a pleasing circle where she imagined Quinn would build their cooking fire. Finally, she unfolded their blankets and laid them out on top of the soft grasses—far enough apart to satisfy her need for propriety but close enough to hear Quinn were he so inclined to tell more bedtime stories. Stepping back, she admired her hard work. It wasn’t Ravensworth Castle, but for a cave, she was satisfied with the results.

“There,” she said out loud.

She knew Quinn would be pleased with her efforts. Anticipating his timely return, she took her seat on one of the make-shift stools. Dirt clung to her slippers, which she brushed away along with some wayward grasses clinging to her skirts. At last feeling like their camp and her attire were presentable enough, she straightened her back and watched the cave entrance.

What felt like hours to Catarina passed, and shadow crept toward the cave. Her stomach cramped with hunger. The wind had changed. Now a cool breeze, blowing off the sea, tunneled inside to greet her. She could not remember ever being so hungry. And then she realized that was because she had never actually known true hunger. Her whole life, if she had wished for a bite to eat, all she would have done was ask any number of servants whose duty had been to do her bidding. She looked around the small, empty cave. Never had she felt so alone.

“I have never been alone,” she whispered aloud. Just as she had never known hunger, she had always lived in a castle or fortress, bustling with people whose purpose would have been to contribute in some way to her well-being. She had been Lady Ravensworth. Her stomach rumbled. The noise seemed to echo off the cave walls, mocking her fall from grace. Terror so great stole her breath. She had been born the daughter of a lord. She always knew she would marry a lord. But now she no longer could count on the protection of status and wealth. Her husband was dead. Her father was a criminal, stripped of title. Her hand flew to her lips. It had taken a desolate beach cave and a ravenous belly for her to realize the true significance of her lost nobility.

She jumped to her feet and peered out of the cave. What if something happened to Quinn? What would become of her? What would become of James? She gripped the sides of her head with her hands, panic setting her heart to race when a shadowed figure jumped from above, filling the cave entrance.

She screamed and bolted back. Her heart lodged in her throat. She could still hear its drumming beat even after she realized she knew the intruder’s face.

Quinn dropped his game and rushed to where Catarina stood with wide eyes, her breaths coming short and quick. He took hold of her hands.  “Hush, my lady. Ye’ve naught to fear. I only jumped from above. I’ll be sure to walk around the next time.”

Jerking her hands free to cover her face, she sputtered. “I have every reason to fear.”

He looked about the cave, confused. Where was the unseen danger?

“I am alone,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands. “I am alone and cold and so very hungry.” Her stomach growled to punctuate her words.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he tried to make sense of her outburst. “If ye were hungry, why did ye not make some bannock. Ye know we’ve still oat flour and water.”

She dropped her hands from her face. Her chin trembled. “I do not know how.”

He shook his head, silently cursing his short-sightedness. He squared his shoulders. “Well, that is something we will have to remedy.” He motioned for her to join him near the center of the cave. “To start, let me show ye how to light a fire so that ye’ll know how to keep out the cold. I’ll be right back.” He left the cave and gathered drift wood and dried brush. Then he returned and dropped everything in a pile on the ground.

“What’s this,” he said, noticing her arrangement of seashells and stones. Then he scanned the cave, taking in the grasses lining the floor and the scattered flowers.

“You told me to ready camp,” she said, lamely gesturing around. “I did as you asked, the only way I knew how.”

He smiled and cupped her cheek. “’Tis wonderful.”

“It is ridiculous,” she returned. “Although it did not seem so at the time.”

“We cannot know that which we’ve yet to learn. Be gentle with yerself, my lady. Ye’ve left one world for another. ‘Tis like sailing to another land. Ye cannot expect to know what it means to be Sicilian in a day.”

She smiled, and soon her smile turned to laughter. “I decorated the cave.”

His laughter mingled with hers. “A finer cave, I’ve never seen,” he said, and her laughter rang out all the louder.