by Lily Baldwin
Gwynn blushed. “Thank ye,” she said to her beautiful friend. Then she called out for all to hear, “I’m overwhelmed! Thank ye all so very dearly.”
Owen’s sister, Lady Margaret, came forward then, her pink cheeks radiant with good health. “Brother, already the hearth burns with the remainder of last year’s yule log. Shall ye and the men hoist this year’s log onto the fire?”
“Indeed,” Owen said brightly.
Together, the MacArthur men lifted the tree and walked it toward the hearth, placing the largest end into the fire. After that, Gwynn helped Lady Margaret lean Rowan branches beside the door to ward off the fae who might be drawn to the coming days of festivities. Then, at last, they were ready to break their fast.
When special cakes were eaten and songs sung, Owen gave each family a cut of mistletoe as a special blessing. Then, they all headed out into the southern courtyard to light the bonfire that would burn for the next twelve days.
With the passing of each day, Clan MacArthur feasted together, danced together, and prayed together. It was a time of gratitude and celebration. All made merry but none so much as Gwynn whose courageous heart was filled to the brim with love for her heroic husband and hearty wee bairn.
On the final day of yule, she stood beside Owen on the northernmost step, facing the gate, which was open to the ascending mountain pass. Below her, filling the stairwell and northern courtyard was Clan MacArthur who had gathered to see their laird off on his yearly hunt for the winter stag.
“I will miss ye,” she said softly, her eyes fixed on the steep pass. Her chest tightened with worry for her husband. She knew better than most the challenges he would soon face.
He crooked his thumb beneath her chin, drawing her gaze. “All that remains of the yule log is the piece we will use to light next year’s fire. The time has come for me to fulfill my duty as laird.”
She shifted their bairn in her arms so that she could reach up and cup his cheek. “Must ye go alone?”
He smiled encouragingly. “I must.” Then a wicked glint lit his eyes. He leaned closer. “Although I would much prefer for ye to join me. We could return to our cave.”
She blushed. “I would be very cold, indeed. Ye would have to do all ye could to keep me warm.”
He pressed a tender kiss to her lips. “We would lie together, flesh to flesh.”
“And heart to heart,” she whispered.
He cupped her cheek. “Our souls have become one soul. Ye will be with me every step of the way, just as I will be here with ye while ye care for our people.”
She nodded. “One heart, one soul.”
He pressed a kiss to their sleeping son’s forehead. Then he kissed her long and hard. “When I return, we can spread my cloak in front of the hearth and relive our time in the cave.”
She smiled coyly. “Aye, my love, I would like that very much...except...this time, ye needn’t be such a gentleman.”
“And ye needn’t be so innocent,” he said huskily.
He rested his forehead on hers. “I love ye, Gwynn.”
She met his tender gaze. “And I love ye, my courageous laird, my protective husband, my soul’s own true-love.”
The End
Five gorgeous Highland brothers. One beautiful and fiery sister. Together, they are The Scottish Outlaws!
An excerpt from Jack: A Scottish Outlaw, Book One
HOOVES POUNDED THE earth in the distance. Jack shook his head. “I miss bein’ a fisherman.” Lowering his black hooded mask over his face, he glanced back at his four brothers. Their horses snorted and stomped at the ground. “Saints, masks on,” he hissed. “Stick to the code. Ye’re called by yer saint’s name. We are thieves, not murders. Remember yerselves, lads.” Narrowing his eyes to see through the slits in his mask, Jack scanned the ribbon of road beyond the trees. The carriage they had been tracking careened into view along with half a dozen guards.
Quinn nosed his horse forward, stopping beside Jack. “The hour grows late. They appear to be in a hurry to reach the next village before dark.”
Jack stretched his neck to one side and then the other. He took up his reins. “’Tis a pity we’ll have to delay them.” He kicked his horse in the flanks. He and his brothers surged forward, but then the second youngest, Rory, shot ahead.
“Damn his reckless hide,” Jack cursed. “What the devil is wrong with him?”
“He’s goin’ to collide with the carriage,” Quinn shouted.
Without slowing his horse, Jack dropped the reins and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting to Rory through the fabric of his mask, “Pull back, St. Thomas.” But either Rory did not hear his warning or chose to ignore it. Bending low in his saddle, Jack urged his horse faster to catch his wayward brother, but it was too late. Jack cursed as Rory shot through the trees into the open road straight into the carriage’s path. Rory’s horse reared up on its hind legs. A shout went up from the carriage driver while the guards whirled to meet Rory’s blade.
Another cry from the driver grabbed Jack’s attention. The carriage rocked, then listed hard right. The driver pulled back, but the vehicle bounced to the left, the right wheels airborne for an instant, then it toppled onto its side and skidded. If his brother’s recklessness had killed anyone within the carriage, Jack would beat him.
Jack reached the roadside at a gallop and met the guards head on. Steel rang in a harsh clash. Fury swept through him. A guard charged at Jack. He parried, then swung. The flat side of his sword slammed his attacker’s forearm. The enemy’s blade dropped to the ground.
One guard disarmed.
Jack swung around, his sword carving into a shoulder. Another enemy blade dropped.
One guard maimed.
Sword raised high, he readied for the next assault, but only a cloud of dust stirred. He scanned his brothers—none injured, all had kept their seats. Then he eyed the guards on the ground—none dead. With a grunt of approval, Jack swung down from his horse. His brothers followed.
In the fading light of day, Jack knew they were a terrific sight. They were all large men, and Ian, their youngest brother, at only nineteen stood a hand taller than Jack who was already well over six feet in height. They wore black tunics covered in gleaming black mail, black hose, tall black boots, and black hooded masks, and about their necks hung large wooden crosses.
Jack turned to his middle, brother, Alec. “St. Paul, check the carriage. Make sure no one is hurt.”
With a nod, Alec dismounted and hastened to the overturned carriage.
Next, Jack motioned to Rory. “St. Thomas, gather the weapons.” And then to Quinn he said, “St. Augustine, take up collection.”
“St. John,” he said to Ian. “Secure the guard.”
A loud screech drew Jack’s attention back to the carriage. “St. Paul,” he said to Alec. “What the hell is goin’ on?”
A moment later, Alec pulled a thrashing mass of silk and lace from the carriage. He set the lady on her feet. She screamed and lashed out, her fingers bent into claws. Alec freed his dirk and pressed the tip against the lady’s white throat. At once, she ceased her struggle, but Jack saw a droplet of blood appear beneath the blade.
“St. Paul.” Jack’s tone held a warning. “Stick to the code.”
The lady screeched and shifted her gaze to Jack. “St. Paul, St. Peter—You are no saints. How dare you make a mockery of what is holy?”
Jack turned his back on her.
She snarled her fury. “I am Lady Eleanor de Clare. You will feel the full wrath of King Edward. You worthless, Scottish—”
Jack turned and lunged forward, bringing his masked face inches from hers. “I have felt the full wrath of your King.” He closed his eyes, reclaiming his control. He would not take his fury out on a woman. Taking a step back, he looked at Quinn who riffled through one of her trunks. “What has she given our cause?”
“A handsome bag of coin, but that is all,” Quinn answered.
Jack turned back to her. He grasped the wi
mple she wore. She shrank away as he rubbed the fabric between his fingers. No finer silk had he ever felt. He lifted his gaze to her face. Although he guessed she had as many as five and thirty years, her beauty had yet to fade. He met her cold, blue eyes and reached down, seizing her fingers. Three rings with gems the size of blackberries gleamed even in the dim light. She yanked in an effort to pull her hand free, but he grabbed her wrist and held her still while he worked the rings from her fingers. He dropped her hand, and it flew to her throat. Jack reached for her.
“Stay back you Scottish bastard.”
He shoved her hand aside. His fingers made contact with a string of pearls lying on skin as smooth as velvet. His gaze dropped from her neck to her chest, raking across her display of rounded flesh, pressing with her every exhale against the bold cut of her bodice. Then he reached behind her neck, slowly grazing her silken skin, and unclasped the string of pearls. She screeched again, but Alec came up behind her and gagged her with a length of cloth.
“Not too tight,” Jack said before handing the jewels to Quinn. “Add these to the lot.” Crossing the road, he swung up on his horse. “Saints,” he said. “Let’s ride.”
“St. Peter,” Rory called after him. Jack shifted in his saddle to look back.
Rory pressed the tip of his dirk to the lady’s throat. “The world could have one less English noble in it.”
Jack shook his head. “I gave ye an order. Mount yer horse and come on. We’re thieves, not murderers.”
LADY ISABELLA REDESDALE dipped a chunk of soft white bread into a trencher of trout steeped in cream just as her father, Lord David Redesdale, dipped his. Their hands bumped. She looked up and smiled, but her father kept his gaze downcast. She turned away and numbly brought the sodden bread to her lips. She imagined the bread was a stone that would crunch when she bit down. The din would echo throughout the great hall, and for once, she would not have to eat in silence. Soundlessly, the bread diminished and slid down her throat, leaving her mouth as barren as their lifeless home.
It had not always been thus. Once the Redesdale house had teemed with laughter and a love so bright and strong it warmed the heart of anyone fortunate enough to be welcomed beneath their turreted rooftop. The two story fortress was part of the once thriving city of Berwick Upon Tweed, but five years ago, all joy had fled her heart, her home, and the entirety of Berwick.
Isabella raised her eyes to the tall windows that ran along the length of the hall. Light poured through. Spring had arrived, but the warmth could not be felt. Warmth, laughter, and love had been shuttered from the Redesdale house the day her father had brought home her mother’s body.
Isabella shot to her feet, knocking the table and overturning her cup of ale.
“Are you well, Bella?” her father asked.
She looked down into his anguished eyes. No, she screamed on the inside. I have been entombed.
She took a deep breath and slowly sat down. A servant rushed to wipe the ale before placing a new cup in front of her. “Forgive me, Papa. My thoughts had turned to sorrow. I just wanted it to stop.”
She had no more tears. She had cried so many over the past five years, enough to fill the River Tweed. And although her father had stopped crying long ago, he had retreated inside of himself, becoming a shadow of the man she once knew.
Isabella gazed out the windows. Once, Berwick had been a thriving market port, the very heart of Scottish export and trade. Merchants had traveled from faraway lands to sell exotic fabrics, carpets, and spices in the bustling city center. Her own father, whose estates in Northumberland bordered Berwick, had often frequented the Scottish city. It was in Berwick where he had met Isabella’s mother, Annunziatta Santospirito, and decided to make the city his permanent residence. Annunziatta had been the daughter of a wealthy Sicilian merchant. On a clear summer’s day, Annunziatta and David had both been strolling amid the market stalls and reached for the same piece of soft Flemish wool. Annunziatta had looked up and found herself gazing into David’s pale green eyes. Her heart ignited with love’s fire, or so her mother had told Isabella on many occasions. Expecting to face resistance to the match from his own father, David had been surprised when his Sicilian lover was embraced by his parents. Isabella almost smiled, remembering how David had told the story, recounting that his father may have been swayed by the substantial size of Annunziatta’s dowry. But to David, her money had been of little consequence. They had loved each other; nothing had ever mattered more.
Isabella closed her eyes and painted pictures with memories of her parents walking the cobblestone streets with their two daughters amid the bustle of market life. But an instant later, reality cut through the vibrant colors and her memories disappeared beneath a tidal wave of blood and death. She pressed her eyes tight against the images, but she could not escape. Love had once set her mother’s heart aflame, but all love and lightness were snuffed out five years ago when King Edward of England marched on the Scottish city. His orders: show no mercy.
Men, women, and children were put to the sword. The streets of the great city had run red with blood. The invasion had turned into a massacre of unimaginable proportions, but it was not only Berwick’s Scottish residents who had perished. The Great Hall, a large building dedicated to trade, had been torched, killing hundreds of Flemish merchants. Many English residents had also been slain in the chaos. Her beloved mother had been one of those tragic souls.
Annunziatta had gone to market while Isabella, Catarina—her older sister, and her father had been occupied in their garden. When the King attacked, David had set out to find his beloved wife and bring her home. Meanwhile Isabella, Catarina, and their servants were ordered to remain behind and bar the door. For two full days and two full nights, Isabella and her sister hid within the solar, all the while being forced to listen to the never ending cries of the dying. Finally, on the third day, her father returned. In his arms, he was carrying her mother’s body. His eyes were sagging with anguish. “I’ve brought her home.” He collapsed to his knees, and all hope fled Isabella’s soul as she stared at her mother’s gray skin and hollow, unseeing eyes.
Isabella leaned her head back against the cool stone wall. Her father sat beside her on the bench of the high dais. In front of her, two long tables stretched the length of the hall, but their surfaces were bare. Even the servants could not stomach the gloom and chose instead to take their meals in the kitchen.
“My Lord?”
Isabelle looked toward the rare intruder. A young serving girl named Mary dipped into a low curtsy. Her pale blond hair was covered by a sheer white veil. She wore a dark green tunic with a cream colored surcoat. Her blues eyes flashed at Isabella before settling once more on David. Isabella cast her eyes to the side. Her father had not looked up. “What is it, Mary?” she said.
The girl’s eyes brightened. “A messenger has arrived sent by your sister.”
Isabella jumped to her feet, once more spilling her ale. “Show him in and make haste.” She had not seen her sister for three long years. Catarina had married an English lord with holdings in Scotland; however, border conflict had prevented travel.
She turned to her father. “Catarina has sent a messenger.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Prepare yourself, daughter. I can see your excitement, but the messenger may carry ill tidings.”
Her face fell. “I remember a time when you used to urge me to hope for a heart-full and never take for granted a mouthful.”
At once, her father’s eyes brimmed with tears. He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I did say that.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the rare moment of affection. “You did, very often, in fact.” She smiled into his pale green eyes so like her own, but before she could draw her next breath, all light faded from his face. Despair had returned. A painful knot lodged in her throat as her hands dropped to her sides. His coldness invited fear into her own heart. She closed her eyes and prayed that her sister was
, indeed, well.
Catarina had been introduced to Lord Henry Ravensworth during the feast of St. Stephen at Berwick Castle. Within a month’s time, he had made an offer for her hand—Catarina’s first. Given her sister’s celebrated beauty, Isabella could not have guessed why she bade their father accept his offer so quickly. Lord Ravensworth was more than twenty years Catarina’s senior, not to mention sour faced and hard. Isabella had begged Catarina to put off Lord Ravensworth’s advances, promising that someone better suited to her tastes would come forward with an offer. But when pressed, Catarina declared she loved him, and perhaps she did. Isabella liked to imagine there was a hidden side to Lord Ravensworth that was kind and attentive, although given his unrelenting scowl, she knew this was doubtful. More than anything, Isabella suspected her sister married to leave Berwick and its legacy of misery behind. Regretfully, that also meant leaving Isabella behind. Ravensworth Castle sat more than seven leagues north into Scotland.
Mary came shuffling back into the room. Following behind her was a young man of slim build with brown curls that clung to his sweaty brow. He crossed the hall and stood before the high dais, bowing low at the waist.
Isabella could not wait. “What word have you brought from Catarina? What does my sister say?”
A smiled stretched his face wide, showing bright even teeth. “It is my great pleasure to share the happiest of tidings. Lord Henry Ravensworth and Lady Catarina Ravensworth have been blessed with their first child, a boy baptized, Nicholas Henry, the heir to Ravensworth Castle.”
Isabella clasped her hands together. “A baby!” She turned to her father. He looked dumbstruck. She grabbed his arm. “Father, did you not hear? Catarina has a son!”
He slowly stood. Brows raised, the beginnings of a smile tugged at his lips. “A son,” he whispered.
Laughter bubbled up her throat and she threw her arms around her father’s neck. She pulled away again just as quickly. “Papa, we must go to her.” Her father froze. His smile vanished. Shaking his head, he thrust out his hands. “That is not possible.”