The Renegade (Rebel Hearts, #1)

by Baldwin, Lily

  The Renegade

  Rebel Hearts, Volume 1

  Lily Baldwin

  Published by Lily Baldwin, 2020.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE RENEGADE

  First edition. April 17, 2020.

  Copyright © 2020 Lily Baldwin.

  Written by Lily Baldwin.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  To my readers with love. This too shall pass. Friends and families will gather together and hug and dance and heal. And our broken hearts will be whole once more.

  Chapter One

  Rife with danger and wicked salaciousness, Lady Elora Brodie had never walked the narrow roads and alleyways of Edinburgh’s shipyards, nor had she ever imagined she would, especially after nightfall.

  “My lady, forgive me but I fear for yer safety,” the head of her guard said in a low voice at her side. “Do not think yer title will save ye here.”

  “Declan, no one knows who I am, nor will they, allowing ye stop calling me my lady,” she hissed in reply.

  “’Tis not too late to turn back.”

  She stopped in her tracks and looked her loyal warrior straight on. The silver at his temples shone in the lantern light as did the worry in his gaze. “My mind is made up. I will not be persuaded from my chosen course.”

  Declan’s gaze scanned the Heavens. “There’s no moon nor any stars to be seen. ‘Tis a bad omen.”

  She cocked a brow at him. “’Tis dry at least, which I believe is a good omen, considering that it has done naught but rain these last two days.”

  “Or...mayhap ‘tis only the calm before the storm.”

  She took a deep breath to quiet her frustration. “Declan, ye’ve been more of a da to me than my father ever was in life. I love ye, and I love how much ye care. But I will command ye back to the livery if ye cannot accept why I’ve come here.”

  His eyes flashed wide. “Ye wouldn’t wander these streets alone, surrounded as we are by thieves and beggars and whores?” His voice had risen to mirror his concern.

  “Wheest,” she hissed. “Remember, we do not wish to draw attention our way.”

  She pressed her lavender-scented handkerchief to her nose, trying, with no avail, to mask the pungent scent of low-tide, dead fish, and other odors she dared not consider long enough to identify. Lantern and torch fire illuminated the motley assortment of people milling about near the docks in varying stages of intoxication. Her surroundings were unnerving, to say the least, but her humble clothing bolstered her confidence. She wore an unadorned dark-green tunic and a simple black cloak, both of which she had borrowed from her maid, Mary. Even Elora’s waist-length golden curls had been coaxed into two thick plaits down her back rather than the intricate style and veils that she typically wore. More than that, riding for two days in the rain had left her garments splattered with mud, allowing her to hope that she truly did appear as common as any of the women passing by.

  “Ye’re a handsome one, aren’t ye?”

  Elora turned to see who spoke. Her eyes widened when she saw a woman with unbound black hair that fell in ragged waves to her waist pursing her brightly painted lips at Declan. “I’ll treat ye right,” she crooned, fluttering her lashes.

  Elora cringed inwardly as she looked at the woman whose bosom was barely covered by the deep cut of her tunic, over which her tattered surcote was cinched tight to accentuate her ample curves.

  Well, mayhap, Elora hoped, she didn’t look that common.

  Declan cleared his throat. “Move along,” he replied firmly.

  With a shrug, the woman sauntered away, continuing her search for a man to fill her bed and subsequently her purse. Despite her easy laughter, Elora could sense the woman’s desperation. In fact, everywhere she turned, she glimpsed regret and grief sadly pushing through smiles meant to hide the pain of the down-trodden and broken-hearted.

  Pulling her cloak tighter about her shoulders, Elora forced her gaze back to the roadside where she scanned the businesses lining the narrow, muddy streets. There was a sailmaker and a smithy, both boarded up for the night. Farther down, she spied an apothecary, which was also closed, but in front of the locked entry stood a boy with no more than ten and two years. He had tangled dark hair, a dirty face, and was selling hot pig’s feet.

  “My—,” Declan began but corrected himself by calling her by her given name. “Elora, now that ye’ve seen this place, surely ye wish to leave and find a comfortable inn. On the morrow, we can seek out the guilds and find a merchant or another tradesman.”

  Squaring her shoulders, she shook her head firmly in reply. She was very aware of the fact that she did not have the captain’s approval, only his protection. Her steward also did not support her decision, but it mattered naught. After all, she was lady of Castle Bròn. She made her own choices, which was exactly the intended goal of her current mission—to maintain control of her own life.

  Picking her way carefully down the muddy roads, she forced her attention away from the respectable businesses to the taverns and brothels, all of which looked the same to her...raucous dens where only the basest of pleasures could find satisfaction.

  “Choose one,” she muttered to herself, but she knew why she delayed in making her choice.

  She was afraid.

  Steeling her shoulders, she tilted her chin. This was not her first taste of fear nor would it be her last. Seizing her courage, she took another deep breath and picked a tavern at random.

  “The Ship,” she declared, looking pointedly at the drinking house across the way where a wooden sign carved with a square-masted cog hung.

  Declan opened his mouth as if to try to persuade her once more from her current course, but then he sighed and shook his head. At length, he said, “As ye wish, my lady.”

  Forcing one foot in front of the other, she approached the slatted door. Just as she reached for the handle, it flung wide. Stepping back quickly, she barely missed being struck in the face by the wood. Raucous laughter and music filtered out on the heels of an old man with wizened cheeks. He stumbled drunkenly into the night. Teetering to the left, he collided into Elora. She gasped, feeling her feet slide out from under her in the slick mud, but Declan seized her arm to keep her upright.

  “Where’s my ship?” the man slurred, meeting Elora’s gaze. Then a slow smile spread across his face, revealing the few remaining teeth he still possessed. “Ye’re a pretty bit of skirt.”

  “Move along,” Declan snapped at the old sailor.

  Eyes wide, the old man looked up at Declan and nodded, then stumbled backward. When he had crossed the road, Declan whirled to face her, his face etched with concern. “I beg ye to reconsider yer plan. ‘Tis too dangerous!”

  “The risk is necessary,” she shot back. Then she smoothed her hands down her simple tunic and adjusted her cloak about her shoulders. Certainly, she acknowledged the risks she took. Still, whatever ill she faced in that moment or th
e days to follow could never compare to the lifetime of unhappiness she was fighting like hell to overcome.

  Her plan, although perilous, was simple enough. She needed to hire a man—but not just any man. She had a list of criteria, all of which had to be met.

  She needed a man who could be bought, who was not overly concerned with his mortal soul, and who was not without connections. He needn’t be a laird or a laird’s son, but mayhap a laird’s nephew or even an ill-favored cousin. Certainly, such a man may prove difficult to find, but she did not doubt that with persistence and courage, she would complete her mission.

  “Trust me, Declan. I know what I’m doing.”

  She scanned the road ahead and set her gaze on a tavern called, The Devil’s Bridge.

  Once again, she drew a deep breath, then marched across the road, determined to enter the bawdy establishment regardless of what obstacles she met along the way.

  Declan reached the door first. “Please, my lady. Allow me to at least make a quick scan of the room.”

  Singing, raucous laughter, and raised voices carried outside. She raised her brow at him. “Listen to the din. Ye know very well what it will be like behind that door, and no amount of inspection is going to make ye feel better about me going inside or my purpose for doing so.”

  Declan’s lips pressed together in a grim line. She could almost feel the rebuttals reverberating on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed his refusals, and instead dipped his head, acknowledging her authority. “Aye, my lady.”

  Opening the door, he began to step out of the way, but then he stopped and turned on her. His wide shoulders filled the doorway, blocking her entry. Uncharacteristically, he seized her by the arms. “Ye needn’t fear Laird Mackintosh’s coming. Yer warriors would consider it an honor to die in battle for ye if need be.”

  She shook her head. “No one is going to die. Now, step aside.”

  His nostrils flared. She knew it pained Declan, but he did as she bade.

  Men crowded around tables, calling out to each other over games of dice. Victors raised their tankards high, sloshing ale on the floor and table tops while losers cursed and guzzled their cups to soothe the sting of an ill-fated roll. Everywhere, women moved among the tables, serving ale and bowls of pottage, or they perched on men’s laps, locked in passionate embraces. Breasts were fondled. Skirts pushed past their knees. Elora gulped. Took another deep breath and squared her shoulders.

  It was now or never...

  “For the last time, Elora,” Declan pleaded in a hushed voice. “A place like this will be crawling with the most disreputable men.”

  “Good,” she said with false confidence as she stepped inside. “Because I am not looking for a reputable man.”

  Chapter Two

  Nathan Campbell scanned the crowded tavern from where he sat at a corner table. The room stretched out in front of him. The bar was just to his left, and beyond that he could see the stairs leading to the upper level. Across the room to the right, he had a clear view of the doorway; that is, until a comely pair of nearly bare breasts appeared in front of him. Shifting his gaze higher, he locked eyes with a serving wench. She licked her lips suggestively before setting a tankard of ale in front of him.

  “Here ye are, lover,” she crooned in a husky voice full of longing.

  Slowly, seductively, she slid onto the bench beside him. Her full lips pressed against his neck. Then she nibbled her way teasingly to his ear while her hand moved slowly up his bare thigh under the folds of his plaid. His body responded to her touch, lengthening, hardening. With her other hand, she cupped his cheek and boldly kissed him. Tasting sweetness on her tongue, he deepened their kiss, pulling her onto his lap, but he kept his gaze trained on the door. Her breaths quickened. She twisted the fabric of his tunic in her fists as she moaned and squirmed. Skillfully, he stroked her breasts, rubbing her nipples through her threadbare tunic, which grew taut beneath his touch. Arching her back, she pressed her bountiful curves against him.

  “Take me upstairs,” she begged softly in his ear. “Please, Nathan.”

  With a simple shake of his head, he seized her lips again, kissing her to silence her pleas. He did not intend to leave the room; at least, not until his business was complete. Ever vigilant, he continued to watch the door for his newest prize, despite the pleasing wench doing everything within her power to distract him.

  He stiffened when the door swung wide. Anticipating the arrival of a so-called giant named Bowie—with massive shoulders, shorn blond curls and a jagged scar running from his right eye to his hard, square jaw—Nathan pulled his lips free and angled his head so that he gazed sidelong at the door. But a man of reasonable height and dark hair filled the entryway, oddly with his back to the room. He appeared to be conversing with someone still outside.

  Tensing, Nathan shifted the barmaid off his lap.

  She pouted in protest. “There isn’t a woman in this room who will take care of ye like I will.”

  “I’m not waiting for a woman,” he replied absently, keeping his gaze trained on the door.

  “Good,” she crooned. He could hear the smile in her voice before she nuzzled her face into his neck and stroked her hand slowly, possessively down his hard length.

  Despite her tender administrations, he straightened in his seat when the man stepped aside and a stunning woman walked into The Devil’s Bridge. Her golden hair shimmered in the glow of candlelight. Her features were delicate, her neck long and slender, but it was her bearing that captured his interest. She stood tall, her back poker straight while she scanned the room, her expression impassive. The authority in her stance and the attentiveness of her guard belied her simple garb. Her emotionless gaze passed his corner of the room and they locked eyes. She held his gaze for a stony moment, then turned away and continued her perusal of the busy tavern.

  Intrigued, Nathan continued to watch her, and he wasn’t alone. Several of the men in the room were neglecting their tankards and the warm, willing women in their arms to marvel at the newcomer’s beauty. But despite her apparent charms, no one approached her. Certainly, the seasoned warrior at her side was, in part, to blame, but Nathan believed her stern bearing was the true reason. She was aloof and completely unreadable—at least, at first glance. What no one else might have noticed was her fisted hands. Her white knuckles revealed either the anger or trepidation she so skillfully masked behind her cool façade.

  After several moments, her guard leaned close and said something for her ears alone. She gave the slightest nod of her head in acknowledgement. Then she lifted the hem of her mud-splattered tunic and glided across the room to an open table in the corner opposite his own.

  He couldn’t help but smile when, for the first time since entering the drinking house, her face clearly revealed her thoughts. Like any arrogant and haughty lady might do, she wrinkled her nose at the overturned tankard on the table in disgust. In a flash, her guard snatched up the remains of the table’s former occupants and hastened the empty vessels to the bar. Meanwhile, the woman, who he had no doubt was of noble birth, removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and used it to wipe the bench before she sat down, causing Nathan’s smile to widen.

  As if sensing his amusement, she turned and, once more, met his gaze. With her flaxen hair and flawless white skin, she was as beautiful as freshly fallen snow on the moors and equally as cold. Her eyes showed no warmth. Her movements were controlled and stiff. She was more a finely made statue than a flesh and blood woman in Nathan’s eyes.

  A gust of wind blew through the tavern as the door once more swung wide, drawing his gaze. In walked a massive man whose hair, size, and scar puckering the skin on his cheek fit the description of the thieving murderer Nathan and his men had been hired to capture.

  “’Tis about time,” Nathan said before downing the rest of his ale. Then he kissed the warm, red-blooded wench at his side. Sliding out from behind the table, he cracked his knuckles.

  “Bowie Mackenzie,” he called, t
hundering across the room to confront the much larger man.

  Silence fell over the tavern.

  “Who wants to know?” Bowie replied, crossing his thick arms over his muscular chest.

  Nathan took a piece of parchment from his sporran. “Laird Cumming wants a word with ye, and he’s paid me a small fortune to make certain he has his chance.” Nathan held the paper up showing Bowie the Cumming’s seal.

  A slow smile stretched across Bowie’s face, still handsome, despite the thick red line marring one side. “Think ye that I will just surrender and let ye take me?”

  Nathan smiled. “A man can hope.”

  The smile vanished from Bowie’s face. “Ye’d best start praying instead.”

  The giant withdrew the sword strapped to his back. An instant later, the tavern’s revelers scurried back, knocking over chairs and tables in their haste to escape the sudden fray.

  “Amen,” Nathan replied, his voice deadly soft.

  With a growl, Bowie attacked. Nathan ducked beneath the might of the giant’s first swing, then charged forward, keeping low, and drove his shoulder into Bowie who stumbled back but kept his footing. Again, Bowie thrust his sword at Nathan who sidestepped, avoiding the assault before striking out with his fist and catching Bowie in the nose. A satisfying snap rent the air. Bowie growled as blood gushed from his nostrils. He charged at Nathan, swinging his blade. Nathan ducked and caught Bowie in the jaw with a left hook, followed by a swift punch to the gut. Then he barreled into the larger man, knocking him to the ground. Sprawled on top of the accused criminal, no sooner did Nathan ready his fist to strike Bowie again, than the tips of three swords appeared, all poised a breath away from Bowie’s throat.

  “Ye weren’t supposed to attack until we returned,” Caleb, Nathan’s partner, snapped.

  Nathan shrugged up at his scowling friend. “Ye were late.”

  Caleb’s dark brow furrowed over his clear blue eyes. “We brought our horses to the livery. Ye knew we would not be long.”