The Highland Outlaw

by Heather McCollum

  “That bastard is here?” Logan asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Is he leading the search?”

  “Aye,” Shaw responded, his horse shifting as if he sensed the heaviness of worry that lay about them.

  “The woman from the inn said she would tell them we headed west toward the isles,” Alistair said, dropping down from the branch to the ground.

  “But Major Dixon tried to trick me into admitting that we were traveling to St. Andrews,” Alana said, hugging the bairn close. “He knows where we are headed.”

  Alistair reached up to help Alana down, but Shaw leaned into her where she sat in the tree, pulling her toward him. She came willingly, and he settled her and the bairn before him on Rìgh. Alistair stalked away to reclaim his own horse.

  “She might decide to help them,” Logan said.

  Alistair lifted into his saddle. “She knows the bairn is a girl.”

  “Or she could be a terrible liar,” Rabbie said.

  Alana settled in the saddle, the bairn making small noises to show she was awake and hardy. Och, the lass had a smell about her, not exactly flowers, but it reminded him of fresh air and sunshine. She fit right up against his chest as if she belonged there. Damn, she didn’t belong there.

  “I do not think Fiona will betray us,” Alana said, turning to look up into his eyes.

  “She wanted to poison me,” Shaw said.

  Alana’s soft lips almost turned into a smile. “She likes me, not you.” The glimpse of her smile faded. “And she will not help a man who wants to slaughter a babe.”

  “Unless Dixon convinces her that he is trying to save the bairn from us,” Shaw said, raising his eyes to his men. “We need to split into groups, separate to better remain unseen. The major and his men have not seen all of ye. Alana and I will ride alone as husband and wife in case we meet any others.”

  “What if the major finds ye?” Alistair asked. “I doubt ye can convince him now that the bairn is yours.”

  “Leave Rose with us,” Rabbie said. “The soldiers from Kinross will not be looking for her riding with four men, and we will keep her hidden. And if Dixon catches up to ye, ye will not have anything he wants.”

  “Except my life,” Shaw murmured. Hell. He regretted not killing the man, honor be damned.

  Shaw looked to Alistair. The man had always been his second-in-command and his friend, and that hadn’t changed just because the man wanted someone he couldn’t have. “Ye are in charge of the mission without me. Lead the bairn safely to St. Andrews, and Alana and I will meet up with ye there.”

  Alistair nodded, no surprise in the set of his eyes.

  Shaw raised his gaze to Rabbie. “Ye are responsible for always looking out for the bairn, keeping her fed, dry, and clean.”

  “With warm, clean water,” Alana added. She’d begun to untie the bindings around her waist. “And warm the milk. Do not let her be jostled if you can help it.”

  Rabbie nodded, his face serious. “I will protect her with my life and keep her healthy.”

  “We all will,” Logan said. “Her life is the life of Clan Sinclair.”

  Mungo thudded his fist against his heart and nodded, giving his own oath.

  Alistair climbed upon his horse that Logan had brought with Alana’s. He moved his horse over to Shaw. “Get that wound sewn up. The lass can take care of it.” He nodded to Alana and then turned.

  Alana kissed Rose on the cheek, and Shaw heard her sniff as if tears fell from her eyes. He touched the wee lass’s head, a sharp tightness pinching his chest. She lifted the bairn from herself into Rabbie’s arms. The lad smiled down at the tiny face peeking up from the warm woolens wrapped around her. Had they all lost a bit of their hearts to the tiny princess?

  “We left the basket she came in,” Alana said, and Shaw heard a small waver in her voice. “So, you will have to wrap her in blankets next to you to sleep, but do not roll over on her.”

  Rabbie nodded, holding Rose against him while Logan tied the sashes behind his back, securing the precious package against his chest.

  With one last nod, Alistair raised his fist in the air. “Tiugainn.” The four of them pressed forward, riding off through the woods, her horse tethered to follow behind. Robert trotted after them and stopped to look at Alana, waiting for her.

  “He should help protect Rose,” Alana said, the heaviness of loss in her voice.

  Shaw would spare her another farewell. “There are four of them. Your beast can follow us.”

  “But he was not with us before in town. If the soldiers find us, they will know someone was keeping him, someone else who then took Rose,” Alana said. “Go, Robert.” She shooed him with her hand. Logan made a short whistle sound to call him. With one last look, the dog ran after the four men to ride alongside Mungo’s horse.

  Alana turned in the seat and wiped a hand across her cheeks that were definitely wet. “Let us get you sewn up, and we can head to St. Andrews as fast as possible.”

  St. Andrews, not Edinburgh? Without the bairn with them, Alana Campbell was actually free to go on her way, her responsibility to them riding off with his men. Of course she’d want to reclaim her dog. If she’d thought about it, she would have called Robert back to be with her.

  “I will still help ye find your mother and escort ye home,” he said and turned them due north, adjusting his numb leg, the ache running deep along his thigh.

  “I know you will,” she said, looking down at his saturated kilt. “But you cannot if you lose all your blood.”

  There had never been truer words spoken.

  Chapter Ten

  A cave would be best, back in the forest, preferably without any wolves or vermin inside. Alana’s heart thumped as she scanned the trees, feeling the silence around them like a weight. Was Shaw well or was he bleeding too much? His kilt looked soaked. “We need to stop soon,” she said and glanced over her shoulder to see if he looked listless and pale. Yet the man continued to show strength in his features.

  “We will need to make camp and use the leaves to hide us,” he said.

  She studied him. Was he delusional? “Leaves?” He nodded, and she turned front. They had ridden several miles from the town in a northward direction, the sun lowering on their left. “We need a stream.”

  “The River Almond should be just north of here,” he said.

  He leaned into her slightly, and the horse picked up a faster gait through the woods. Without the babe tied against her, Alana felt the chill of the fall wind. It was freeing not to have the child’s weight before her, but it also made her feel rather empty, like an appendage had been severed.

  “I miss her,” she said.

  Shaw’s arms came up on either side of Alana. He didn’t say anything, but his support was obvious, and she wanted it, needed it. She took a steadying breath as they increased in speed, holding onto Shaw’s warhorse as it maneuvered without any outward sign from Shaw through the thick forest.

  After nearly an hour, the sound of water rushing caught her ear, and the subtle change of Shaw’s leaning made the horse turn right to angle toward it. They slowed and finally stopped near the bank. Brightly colored leaves arched over the fast-moving stream, the setting sun making the water look dark. A stray beam of light danced off the ripples where a leaf shot along like a boat caught in an ocean surge.

  “I will climb down first,” she said, expecting his no, but he didn’t say it. She turned to see a light sheen on his brow. He was in pain. “There now,” she said, using the no-nonsense yet encouraging tone she did when helping Cat Campbell back in Killin with her patients. “We will get you down and fix that wound.” Lifting her leg to swing forward over the horse’s mane, her blasted skirt dragged, momentarily blinding the massive creature. But he didn’t move. Maybe Shaw Sinclair did know how to train animals. Alana twisted and pushed off to land on the ground.

  Brushing her hands, she looked up where Shaw swung his bad leg over and dismounted on the wrong side. He grabbed the bag on the back of the ho
rse and limped his way to the water’s edge, holding the injured leg out as he sat down on his opposite hip. “It hit my arse actually, slid along my hip. Logan tied a tourniquet.” The last words came through gritted teeth as he yanked the knot loose.

  “Wait,” she yelled. “It will bleed again.”

  “At this point my leg is going to fall off if I do not let some blood flow again.”

  Alana hurried over. Blood had dried, making his kilt stiff with it. “Damn, it is dried to the wound.” She batted his hand away. “This needs to come off,” she said, reaching for the belt that held the kilt over his narrow hips.

  He was turned away from her but looked back over his shoulder, his eyebrow raised. “Ye know I wear nothing beneath.”

  “I have seen a man’s…arse before.” She waved her hand. “And other parts. I assist the healer at Finlarig Castle.” It was true she’d seen a man’s backside, but only the front in one of the art books that Evelyn had brought from England. The picture of David, who Kirstin said had a small jack, poor man.

  Shaw unbuckled, letting the belt fall with the binding of his kilt. His white tunic was also covered in blood from the wound, dried to a darker red now and somewhat stuck. “Lie on your stomach if you can,” she said and bent over the stream, wetting another piece of linen she’d ripped from her old smock. He has a strong constitution. It was true. He hadn’t ended up with a fever from her stab wound. Perhaps he’d heal perfectly fine.

  Shuffling back over to him on her knees, she squeezed the water over the dried blood, softening it enough for her to pick the kilt and tunic away. Skin tinged a rusty brown, she lifted the kilt gingerly to see a deep trail cut into the flesh of his hip running three inches down his leg. It still wept, but the flow was slow. “It could use stitches. The musket ball cut a chunk out of you.” Her gaze raised to the back of his head as he propped himself up on his elbows where he stretched out on his stomach. The dark waves of his hair looked soft. She swallowed, looking down at the wound. “Less than an inch farther to the left, and the ball would still be lodged in your flesh.”

  He shifted and she looked up. He gazed back at her over his shoulder, a slight grin playing along his mouth. “My luck is apparently better than the Englishman’s shot.”

  “Your luck?” A laugh flew out with her exhale. “I have only known you for four days, and you do not have a castle or land, you have been stabbed, saddled with a hungry babe, punched by your friend, and now shot.”

  “But I am not dead,” he said.

  She rinsed the cloth in the water, squeezing it over the wound, and wiped the skin around it, repeating the motion until the blood came away. “Why were you and Alistair fighting?” There was a pause where she held her breath.

  “An angry husband should battle a persistent old lover.”

  “Yes, but I think Alistair’s face took the brunt of the act.”

  Shaw grunted, shifting slightly forward so that he lay his chin on his forearms.

  Wiping the wound completely clean, Alana tried to ignore the strength in the muscle of his thigh and not look too long at the perfect shape of Shaw’s arse. It was an arse after all. Something everyone had. It was used for sitting upon. Surely it was only curiosity that made her want to study him more.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  Alana coughed, turning her gaze from his toned backside. “A few stitches are needed.”

  “I have thread and a needle in my satchel. And whisky to keep it clean.”

  “You should drink some of it, too,” she said, finding the satchel on the back of Shaw’s horse. The horse picked at the grasses under the fallen leaves. She opened a flask, sniffing it. Whisky. “Here, best to numb the pain.”

  “Warriors are accustomed to pain,” he said but took a haul of the flask anyway.

  A smile pushed up the corners of Alana’s lips. “You sound like my father.”

  “Was he a great warrior?”

  She nodded but realized he couldn’t see her. “Yes.”

  “And a Covenanter, someone strongly against the English king’s push to unify the country under one liturgy.”

  “Yes. My father hated the English monarchy and felt that Charles just wanted to restore Catholicism.” She shook her head. “He would hate King James even more.”

  “And the king’s children?” Shaw asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

  Alana felt a twist of guilt inside. “I do not know, but a babe is a babe, born innocent, and should not be hated for her father’s beliefs.”

  A small amount of whisky flowed into Alana’s palm, and she dunked the threaded needle into it. “Now, brace yourself.” Before he could reply, she poured some whisky on the deep gouge that the musket ball had left. Shaw didn’t move, but the muscles in his leg contracted. “Try to relax,” she said softly. Working quickly, she gently pinched the flesh closed and caught the edge with the needle, pulling the thread through the other side to form a stitch. She added seven more, spaced evenly along the line of angry flesh.

  She glanced up after each stitch, but Shaw remained quiet, seeming to stare out at the flowing stream. The salve that she carried in her satchel would help the skin to knit back together, and she wiped some on with the tip of a finger. “I will tie a clean piece of linen around it and wash out the tourniquet to use tomorrow. We need to keep it clean, but it should heal, leaving you a scar for which you may brag.”

  He snorted lightly. “I have enough about which to brag.”

  Did he mean the scars on his back? The one on his hairline and small nicks on his face? Or were there others hidden about him?

  Alana kneeled before him, placing a clean swatch of linen across the stitches. “The scars on your back look well healed,” she said and shook out the long strip to tie it.

  “Aye.”

  He didn’t say anything else. “Were you just a boy then?” She paused at the gruesome vision of him, a dark-haired boy, having his back flayed open.

  She watched him inhale. “Aye, too weak still to prevent it.”

  Her heart hurt for the boy who had suffered so. “Who would whip a—”

  “My uncle did not like me accusing him of throwing my mother to her death,” he said.

  Good God. The pressure of tears swelled behind her eyes, but she blinked, refusing to let them fall. He would only see them as pity.

  She swallowed hard. “I am glad he is dead, then.” She forced her voice into a lighter tone. “And likely in Hell being whipped for his deeds.”

  Shaw snorted softly where he rested on the river bank.

  She lay the clean linen across the stitched wound and paused. Threading it under his naked hip would bring her hand very close to his male parts. Alana took the one end high up on his hip and slid it under his thigh down by his knee.

  “Do ye need me to turn?” he asked, not moving at all. His leg was as heavy as stone.

  “Just a bit,” she said, and he pushed up as she hovered over him, completely uncovering his front. “Oh,” she said, dropping her eyes, but not before the size of him was etched into her memory. Kirstin was right; the statue of David was too small to truly represent the jack of a mighty warrior. Heat moved into her cheeks, and she kept her head bent as she worked the binding up, tying it high on his hip.

  “There,” she said. “You just need to keep it clean and dry to guard against fever. I am nearly out of feverfew. But you managed to avoid a fever from my stabbing you, which you did deserve.”

  “Aye, I did,” he said.

  She glanced up, meeting his intense gray eyes. “If you had just asked me, I might have said yes without you having to truss me up like a caught goose. After all, I do need to get to Edinburgh to save my mother. I suppose you didn’t know that, and poor Rose was surely to die without a knowledgeable woman to help you.”

  Lord, she was rambling. It was as if she stood on the outside, listening to the words spill from her mouth in a failing attempt to hide her flustered reaction to seeing him naked. Gathering a full bre
ath, she clamped her mouth shut to stop the flow of words and stood up. Without further utterance, she gathered the supplies into Shaw’s satchel and grabbed his clothes to wash at the stream.

  “I have another tunic in the other bag tied to Rìgh.” His voice was warm, as if there was a hidden smile within it. “And Alana…” He waited, but she was already striding to his horse to collect the covering. She turned to come back to him. He had draped the blanket that he lay upon over his hips and pushed up on his elbow, watching her. “Alana…”

  She finally lifted her gaze to his. “Yes?”

  “Thank ye. For sewing me back up and for helping me keep the bairn alive.”

  She nodded and handed him the tunic.

  “And,” he continued, “for what it is worth, I am truly sorry that we tied ye up to take ye with us. Desperation makes men foolish, and I allowed myself to fall prey to it.”

  Alana froze at his words, her lips parting as her jaw dropped slightly. She closed her mouth. “Well, I had just stabbed you. You probably did not think I was open to discussing a trip east.”

  A smile broke across his mouth, relaxing the tightness in his jaw. With his wavy hair haphazard and the threat of laughter in his eyes, Alana’s heart squeezed with…what? Forgiveness? Compassion? Want?

  “I admit that option hadn’t entered my mind,” he said.

  She felt her lips turn upward into a gentle grin and went to the river to wash the blood out of his kilt and tunic. The cold from the water worked up her arms to cool her heated cheeks and neck. It was a wonder that steam didn’t float up from her. She heard the rustle of linen as he pulled the tunic over his head behind her.

  “Have ye always been so dangerous with a hair spike?” he asked.

  She heard the crunch of pebbles as he stood, and she turned to frown at him. “You should not put weight on the leg so soon. Your muscles could split the stitches.”

  “I will hobble about, then,” he said, meeting her gaze. His head tipped slightly as if he studied her, and his mischievous look slid away. “Have ye had a need in the past to learn the art of war? Or defense? Ye said that ye learned it at your Highland Roses School.”