The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  Thomas nodded eagerly. “Lady Ravensworth will be most pleased by this news.” He turned and bumped headlong into a maid carrying a tray laden with their next course. The dishes clattered to the ground.

  “My lord,” the other messenger said, stepping over the spilled food and broken dishes. Not waiting for Isabella or her father to grant him leave to speak, he continued. “Lord Percy is concerned that our peaceful borders are making some of the lords complacent. Rumors have spread of talk against the king’s campaign north into Scotland. Lord Percy hoped that given the unfortunate events surrounding your wife’s death that your support would be readily offered.”

  Isabella’s stomach clenched. She glanced down at her father’s white knuckles as he gripped the edge of the table. Slowly, he stood, his hands now tight fists at his sides. “And why would I offer my support?” His voice grew louder with every word spoken.

  A cruel smile twisted the messenger’s lips. He appeared to delight in her father’s anger. “Because, my lord, the Scottish people killed your wife.”

  Isabella gasped at the blatant lie.

  Moving faster than he had in years, Lord Redesdale stormed around the high dais, his eyes bulging wide. “Get out,” he shouted. “Get out of my house!”

  The messenger stepped back, slipping on the spilled food. He regained his balance and eyed his soiled shoes with disgust. “Lord Percy will not be pleased.”

  “Get out,” her father yelled. His chest heaved as he labored to breathe. Isabella rushed to her father’s side.

  The messenger scowled at them. “You would do well to remember Lord Percy is favored by King Edward. You’ve been warned.” Then he turned on his heel and left.

  Chapter Three

  Isabella stepped out into the courtyard just as a coach bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms clattered through the gate.

  “Damn,” she muttered under her breath before forcing a smile to her lips.

  Her betrothed, Lord Hugh Trevelyan smiled when he saw her. “Dearest Isabella.” He brushed his lips against her gloved hand. His light brown hair grazed his shoulders, and his fine, blue eyes shone bright.

  She dipped in a low curtsy. “You have come to see me off?”

  He smiled. “Of course, dear friend. I only wish I could accompany you, but responsibilities hold me in town for the next fortnight. Are you quite certain your journey cannot wait?”

  She smiled but shook her head. “I am anxious to see my sister and meet my new nephew.”

  His lips parted slightly as if he wished to ask her again, but then he pressed them closed and for a moment cast his gaze to the ground. “I am happy for you,” he said, still keeping his eyes averted.

  Her own stomach fluttered with excitement. “I cannot believe I am to be reunited with Catarina. It feels like a dream.”

  He smiled and stepped closer, taking her hands in his. “I think this trip will be good for you. You will see how content your sister is now that she has wed and started a family.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “Indeed, I hope to find her very happy.”

  “When we are wed, you will be equally as content. Love will grow, Bella. Are not friendship and respect the strongest foundations for any marriage?”

  She nodded, pressing her lips together to fight back her tears. She had heard his defense of their forthcoming nuptials time and again.

  But I do not love you, her heart screamed.

  A rumbling announced the arrival of her carriage. “Thank you for coming, but I must go now.” She turned away and allowed the footman to help her into the carriage.

  Hugh peered at her through the window. “I know I can make you happy, Bella.”

  She looked into his warm blue eyes and saw the boy she once knew. There had been a time when she had thought of him as her brother. “I miss the way we were,” she said. Then she leaned her head back against the smooth, velvet cushion. “I miss the way everything was.” Regret gripped her heart as her carriage rolled forward through the gate and into the city.

  After King Edward had sacked Berwick, his first command was the construction of a massive outer wall. For five years, Isabella had watched the walls climb higher and higher. They blocked the view of the sea and countryside, confining the city. But even as she left the city limits behind, she knew men would continue to erect her king’s dream—just one more cage for her soul to silently rage against.

  However, the further from Berwick and Hugh she rode, the easier it became to forget. Rolling hills invited her gaze with a feast of sunshine and flowers. Leaning out the window, she shifted in her seat so that she could turn her face to the sun. She slid her finger along the rim of her fitted wimple, which entrapped her hair and neck, letting the sun touch only her cheeks. Still, golden heat eased her spirit. She inhaled the fragrant scent of blue bells. A smile suddenly stretched her lips wide. It grew wider still, until her cheeks ached with delight. The rich scent of flowers and earth combined with the brightness of light so that she felt as if she were seeing these things for the very first time. And, in a way, she was. She had not left Berwick in five years, and the Bella who had journeyed from home before was not the same Bella now riding through the countryside. The other Bella had a mother. The other Bella could never have guessed at the cruelties one man could inflict upon thousands of others.

  Shadow fell as the road snaked through a thick wood. Still leaning out the window, she marveled at the lush green underbrush that shivered with foraging creatures. Then she jerked back in her seat. She heard thunderous snaps, fast and furious, coming from up ahead, followed by a thud that shook the ground like a giant’s footfall. An explosive crack shuddered through the carriage, bringing it to a halt. She slammed forward, then pitched back. Wincing, she righted herself in her seat. The clang of swords stung her ears and the cries of men tore at her heart. The iron scent of blood filled the air. Her chest heaved as she fought to breathe. Swords and twisted faces flashed past her windows. Trapped. She had to get away. The door jerked open, a leering face. She kicked. The grappling hand retreated. She scurried back. The door she leaned upon burst open. She fell. The hard ground stole her breath. Then men descended upon her.

  ~ * ~

  Jack charged through the woods with his four brothers trailing just behind. They had been tracking the Redesdale coach for nearly three miles, waiting for the flat landscape to give way to a hill from which they could descend upon their prize. Having at last reached a wooded slope, Jack galloped to the top and signaled for them to don their masks. They had moved ahead of the coach, but it was almost upon them. He leaned low in his saddle. The thrill of the catch set his heart to race. Moisture beaded against the fabric of his mask as his breath quickened. He raised his fist in the air, preparing his brothers to attack. Once his fist swung down, they would be unleashed like a furious black storm upon the unsuspecting nobles. Almost there. Just a few yards to go. His breath hitched as a great crack rent the air. He jerked upright and stared with wide eyes at a tree on the other side of the road plunging in front of the coach. The driver pulled hard on the reins, but it was too late. The wheels thundered into the tree, splintering to pieces. Before Jack could draw his next breath, men, dressed in peasant’s attire, sprung out from the woods with swords raised high and attacked his prize. He threw up his hands and let loose a string of curses.

  “What’s our move?” Quinn said.

  Jack shook his head. “We have no move. Those thieves stole our prize.”

  Rory tore off his mask. His blue eyes sparkled. “They’re Scottish rebels. ‘Tis as Bishop Lamberton predicted. Our people are once more ready to fight.”

  “And look at how well they do against guards on horseback,” Ian said.

  Jack shot a glance back at his youngest brother. His long red hair hung in tangled disarray.

  “Cover back up, lads. I want a closer look.”

  Jack eased his horse further down the slope to watch the skirmish. The peasants were, indeed, making surprising progress. Three guards were sl
ain and the others would soon be overwhelmed. He leaned forward in his saddle and eyed the ragged gang. Their humble clothing bore the wear of toil but their broad shoulders and thick waists belonged to men who did not know scarcity.

  Jack shook his head. “Look at their swords. Those aren’t the weapons of farmers?”

  “What does it matter?” Rory said. “They’re fightin’ the English and winnin’.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed on the scene below. “Somethin’ isn’t right.”

  Quinn nodded. “Look at the skill with which they fight.”

  “They are not peasants,” Jack said with certainty.

  His brothers fell silent as the last guard was pulled from his horse. Several blades glinted in the sun as the tips were plunged into the wretch’s belly.

  “’Tis done then,” Jack murmured. He was about to turn away, but then the coach door opened and a lady fell to the ground. Veils obscured her face. The fineness of her tunic bespoke of great wealth. Again, he cursed their luck. Whatever fortune she carried with her, should, by rights, be theirs. They had, after all, tracked her for miles. She disappeared behind the sea of men.

  Ian slid off his horse. “What are they doin’?” Crouching low, he darted past an opening among the trees, then squatted behind a large copse.

  “Ian, ‘tis nothin’. She’s in no real danger. Whoever these brigands are, they will not harm her, not when they can ransom her for a sizable fortune. Come along, all of ye. The lady is no longer our affair. We certainly cannot rob her now.”

  Jack urged his horse around, but then a sob rent the air. Several men fell on top of her, tearing at her clothes. A scream of pure terror sent chills up Jack’s spine. “Perhaps I spoke too soon.”

  “Scottish rebels or not, we cannot allow them to hurt her,” Quinn said.

  “Why not?” Rory said. “She’s the enemy.”

  “We do not condone the rape of women, English or otherwise,” Ian snapped.

  “Silence,” Jack hissed. One of the men ripped away the lady’s veils. Tears streamed down her face. “Damnation,” he cursed when he beheld her wide, terrified eyes.

  Ian stood straight. “For the love of God, Jack.”

  Jack turned about. “Back to the horses, lads. We’ve an English lady to save.”

  Chapter Four

  Isabella screamed while men fought against her biting teeth, flailing legs, and each other to stake claim to what was hers and hers alone. Fear devoured all thought, all hope. Her vision blurred. Their heaving bodies blended into the thick trees overhead like one hungry claw bearing down upon her, ripping at her tunic, tearing at her soul. Then the claw shrank away. For an instant, sunbeams warmed her face. Now is your chance. Get up. Run. Wincing, she lifted her head and gasped as black demons on horseback swung red blades, slaying her attackers. She climbed to her feet and started to run only to stumble an instant later. She glanced back at what she had tripped over. Her heart seized. Thomas, the young man who had delivered her from her barren home with a message of birth, stared at her with unseeing blue eyes, a pool of blood cradled his head. She squeezed her eyes shut against the horror and jumped to her feet, then bolted into the woods.

  At last, having found her stride, she took flight, pushing her legs to work harder. She never looked back but kept running, though her side ached and her lungs threatened to burst. And then a sound behind her expelled the wind from her sails. Hooves pounded through the woods, cracking limbs and tearing through the thicket. They were closing in on her. The ground shook. A sob tore once more from her lips as her toe caught on a thick root. She fell forward and flung her arms in front of her face in defense against the approaching ground, but she never felt the hard earth. Instead, she flew. A thick arm imprisoned her waist, and, as if she weighed no more than a cloud, she was whisked through the air and tossed over the back of a racing horse.

  The ground hurried past. With every leap and turn, her stomach lurched. Grunts pushed past her lips. Just when she felt she could bear no more, the horse came to a halt. Still, she hung, frozen, too terrified to move. The only sound she heard was her own panting.

  “Oh dear,” she whispered as her stomach seized. Bile traveled full speed up her throat, and a gush of vomit spewed from her lips.

  “Sweet Jesus and Mary,” a deep voice said above her before strong hands gripped her waist and hoisted her off the horse onto her feet.

  ~ * ~

  “St. Augustine, get down here and help me,” Jack growled at Quinn. He dropped to his feet and stood beside the trembling lass, his hands hanging limp at his sides.

  Quinn grimaced. “Ye’re on your own.”

  Jack grabbed his tunic and tore away a strip. “Here,” he said, offering her the fabric.

  Still bent over, she slowly turned her head. She was terrified, that much he could tell. Pity bade him reach out to stroke her back, but her fine silk tunic and bejeweled fingers staid his hand. She was a noble woman. She lived her life treading on the backs of men like him. More than that, she was English, loyal to a king who had slaughtered his parents and wee sister and turned the city he loved to ash.

  “Wipe yer mouth and let’s go,” he snapped.

  She accepted the fabric and did as she was bid. His conscience pricked. He could not remember ever having spoken so harshly to a woman. She turned and faced him. He was not prepared for her gentle beauty. Pale green eyes stood out in shocking contrast to rich, olive skin. Her full lips trembled. He eyed her dirty wimple and wondered after the color of her hair. She hurriedly wiped her hands before smoothing the cloth over her gown. Her small pert nose wrinkled with disapproval at her slippers, which were steeped in her own vomit.

  Jack shook his head. The lass had been attacked, nearly raped, and, for all intents and purposes, now had been abducted, and she was fretting over her shoes. High born ladies were all the same: selfish and shallow. With a derisive snort, he roughly grabbed her by the waist and lifted her back up onto his saddle. Then he swung up behind her.

  Rory brought his horse alongside Jack’s and grazed his fingers down the lady’s arm. “What are we goin’ to do with her?”

  Jack scowled, pushing Rory’s hand away. Clearly, her beauty had not escaped his brother’s notice. Even through his mask, Jack could see the glint in Rory’s eye. “Don’t get any ideas, St. Thomas,” Jack warned.

  “’Tis too late for that,” Quinn said, shaking his head.

  Ian drew closer. “He’s right though, Jack. What are we goin’ to do with her?”

  “Stick to the bleedin’ code,” Jack shouted.

  “Sorry,” Ian said. “I just don’t like this.”

  “Neither do I,” Jack snapped. He turned to Quinn. “What are our options?”

  “Well, we cannot leave her here.”

  “We could return her to her home,” Ian suggested.

  Jack rolled his eyes at his youngest brother even though he knew the gesture would be missed. “Do ye think we can just ride into Berwick and hand Lord Redesdale his filth-covered princess and ride away once more—no questions asked?”

  “Please, my father will reward you for my return.”

  Jack looked down at her. Her eyes darted from masked face to masked face. She trembled in his arms. Once more pity struck his heart only to be absorbed an instant later by a lifetime of prejudice. His compassion dissolved to anger. “Ye’re not part of this conversation.”

  She leaned away from him. “But you rescued me, didn’t you?”

  Jack’s scowl hid behind his mask. “Aye, and before that we were goin’ to rob ye.”

  Her eyes bulged wide. “Let me go,” she shouted. He grabbed her tight, pinning her flailing arms to her sides before her struggles sent her tumbling off his horse.

  Alec handed him a strip of cloth. Jack raised a questioning brow but then remembered his mask. “What the hell is this for?”

  Alec shrugged. “Blindfold her. Then we ride.”

  Without waiting for Jack’s approval, Alec nudged his horse forward. The
matter had been settled.

  “So be it,” Jack said, turning to eye the lass once more. “Princess, ye’re comin’ with us.”

  Chapter Five

  Isabella had been attacked, nearly raped, and then abducted when her only wish had been to see her sister. At once, she realized the empty significance of her thought. After all, her mother’s visit to the market had resulted in her death. On any given day, most people did not ask for much. Few were those who wanted it all and would kill to take it.

  She lifted off the saddle, suspended in air for a moment while they presumably leapt over some obstacle in their path. She cursed the blindfold and the hand gripping her waist. At first, fear had clouded her every thought while she had set off into the unknown, enclosed within the arms of her captor. It felt as if hours had passed, although, in truth, she knew it might have been mere minutes so great had been her panic. Still, somehow along the way, her heart had ceased its race and her breathing slowed.

  Her eyes had been rendered useless and so she tried to use smells and sounds to guess their location. But the large, hard man holding her dominated her other senses. His breathing, loud and hot in her ear through his mask, muffled bird song and the clomp of the horse’s hooves. She could smell his body, rich and woody and not unpleasant. His scent curled around her, wicked with persuasion, beckoning her exhausted body to lean back into his chest and surrender. She shook her head and straightened her spine. As if his scent had somehow penetrated her mind to peek at her thoughts, his hand shifted from her waist to her stomach. His fingers splayed wide and pressed her against his torso, forcing a gasp from her lips. Even through layers of kirtle, tunic, and surcoat, she could feel his muscles shift and move as they rode. Never had she been so intimately acquainted with a man’s body.