The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “Ye ken she’s a lady, Jack?”

  Was his attraction to the lass so transparent? “What of it?” Jack growled.

  “Ye remember that ye’re a commoner?” Quinn said.

  “And an thief,” Rory chimed in.

  Jack shrugged. “We’re all commoners and thieves.”

  “Aye,” Quinn said. “But ye seem to be the only one forgettin’ it.”

  Jack let go of Quinn’s shirt and took a deep breath, then turned on his heel.

  “Where are ye goin’?” Quinn called after him.

  “To talk to Rose. The Princess needs a change of clothes.”

  “Och, if Rose hears wind of their bein’ another female in camp she’s goin’ to declare a feast day and throw a party,” Quinn said, laughing.

  “She’ll have your hide if she finds out you supported Alec’s idea of throwin’ her in the hole,” Jack shot back.

  “It wasn’t my idea!”

  “True, but one expects that sort of thing from Alec.”

  Jack wove his way through the wooded path that led to his sister’s hut. After their homes had been destroyed and they had taken to the woods to make new ones, Rose had made but one request—privacy from her five brothers.

  When he came upon her, she was just adding some scraps to the pottage.

  “’Tis high time ye came by to show me yer body still in one piece,” she said, disapprovingly.

  Jack leaned down and placed a kiss on Rose’s cheek. Her red hair was pulled away from her face, and her kind blue eyes smiled up at him. She and Ian resembled their father while the rest of them took after their mother with their black hair.

  Rose scrutinized his face. “Whatever ye’re broodin’ about stop it, ye hear? Now why don’t ye sit down, eat some stew, and ye can tell me all about the lass ye kidnapped.”

  Jack swore under his breath for which he received a cuff upside his head. “Rose, could we have one visit where ye don’t beat the hell out of me for once.” He pretended to look cross, then gave her a pinch around the middle that bent her over with laughter. Rose’s two weaknesses were easy to exploit. She was extremely ticklish and a champion for anyone or anything she deemed as weaker.

  “Who told ye?” Jack asked before enjoying a bite of stew. “Let me venture a guess, Ian.”

  “Nay, ‘twas Rory. He told me about her fine looks.” Her smile vanished. She stopped stirring the pottage and pointed her spoon at him. “Ye listen to me, Jack MacVie. Ye keep Rory away from the poor lass. Ye know what he’ll do. Love her and leave her, he will.”

  An image of Rory plying Isabella with his charms flitted through Jack’s mind. He put down his bowl.

  “What’s the matter with my stew?” Rose said, scowling.

  “’Tis delicious, but I’ve no appetite suddenly.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Trust me. Rory will not lay a finger on her, unless he’s interested in losin’ one.”

  Rose clucked her approval. “See that he doesn’t.”

  Jack stood. “I need to borrow one of yer tunics.”

  Rose scrutinized his form from head to toe, then shook her head. “Nay, it won’t suit ye.” Then she threw her head back with laughter. “I ken it is for the lady. Wait here,” she said before disappearing inside her hut. She emerged moments later with what Jack recognized as her finest tunic and surcoat, reserved for their yearly sojourn to Inverness.

  Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “Rory said she is the daughter of Lord Redesdale. She is accustomed to finery. We should try to make her feel at home.”

  Jack grabbed the violet silk tunic from Rose’s hand. An image of Isabella clad in the soft gown with her olive skin and pale green eyes stirred his desire. Despite being dirt smeared, she had smelled like an angel. He closed his eyes and felt the curve of her lips yielding to his own. Christ, but she had tasted of honey. His eyes flew open. “Nay, absolutely not.”

  He stormed inside Rose’s hut. Anyway, he had no intention of pampering his princess. It would be good for her to taste life’s meager offerings. Jack flipped open Rose’s chest and shuffled through the clothing until he came across a stained, threadbare woolen tunic. “This will do nicely.”

  “Nay! That is my oldest work dress. I only wear it when the task is truly filthy, like cleanin’ out the animal pens.”

  “Perfect,” Jack said, walking past her and stepping outside.

  “What has the lass ever done to ye?” Rose called after him.

  He ignored both her question and the scolding tone in her voice. He owed the lady nothing—he had already saved her life, which he was certain she would soon forget. Noble ladies were all narcissistic creatures—puddles had greater depth. Then why had he kissed her? He thought back to that moment in his hut. She had been standing before him, willing herself to appear brave and resolute despite how terrified she must have been. She had thrust out her chin, putting her full lips on display. Then she had made that quip about him not being a gentleman. She had practically dared him to kiss her, and now that she had had time to ruminate on his ungentlemanly advance, he was certain to hear all about his uncouth manners and inferior station.

  Ready for battle, he stormed inside his hut, but the scene that awaited him could not have been more surprising. She was asleep, lying on his pallet, and despite the warmth of the day, wrapped tightly in his blanket. With great care to be silent, he laid the bundle of clean but worn clothing beside her, lit a candle against the advancing shadow, and sat down at the table and watched her sleep.

  After an hour passed, she began to stir. Her lashes fluttered against her cheeks, which had been warmed pink by the fire. She opened her eyes and straightaway spied the bundle he had left her. Sitting up, she unfolded the tunic and smiled. He had expected disdain. She was supposed to turn her nose up at the crude garments, not delight in them as though they were made of the finest silk. She smiled, smelling the clean fabric. He leaned in, drawn by her pleasure, but his movement caught her eye. To his surprise, she held up the tunic and dipped her head. “Thank you for this.”

  Not knowing how to respond, he gave her a curt nod. “I will leave you to dress. When ye’re finished, come join my family by the fire, Princess.” This time it had been a struggle to lace his words with malice.

  “Wait,” she said.

  He turned around and gave her an expectant look.

  “Will you not tell me your name?” she said.

  He started to turn away, intending to deny her, but then he paused and shook his head before facing her once more. “John MacVie, after my father,” he said. “But ye can call me Jack.”

  ~ * ~

  Isabella ran her fingers through her hair, working out most of the snarls. With nothing to tie it up, she swept her hair from her shoulders, letting it fall free down her back. She had not intended to sleep when she had laid down on Jack’s pallet, only to cease the spinning in her head. But her body took for itself what it needed, and now she felt all the better having rested. She smoothed her hands over the soft, worn fabric of her borrowed tunic. It had caressed her curves like a whisper when she pulled it on. Smiling, she closed her eyes and savored the unusual feeling of being unbound. Her own clothing was designed to contain and restrict, but now she could move and breathe and feel. She longed to step outside, to invite the night air on her neck and shoulders, but she hesitated when she stood in front of the door. Jack had made it clear that he had no wish to harm her; however, she hardly felt safe. Her fingertips touched her lips, still swollen from his hard kiss. He was nothing like the men at court, nothing like Hugh. Hugh’s slim build and soft hands seemed childlike now that she had felt Jack’s hard strength. He terrified her, but fear alone had not set her heart to race when he drew near. His smell, his rough hands, and deep voice excited her, and the quietness she had glimpsed in him kept her wondering about the real man beneath the mask. She threw her hands up, feeling betrayed by her own thoughts. Taken as a whole, his behavior toward her had been hostile. Confusion forced her
hands to clench as she continued to stare at the door. Anyway, he was a thief and a scoundrel.

  “Damnation,” she cursed. Nothing made sense. All she knew for certain was that she was tired and hungrier than she could ever remember being. With a deep breath, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool, spring night. Closing her eyes, she inhaled fresh air laced with scents of cooked meat and herbs. Her stomach growled. She looked toward the fire. Four sets of male eyes stared at her. A self-conscious hand smoothed back her free flowing hair.

  Ian dashed toward her. “Lady Redesdale, I’m so glad ye’ve joined us.”

  She smiled up at Ian’s dancing eyes. “Good evening,” she said, not knowing what else to say. She still did not know how to behave. Were they her kidnappers or saviors?

  Rory stood. “My lady,” he said, taking her hand and giving her a wicked grin. As his eyes grazed over her form, she had the distinct feeling that he could see exactly what she concealed beneath her borrowed garments. She shivered when he kissed her hand. Damn his eyes. He was more beautiful than any man should ever be. She was relieved when Quinn shoved him aside. “Rory, the lady is not tonight’s supper. Come,” he said, offering her his arm. “Ye must sample the stew our sister, Rose, has made.”

  Isabella’s heart skipped with relief when she noticed the woman sitting on a log by the fire. She was trim with a beautiful smile and thick, curly red hair that fell to her waist. She must have been near thirty and was just as pretty as could be.

  Isabella dipped in a low curtsy in front of Rose. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb your meal.”

  “Och, sweetling, ye’ve done nothin’ wrong, lass. I’m delighted ye’re here.” Rose patted the log next to her. Isabella sat and looked across the flames. Jack’s eyes bore into hers. In fact, all of the MacVie brothers were staring at her, save for the one she heard called Alec, whom Isabella did not see anywhere, which was just as well given he had been the one who first suggested sticking her in the hole.

  “Jack MacVie, turn yer eyes elsewhere. Can’t ye tell yer makin’ her nervous? Nay, in fact, eat yer supper, all of ye.” Rose stood and offered Isabella her hand. “The lady and I are goin’ to sit over there.”

  Brows drawn in a deep frown, Jack started to stand, but whether to voice his protest or follow after, Isabella knew naught. Either way, Rose gave him no quarter.

  “Ye just sit back down, Jack,” she snapped.

  Isabella’s eyes widened. She stood and hastened after Rose. It would seem she had misjudged Jack as the leader of the MacVie siblings. Clearly, Rose was in charge.

  “I cannot imagine anyone talking to Jack that way,” Isabella whispered when she drew alongside Rose.

  “I am three years Jack’s senior. The eldest MacVie, and I make sure that none of my wee brothers forget it.”

  Isabella could not suppress her smile. “I would not call any one of them wee.”

  Rose sat beneath a large oak. Isabella joined her, leaning her back against the cool trunk. “This is better. Thank you, Rose.”

  Rose smiled and handed her a bowl. “Hush now, my lady, and have some stew. Ye must be famished.”

  Isabella gladly accepted the wooden bowl. The stew was thick with chunks of rabbit and tasted of Rosemary and garlic. “This is delicious.”

  “As hungry as ye must be, my lady, I’d wager even the poorest fare would be pleasin’ to yer pallet.”

  Isabella smiled. “Believe me or not, Rose, but this is very fine.”

  Rose surprised Isabella by blushing. “Thank ye, my lady.”

  They sat in comfortable silence while Isabella finished her stew. She soaked up the last of it with a thick bannock. It had been a simple but truly satisfying meal. She almost felt like herself again. But then she glanced across the camp at the fire. Jack’s gaze was still on her, his face impossible to read. She looked away, unable to withstand the intensity of his gaze. She looked to Rose for distraction.

  “Are ye married?” Isabella asked.

  Rose cast her gaze downward and shook her head. “My husband and three daughters were killed durin’ the massacre.”

  Isabella’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh, Rose, I am so sorry.”

  Rose raised her eyes, which glistened with unshed tears. “’Tis done. Naught can bring them back. Some days are harder than others.” Her voice cracked. “There are mornings when I wake and I must force myself to breath and command my feet to walk. Those are my hollow days. And then there are days when I taste joy.” Her lips lifted in a sideways smile not unlike Jack’s. “Just a taste mind, but those are good days.”

  Isabella swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat. “By the grace of God,” she whispered.

  Rose nodded and patted Isabella’s leg. “Ye’re right about that. Anyway, most days leave little time for rememberin’. I’ve got my brothers to care for, and they are good to me.”

  Isabella lifted a skeptical brow. How good could a pack of thieves be?

  “I ken what ye’re thinkin’, but ye’re wrong. They are all good and decent men. Quinn who is six and twenty is just two years younger than Jack. He is the best of us, to be sure. He has a head for learnin’. The monks have taught him how to read and write. He can do his numbers, and he speaks Latin and French. His patience seldom runs out. I’ve told him time and again to take his vows and join the monastery, but like the rest of my brothers, he has a great appreciation for the fairer sex.”

  Isabella arched a brow at her. “Rory certainly does.”

  “Ye’ve felt his rovin’ gaze, no doubt. At two and twenty, he is the second youngest. And I swear to ye, he’s been seducin’ women since the cradle. The attention he received as a baby was more than ye can imagine. Never could a woman walk by him and not ooh and ahhh. He didn’t learn to walk until he was near two. He never had to. He spent most of his time in his favorite place—asleep with a bosom for a pillow. Too pretty for his own good, Rory is.”

  “His lashes would be the envy of every lady at court.”

  Rose threw her head back and her laughter rang out, easing Isabella’s spirit.

  “And then, of course, there’s Ian. He’s the baby.”

  Isabella could not hold back a chuckle. “Baby? You can imagine my terror when I first saw Ian, the giant, with his horrible black mask. But can ye imagine my even greater surprise when he took it off, and the giant was no more than a lamb.”

  “A lamb to be sure; well, if a lamb also had a deadly aim and a fierce side the likes of which ye would not believe.”

  “I cannot imagine his countenance in any other way than happy.”

  “He is that, most of the time. But push him to anger and his temper flares. ‘Tis the red hair.” She winked, lifting a lock of her own strawberry curls. “Oh, and what a voice he has. I tell ye, he sings like an angel. He’s just nineteen. His red hair and sky blue eyes were a blessin’ from our mother, but his size is all da.”

  “It would seem your father was a large and handsome man,” Isabella observed.

  “Aye, that he was.”

  “Forgive me, Rose, but you missed one brother? The one most eager to throw me into the hole.”

  “Oh for pity’s sake! That would be Alec.”

  “What is he like?” Isabella asked.

  “Alec is four and twenty. And do not be mistaken, my lady, I highly doubt Alec would have been eager to throw you in the hole.”

  “He’s a true saint,” Isabella said, unable to keep the sarcasm from her voice. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “I ken Jack is keepin’ ye here against yer will. Ye’re entitled to yer displeasure. But, in truth, Alec is neither a saint nor a sinner. Oh, how should I put it? He just would have been unconcerned.”

  “You mean he doesn’t care?”

  “Not the slightest. Sadly, he cares for precious little in this world.”

  “Why is that?” she asked.

  “Some wounds run too deep to heal. ‘Tis just Alec’s way.” Rose paused, then with a sigh, she said, “S
orry, lass. I know it must sound like I’m makin’ excuses for him. ‘Tis just I have a special place in my heart for Alec. He has suffered greatly. He was always a queer sort of lad. He has the sight, ye ken. He knows all manner of things before they happen. The day before King Edward attacked Berwick, my husband and daughters had taken ill. I had no bayberry to bring down their fevers, so I enlisted the aid of my youngest brothers. On the next day, Alec was supposed to join us in the woods near the city to forage for herbs, but when the time came to leave, he refused. He said that durin’ the night he had dreamt the world was on fire, then went to the kirk to pray. When Edward attacked, Ian, Rory, and I were safe in the woods, but Alec remained in the city and witnessed it all. ‘Tis a miracle he’s alive.”

  “What of Jack and Quinn,” Isabella asked. “Why were they not in Berwick when the king attacked?”

  “Once upon a time, Jack and Quinn were fishermen.” She cleared her throat and brightened her sad eyes. “Right. Enough sad talk. And I’ll spare ye my account of Jack. I figure ye’ve learned enough of him for now.”

  Isabella’s thoughts wandered straight back to Jack’s kiss. Did Rose know how acquainted they had become? Isabella hid her blush by busying herself with stacking the dirty bowls. She felt a nervous jump in her belly.

  Rose stood, dusting off her hands. “Now that ye ken a little more about my younger brothers, are ye ready to rejoin their company.”

  Wishing she could just remain beneath the cool tree, she nodded reluctantly. “If we must.”

  Chapter Seven

  Isabella was sitting on a log by the fireside very nearly alone with Jack who had chased the rest of his siblings away with his glib tongue. Rose had gone to bed more than an hour before—right after Jack had denied her request for Isabella to bed down with her. At that moment, Isabella had discovered that Rose, like Ian, had a temper to match her hair.

  “She cannot sleep in your hut. ‘Tis indecent, Jack,” she had said.

  But Jack had been unyielding, arguing that he was responsible for everyone’s safety including Isabella’s.