The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  “Oh God,” Rupert groaned when Henry’s hand came forward slick red with blood.

  Henry reached out to Rupert with his bloody hand. “Help me.”

  Rupert’s eyes bulged. He shook his head, backing away. Henry fought to stand but then fell back again. Blood splattered the stones and began to puddle on the ground. The color drained from Henry’s face.

  “My lord.”

  The feminine voice pulled Rupert’s gaze toward the door, just as Catarina came around the corner. Her eyes widened the instant before a scream tore from her lips. She rushed to Henry’s side, pulling his head onto her lap. Crimson smeared her white tunic. Rupert backed farther away, his hand locked over his mouth as he watched Henry struggle to speak to his wife, but the garbled words hung incomprehensible in the air. A moment later, a rattled breath fled Lord Ravensworth’s lips as his head rolled to the side.

  “No! Henry! No!” Catarina cupped his cheeks to straighten his head, but when she let go, it fell back again to the side. “Please, God. No,” she sobbed, gathering him in her arms.

  Rupert could barely discern her anguished pleas above the pounding of his own heart. He couldn’t breathe. It felt as though the room was closing in around him. How could Henry be dead? Rupert had not meant to hurt his brother. He had just been so furious. In a daze his eyes slowly moved from Henry’s limp body to the blood-stained stones jutting off the hearth. He gagged, choking on the fear lodged in his throat. His hands gripped the sides of his head. He had murdered his brother, a sin for which he would surely die. But how could that be? How could both he and Henry be dead? Who would lead his people? Not Stephen. His carefree ways would bring about the ruination of Ravensworth. Rupert couldn’t let that happen. He could never allow his people to suffer because of a cruel accident.

  His eyes darted to Catarina. She sobbed, her red-stained hands gripping Henry’s tunic. Rupert stared at her bloody hands. Henry’s guard would return at any moment. His mind reeled. Raking his hand through his hair, his eyes darted about the room before settling on the iron poker near the fire. A jolt of power shot through his body as he stared at its hard metal length. Then he lunged for it. Holding his breath, he rubbed the blunt tip in Henry’s blood.

  “Take this,” he growled, thrusting the poker at Catarina.

  She looked up at him, her olive skin now ashen, her eyes stricken with grief. Brows drawn, she reached out, her hand shaking, and clasped the poker.

  Rupert backed away. “You should not have murdered your husband.”

  Her eyes flashed wide. She looked at the bloody poker in her hand and flung it to the ground. “I…I did not.” Then her breath hitched, and the whites of her eyes stood out in contrast to the bright amber fire burning now with furious hatred as she shoved Henry from her lap. She stormed toward Rupert, her white, embroidered tunic stained red. “You will not lay blame on my head!”

  Rupert scurried back. The sound of Henry’s skull cracking against the stone echoed in his mind, but he pushed his guilt aside. Had it not been for Catarina, he and Henry never would have fought. He planted his feet firm on the ground. His shoulders stopped shaking. The coil squeezing his heart released. He narrowed his eyes on the she-devil quaking in front of him. “You killed him. I saw you.”

  His words stopped her in her tracks, her eyes growing wider still. “No,” she said, shaking her head violently.

  He circled closer, cornering her. “You came up behind him while he and I sat unaware of any danger. Then you struck him with the poker.”

  Catarina clutched her arms around herself. “Liar,” she screamed.

  He lunged toward her, grabbing her forearms. “Who do you think the world will believe? Me, a knight and defender of kingdoms, or you, the daughter of a traitor and a whore.”

  His eyes trailed over the exquisite lines of her stricken face, over the full swell of her heaving bosom as she struggled for breath. Panic claimed her. She was at his mercy. For a moment, he was awash in her absolute vulnerability. Her father was guilty of treason, and now Henry was dead. The woman before him—she who had wrinkled her nose at his advances time and again—was completely at his mercy. He licked his lips. “Or mayhap an arrangement could be made.” He pressed her flush against him. “It is in my power to conceal your crime. It could appear as though your husband’s death was an accident; that is…” He stroked her cheek with his iron hand. “If you agree to be my leman.”

  “Do not touch me,” she screamed.

  He thrust out his chest and stared down at her, longing to put her in her place. “I have given you a choice,” he growled. “You can choose death, which will be the penalty for killing your husband, or you can choose me.”

  She strained to push him away.

  “Your struggles only serve to excite me,” he taunted.

  He felt her break. She sagged in his arms. “I did not kill him,” he heard her whimper before burying her face in her hands.

  Her lavender scent mingled with the iron scent of blood, causing his heart to quicken. “This is all your doing, none but yours,” he said, his voice deadly soft. “You’re a woman, full of deceit, no better than Eve.”

  Her head jerked up. Defiant golden brown eyes met his. “Were it not for my son, I would choose death.”

  He released her, the thrill of victory upturning his lips into a wide smile, but she kept her gaze downcast. Shoulders curved inward, she slowly shuffled toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” he snapped.

  She glanced back, a snarl twisting her fine features. “Make your accident happen,” she hissed. “I am now in mourning.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You agree to my terms then?”

  She turned her back on him. “In one month’s time, I will come to you.”

  Despite the coldness of her statement, he felt his member thicken. His gaze followed the stiff sway of her full hips out the door. He savored the sight of her pitiful retreat. Then he turned and stared at his brother’s body, the former Lord Ravensworth. Before Rupert could claim Henry’s title, he first had to account for his death. But how? Raking a hand through his hair, he looked past the hearth toward a heavy tapestry, behind which he knew was a doorway that opened to a steep and winding stairwell. It would be easy enough to loose one’s footing on the narrow stones. Shame came over him then, but he dismissed that knowing truth with righteous contempt. None of this had been his fault. Henry never should have married a lowly born daughter of trouble makers. The fault was hers, and he would see that she was made to pay. She would finally know her place. Aware that the guard could return at any moment, he lifted Henry’s body over his shoulder and hastened toward the stairwell.

  Chapter Six

  Quinn paced the stables, his black robes swirling about his feet. He cursed himself for at least the hundredth time. The stable hands had begun to eye him warily, no doubt surprised by the explosion of foul language from a holy man’s lips, but he was furious with himself for not just taking Catarina when he had the chance. He should have ignored her protests. Still, she had swayed his mind, though not with professions of her undying love for Lord Ravensworth. It was clear to Quinn their marriage was not a love match. It had been her faith in Lord Ravensworth’s fair treatment of her that in the end made Quinn stand down. He had expected to find a woman battered and meek, but Lady Catarina was anything but. She defended her husband—not with glowing descriptions, but with the simple, albeit unfortunate, assertion that she was his property. Lord Ravensworth’s meticulous nature was apparent to Quinn before he had even entered the great hall. Care and pride of purpose was evident in the running of the outer gate when Quinn first approached the castle. It was apparent in the tidy and efficient courtyard. But when Quinn stood in front of Lord Ravensworth that morning, fastidiousness radiated from his dress to his bearing to the way his eyes followed all movement in the hall, ensuring nothing was out of place in his perfect world. Straightaway, he reminded Quinn of Gustav Bellerose, the captain of La Vierge, the first merchant vessel
with which Quinn had sailed. To Lord Ravensworth, his castle was a smooth sailing ship and its inhabitants, his disciplined crew.

  Quinn ceased pacing and leaned against the stable wall. How long until the guard came for him? Doubtless, Lord Ravensworth would send for Quinn the very moment Catarina made her confession. They would search for Quinn in the great hall and courtyard first. Then likely they would scour the chapel. But would not the next likely place be the stables? He clenched his fists in frustration as concern for Catarina’s safety mounted in his mind.

  “Brother Augustine.”

  Quinn’s head jerked around. A castle guard approached.

  “What took ye so long?” Quinn said. The guard’s eyes widened in surprise. Scowling, Quinn barreled past him out into the courtyard.

  “Brother Augustine, fall back!”

  Quinn pressed his lips together to contain the less than holy refusal on the tip of his tongue while he waited for the guard to catch up.

  “You will follow behind me,” the guard snapped.

  Taking a deep breath, Quinn smiled. “Lead on then.”

  They entered the great hall and passed behind the screen in the rear, which hid a wide stairwell. Quinn followed, memorizing the layout of the keep along the way. The stairs opened to a landing. At the rear of the landing were two more stairwells on opposite sides, which stretched to the next floor coming together to form a balcony. From where he stood, Quinn could see beyond the balcony to the top of several passages leading in different directions. Following the guard, he started toward the left stairwell but froze mid-stride. A door on the second floor swung wide and out rushed Lady Catarina. What looked like blood covered her gown and hands as she sobbed from sight. The guard needed no urging, he raced up the stairs two at a time with Quinn following behind. When they reached the top, the guard turned left from where Catarina had exited.

  Quinn jerked his arm free and pointed in the direction she had fled. “Ye must attend yer lady. She may be hurt.”

  In a flash, the guard drew his sword from its scabbard and thrust the tip beneath Quinn’s chin. “My first concern is my lord.”

  “Damn it,” Quinn cursed. “Fine. Go, just go.”

  Behind the massive doors, fine tapestries and flickering candles whizzed past Quinn as he and the guard hastened down the wide hallway. Then they turned the corner.

  The guard froze.

  Quinn froze.

  A large man with black hair had Lord Ravensworth slung over his shoulder.

  “Sir Rupert, what has happened here?” the guard said. “Is my lord hurt?”

  “Stay where you are, Matthew,” Rupert ordered. Then he turned and looked at Quinn. Quinn did not care for the wicked glint that suddenly lit the man’s eyes. “You are the monk who brought Lady Catarina news of her father’s treachery.”

  Quinn nodded, but said nothing as he scanned the room, his eyes settling on the blood dripping down the hearth.

  Rupert smiled. “It is rather fortuitous that you’ve arrived.” He bent forward. The body draped over his shoulder landed on the ground with a thud. Quinn’s eyes widened. Lord Ravensworth was dead.

  Matthew dropped his sword. “He’s…he’s…” he stammered. The color fled his face.

  “Yes, he is dead,” Rupert said, his voice flat.

  Matthew grappled for his sword. “Did you kill him?”

  Rupert quickly withdrew his own sword and pointed it at the guard’s heart. “No, I did not kill him. He did,” Rupert said, looking at Quinn.

  Quinn raised his hands, palms facing out and backed away. “I never touched him—” Before he could finish defending his innocence. Sir Rupert sliced the blade across Matthew’s throat. Quinn’s mouth fell open. He stared, unable to breath as Matthew crumpled to the ground and bled to death.

  “That will have to be your fault too.”

  Quinn’s head jerked up and stared at Sir Rupert in disbelief. “But…I’ve killed no one.” And that was true. Quinn was a thief. He had beaten and maimed men before, but he and his brothers always stuck to a code—they were thieves not murderers. Quinn had never taken a man’s life. He glanced down at his robes, remembering his disguise. “How could I? I am a monk.”

  Rupert’s eyes gleamed. “Indeed, you are the very monk who brought news of Lord Redesdale’s treachery. Why?”

  Quinn’s eyes darted around the room for the nearest weapon, knowing he would never have time to maneuver his dirk from beneath his voluminous robe if Rupert were to strike. “Lord Redesdale wanted to warn his daughter.”

  Rupert took a step forward, his bloody sword held at the ready. “No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “That is not the reason at all.”

  Quinn threw the question back. “Then why did he send me?”

  Sir Rupert’s face stretched in a sinister grin. “He sought to spread his treachery. You came here to incite further rebellion against King Edward. And when Lord Ravensworth asked for you to come to his solar, you attacked him, striking his skull with the poker.”

  “I’ve been busy it would seem,” Quinn said dryly to mask his confusion. His thoughts turned to Lady Catarina’s bloody dress as she had fled from that very room. Had she killed her husband? Was Rupert looking for a way to cover up her crime? One thing Quinn knew for certain was that he had not killed Lord Ravensworth or Sir Matthew. “I will not confess to these crimes.”

  “You do not need to. I witnessed everything. You struck my brother. I came to his defense, sustaining an injury for my trouble before I ran you through.”

  “What injury? You have no injury.”

  “Not yet,” Rupert said. “Watch.” He held out his forearm and before Quinn knew what was happening, Rupert sliced his sword across his own arm. Blood seeped from the deep gash.

  Dumbstruck, Quinn stared at the self-inflicted wound. “Ye’re mad,” he said, the soft words coming unbidden to his lips.

  Rupert stepped toward Quinn. “You have misjudged my thoroughness.” He pointed to Henry’s body, crumpled in a bloody heap. “My brother used to say that nobility resides in the details—the same can be said about a well-constructed lie.” He stepped toward Quinn. “Now to bring truth to the end of my tale.”

  Quinn stepped back. “Ye’re referring to the part about running me through.”

  Rupert raised his sword. “Indeed, I am.” He swung his blade.

  Quinn dove for the bloody poker. Rupert snarled, bringing down his sword. Quinn rolled, still clasping the poker. The clang of steel on stone rang out. He jumped to his feet in time to block Rupert’s next attack.

  Rupert’s eyes narrowed on him. “You have some skill, monk.”

  Quinn held his poker at the ready. “The lord blesses those who uphold his virtues.”

  “We shall see,” Rupert spat, thrusting his weapon. Quinn dodged left. Then his fist shot up, catching Rupert beneath the chin. His neck snapped back, and he stumbled, hitting his head on the arm of a chair. He fell to the ground and did not get up. Cautiously, Quinn crossed to where Rupert lay. He was out cold. Quinn grabbed the belt from his waist and tied Rupert’s hands. And then he secured his feet with the dead guard’s belt. Time was limited. He rushed to the door. He needed to know the truth of what transpired in the lord’s solar that night, and he knew there was only one person still living who could tell him—Lady Catarina.

  ~ * ~

  Catarina raced down the hall, torches flashing past in a blur of fire and tears. Her hands, slick with blood, gripped her skirts high, allowing her legs the freedom to sprint. Ragged sobs tore from her throat. Her shallow breaths struggled to fuel her race. She was almost to her door. The slated wood loomed before her. She reached for the handle but grasped air as the door swung wide and out stepped her maid, Elizabeth.

  Catarina was incapable of stopping the steady flow of tears wetting her eyes.

  Elizabeth gasped. “My lady, what is…” Her words trailed off. She stared down at Catarina’s blood stained hands and dress.

  Catarina thrust her hands
behind her back. “Go to your room,” she snapped.

  Eyes wide, Elizabeth nodded, dipped in a hurried curtsy and then rushed to the door next to Catarina’s.

  “You will remain in your room until I tell you to come out,” Catarina shouted before Elizabeth could shut her door.

  Catarina closed her own door behind her and collapsed to the ground. She fought to breathe. Henry’s lifeless eyes flashed again and again in her mind.

  “No,” she said aloud. “It cannot be.”

  Shaking her head, she paced her room as if trying to outrun the truth. But then she froze and raised her shaking hands in front of her eyes. They were coated in her husband’s blood.

  “Oh God,” she cried out. Rupert had killed Henry. She sagged onto her bed, despair claiming the strength from her limbs. Rupert had killed Henry and now she would have to submit to his demands or face accusations of murder. How could this be happening?

  What he said was true. Her mother had been a commoner. And if the monk’s report was correct, then her father was a traitor to the crown. No one would believe her. No one would take her word over Rupert’s.

  “Do not be alarmed.”

  She sat up with a jerk. Standing in front of her bed was Brother Augustine. She had not heard him enter.

  His deep-set eyes met hers. “Is any of that blood yers?”

  She shook her head, unable to find her voice.

  “Did ye kill yer husband?” he asked.

  “No,” she cried, her hands once more shielding her face. Then she blurted out, “But Rupert plans to accuse me unless I agree to be his mistress.”

  “Sir Rupert is quick to assign blame,” he said under his breath. “We’ve little time,” he said louder. “Quickly, gather what ye need. We must flee.”

  She looked up at him in a daze, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Then with a furious nod, she climbed from bed and hurried across the large, richly appointed room. She threw open the lid of a truck and then flung wide the doors of a large wardrobe and began tossing velvet and silk tunics into the trunk.