The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  When her eyes once again met his, she released a long breath before saying, “Regretfully, I must go.”

  He stepped closer. “Will we meet again?”

  Giving no answer, she reached for the reins of her horse. “A leg up please?”

  He stepped closer and laced his fingers together. She put a knee in his hands, and he lifted as she pulled herself up and into the saddle with practiced ease.

  His left hand lingered on her knee for a moment. He looked up at her, the intensity of her gaze fueling his desire to greater heights. “Will we meet again?” he said, repeating his question.

  She lifted one of her shoulders. “Who can say what the future holds?”

  Rory clenched his fist to keep from pulling her back off the horse and into his arms. “I hope my future holds ye,” he said, his voice low and husky. “It would be a tragedy were I never to taste those lips.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Ye’re in luck.” She leaned over in the saddle, grabbed his tunic and pressed her full lips hard against his. Desire quickly overcame his initial surprise. He reached his hand around the back of her neck and deepened their kiss. A soft groan escaped her when she drew away. “Thank ye,” she whispered.

  “For what?” he breathed through a haze of shock and desire.

  She smiled. “For being a loyal servant to Scotland.” Then she drove her heel into her horse’s flank and sped off down the forest road.

  He stared after her. The sweetness of her kiss lingered in his mouth, never to be forgotten, even as she disappeared into the fading light.

  Chapter Two

  Rory sat at his usual corner table in the Sunk Ship, a bawdy tavern in the seaside village of Gaillean. Raucous laughter from fishermen, unwinding after a long day at sea, competed with the lyrical voices of barmaids and prostitutes, the latter vying for the attention of the wealthiest, youngest, or handsomest clientele. Painted lips and charcoal-lined eyes flashed in Rory’s direction, but the scowl that furrowed his brow kept the lassies at bay. He lifted a tankard of ale to his lips, took a slow sip and scanned the room. A man named Tamhas with thinning gray hair and a bushy beard raised his mug in greeting when Rory caught his eye. Tamhas was the proprietor of the Sunk Ship and possessed a loquacious tongue, but Rory was in no mood for conversation. On a different night, he might have called Tamhas over; instead, Rory only nodded in greeting, then immediately looked away and eased back in his seat. Resting his head against the cool stones behind him, he stared up at the iron candelabra dangling from the ceiling while he worked to shut out the surrounding frivolity.

  “Rory!”

  He jolted upright and looked at the man sitting across the table.

  David slammed his mug down. “Finally, I have yer attention.”

  Rory’s scowl deepened. “I’m right here. Ye don’t need to shout or break Tamhas’s table.”

  “Really? Because I’m not so sure about that. I’ve said yer name a half a dozen times, and ye’ve only just noticed. What the bloody hell is wrong with ye?”

  Rory shrugged. “Ye have my attention now,” he said dryly, ignoring his friend’s question.

  David’s shoulder-length blond hair fell in front of his hard, green eyes as he leaned over the table and hissed in a low voice, “I’m trying to talk to ye about what the abbot said at our last meeting. Remember?” He raked his hand through his hair, uncovering his eyes, which narrowed on Rory. “While a truce is in place between Scotland and England, we’re supposed to rally the people. We’re supposed to be turning farmers into soldiers.”

  Rory motioned for David to stop speaking as a barmaid sauntered up to the table holding a tray of brimming tankards. She bent at the waist, giving Rory a view of her smooth, full bosom, which loomed above her cinched bodice. Strawberry ringlets dripped from her temples, framing her heart-shaped face.

  Rory fingered one of the curls and swept a slow gaze across her creamy skin, but her overt display did little to stir his desire. His body throbbed with need, but no one in that room could satisfy his hunger. Only one woman had that power—one with the heart of a Scottish rebel.

  Rory shifted his eyes, looking down at his fresh tankard of ale. “Thank ye,” he muttered.

  “For the love of God, man, what ails ye?”

  Rory looked at David in surprise. “If I cared, I would ask the same question of ye,” Rory snapped.

  Another woman sauntered by just then, her hips swinging in a sensual rhythm. Rory recognized her as one of the lassies who worked upstairs. He followed the movement of her hips for a moment longer before looking back down at the golden liquid in his cup, which he found to be the most appealing thing in the room.

  David threw his hands up, once more drawing Rory’s gaze. “Bloody hell, Rory. As usual, ye’ve got every woman in this room throwing herself at ye, and ye’re not taking even one kiss, one nibble.”

  Rory shrugged. “I see nothing that catches my fancy.”

  David rolled his eyes. “Don’t even try to tell me that strawberry tart over there with all the curves escaped yer notice. I’ve known ye a long time. She’s exactly the type to catch yer fancy.”

  Rory glanced once more at the red-haired lass who now sat on Tamhas’s lap but kept her eyes trained on him. David was right. Normally, her round bottom would be pressed against his lap. Her luscious breasts bobbing up and down close to his hungry lips. But tonight, he had no interest.

  David leaned close. “What occupies yer mind so?”

  Rory absently trailed his finger around the brim of his cup. “I was just wondering how long it took Alex to sew all those coins into her tunic.”

  “Ah-ha,” David exclaimed, jumping to his feet, the scrape of his chair drawing the surrounding revelers’ gazes. “That chit? That’s what this is all about?”

  It was Rory’s turn to roll his eyes. “Sit down, would ye?”

  David eased back down, shaking his head. “Ye’ve got yer head in the clouds over a lass.” He leaned forward. “I’m trying to talk ye about rallying the people, building armies, taking back our country, putting a bloody Scottish king on the bloody thrown while ye’re daydreaming about some bleeding lass.” David stood and turned around, gesturing across the room. “A little strawberry tart will make ye forget Alex MacKenzie for good.”

  Rory leaned to look past David at the ‘strawberry tart’ whose pretty face suddenly lit up with a wide smile. “Damnation,” he cursed and grabbed David’s hand out of the air, flattening it on the table. “What the hell do ye think ye’re doing?”

  “I’m getting ye a warm and willing lass to share yer bed so ye can get yer head back to business.”

  “I have not needed help filling my bed since I shaved my first whiskers. I already told ye—I’m not interested.”

  David crossed his arms over his chest. “Yer lack of interest is the bleeding point. Fine. Have it yer way. Deny yerself a warm bed. That is yer own choice to make. Pine after some lass ye may never see again—also yer choice. But ye cannot allow this infatuation to distract ye from what’s important. The cause is bigger than us both. The pining of yer heart is of no consequence. Ye’ve made a vow to yer brothers-at-arms and to the abbot. Anyway, do ye think King Edward is sitting idly by with a drink in one hand and a ripe arse in the other? Nay. Ye and I both know this truce will not last. He spends his days bleeding his people dry with taxes to amass more weapons, horses, and soldiers. We must rebuild Scotland’s army as he does. Rory, the time to rally the people is now!”

  Rory tossed down the rest of his ale and swiped the back of his sleeve across his lips. “Ye want me to rally the people, do ye?” He stood. “I’ll rally the people.” Cupping his hands around his mouth, he shouted. “We’re going to fight for Scottish independence. Who’s with us?”

  The room erupted into cheers. Chuckling, Rory sat down and winked at David. “Don’t fash yerself. Ye know where my loyalties lie.”

  Just then another barmaid leaned over and thumped down two full tankards, sloshing ale on the table
. Rory pressed a kiss to her blushing cheek before raising his cup to David. “Alba gu bràth.” Scotland Forever.

  David sat back in his chair, a rare smile playing at his lips. “Alba gu bràth.”

  Rory set his tankard down and reached toward the wooden tray in the center of the table. He passed over the cheese and bread, choosing a red apple. A fleeting sadness caused a pang in his heart. Apples always reminded him of his wee sister, Rosalyn. She was one of thousands of innocents slain on the streets of Berwick when King Edward of England claimed the once Scottish city for himself. At the time, Rosalyn had been selling apples in Berwick’s once bustling marketplace. Six years had passed. The approaching winter would have marked her thirteenth year. His grip tightened around the apple as the all too familiar fury laid claim to his soul. The Berwick massacre had completely altered Rory’s life. Once he had worked the docks alongside his da, but both his parents had also been cut down in the streets. He and his four brothers and eldest sister had been forced to flee their demolished city, becoming exiles. That was when Rory first took up the cause, alongside his siblings. His dedication had never wavered, nor would it do so now. His first priority would always be Scotland.

  He knew Abbot Matthew was right. The time had come to rally the people. He set the apple down among the bread and cheese and locked eyes with David. “Weapons,” he said.

  “What the devil are ye talking about now?”

  Rory leaned forward. “If Abbot Matthew wishes to turn farmers into soldiers, we’ll need weapons.”

  The door swung open just then drawing Rory’s gaze. Into the Sunk Ship walked a scrawny lad. Rory guessed he had no more than ten years to his credit. He kept his eyes down and crossed straight to where the barkeep stood, uncorking a new barrel of ale. The man bent to give the lad his ear. Moments later, again without looking up, the boy dashed out the door. A shiver of expectation shot up Rory’s spine when the barkeep turned and looked directly at him and made the sign of the cross.

  Rory stood. “Abbot Matthew is looking for me.”

  David raised his glass. “To another mission. Alba gu bràth.”

  “Indeed,” Rory said before setting out across the room.

  “Rory!”

  Rory glanced back when he heard David’s call.

  “Maybe he can reveal something about Alex MacKenzie.”

  Rory smiled. “Why do ye think I’m leaving now and not after I’ve finished my ale?”

  Chapter Three

  Morning sunlight painted the village in soft golden hues and wrapped around Alex like a warm blanket as she wound her way through the narrow village paths. Regrettably, her current mission did not involve smuggling coin or protecting rebel secrets; she was simply making the rounds, checking in on every MacKenzie in the village. Although she was happy to once again be home among her people, she was already feeling restless. She thrived on her secret work for the cause. Still, having been gone from the Highlands for nearly a month, it was her duty as lady of Luthmore Castle to ensure her people’s needs were met, and with her wee brother at her side, she was seeing to that—

  Alex stopped and looked around. William was nowhere to be seen.

  “Will,” she called back down the lane. Then a red-haired lad of twelve years, pulling a small cart laden with bread, cloth, and other essentials, came barreling around the corner, a broad smile lighting his freckled face.

  “Arabel’s wee ones wouldn’t let me leave until I’d given them all shoulder rides,” Will said, arriving breathless at her side. He rubbed one of his shoulders. “Her oldest, Calum, is only three years younger than me. It was not an easy task.”

  Alex laughed and resisted the urge to ruffle his hair. “The Lord will bless ye for the joy ye gave them.” Her heart swelling with pride, she pulled him close in a warm embrace. Will was not her brother by birth, but she could not have loved him more. He became her wee brother just weeks after he was born when both his parents had succumbed to illness.

  Alex remembered that sorrowful day well.

  It was the morning after her seventh birthday. Her mother, Alana, who regularly suffered from severe coughing spells, had awoken feeling a little short of breath. Over the course of the morning, the cough settled into her chest and soon she was wheezing and sweating. Alex’s father, Donnan, carried Alana to their chamber. Alex followed behind with careful steps, clasping a bowl with the cook’s remedy for her mother’s breathing attacks, a big scoop of mustard powder, mixed with vinegar and honey. Dipping her head, she smelled the concoction. The pungent fragrance made her eyes water. Once inside her parent’s chamber, her father laid her mother down. Still, she wheezed and sputtered for breath.

  “I’ll take that now, Alex,” one of her mother’s maids said. “I’ll make a compress for yer mum’s chest, and she’ll feel better in no time.”

  “Come along now, Alex,” her father said, drawing her gaze away from her mother’s suffering. Donnan scooped her into his arms. His gentle smile soothed her worry. “She’ll be better soon. Ye’ll see.” Then he glanced back at Alana. Alex did not miss the fleeting look of concern that pinched his features before he gave her a toss in the air and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. “Come along, my sweet lass. We’ve work to do in the village.”

  The sun had risen high in the sky, and Alex and her father were still making the rounds when the village midwife, Morag, came rushing at them, hollering for her laird.

  “Ye must come, Donnan,” she cried. “Thomas and Rhona, the poor lambs, have taken a turn for the worse. ‘Tis grave. There isn’t a moment to lose. I’m on my way to fetch Father Kenneth.”

  Alex and her father hurried to the cottage of a young couple who had been ill for days.

  “We were just here, Da,” Alex whispered, gripping tighter to his hand. “Remember? A few weeks ago, we came to welcome their baby into the clan.”

  Brows drawn, her father knelt in front of her. “I remember, pet. Now, listen. Wait out here for me. No matter what happens, do not come inside. Ye ken?”

  Her heart suddenly felt heavy in her chest. Despite her tender years, she knew something truly dreadful was happening. She nodded in reply, unable to speak for the knot that had gathered in her throat.

  “Good lass,” her father said. Then he pressed a hurried kiss to her forehead the instant before he turned and disappeared inside the cottage.

  Within minutes of Donnan’s arrival, Father Kenneth hurried down the lane and went into the cottage. He had been there no time at all before stepping back out.

  “Father, what’s wrong?” Alex asked.

  He looked up as if only just noticing her there. “Ah, my lady, Thomas has left this earthly life. We can only pray for his soul now.”

  Alex remembered well when other clansmen arrived to remove Thomas’s shrouded body to the church, followed by a wake of anguished villagers. Not knowing what else to do, she’d followed them.

  “Tis such a tragedy. They were so very young.”

  “Aye. He died as soon as the laird arrived, as if he’d been waiting for another man to take his place.”

  “Little good it will do. Rhona is not long for this world either.”

  “And the poor wee bairn. What’s to become of him?”

  After a few moments, the mournful procession filled her with fear. Heart racing, she turned away and darted back to the cottage, longing for the protection of her da’s embrace. But just before her fingers connected with the slatted wood door, she froze, remembering her promise not to go inside no matter what occurred. Taking a deep breath, her trembling fingers pushed the door open—only a crack—not enough to see inside, just enough to hear Rhona’s dying pleas and rattled breaths and Donnan’s words of comfort.

  “Take my son,” Rhona pleaded. “Make him yers, Donnan. ‘Tis the only way…to save him from the doom that has marked his new life.”

  Her father’s warm voice reached Alex’s ears. “Yer son will want for nothing. I promise ye.”

  “Nay,” R
hona cried, her voice straining against fatigue and pain. “I ken…ye’ll care for him. I’m asking ye to make him yers—not yer heir…just yer son… Give him yer heart.”

  Alex peered around the door then, despite her father’s command to remain outside and away from the tainted air. Women knelt along one side of the dying lass’s pallet, sobbing, while Donnan knelt on her other side. Alex watched as her father took Rhona’s trembling hands in his own strong calloused ones. “I promise ye, I will. Yer son will be invited into my heart and my home. I will love him as if he were my own. He shall grow to valor. He will come to believe in his own worth, and above all, I will teach him kindness—the true mark of any man.”

  Peace fell over Rhona’s face, softening away the pain that had marred her youthful beauty. “Thank ye,” she said in a whisper that barely reached Alex’s ears. Her father leaned over and pressed a kiss to Rhona’s forehead. Then he continued to sit with her, cradling her hands in his, whispering soothing words that Alex could not hear, but she could feel the warmth and peace they held.

  “Aunt Alana is feeling a little better.”

  Alex’s head jerked up. Her cousin, Mary, younger by two years, looked down at her, her little brows drawn together. Mary knelt beside Alex. “What has happened? Everyone is whispering and crying.”

  “Thomas died,” Alex said, her voice breaking. “Rhona is going to die, too.”

  Tears flooded Mary’s eyes. “But then their new baby won’t have a mum or da, like me.”

  Alex swallowed the thick knot in her throat and nodded.

  “But who will he live with?” Mary cried. “When my parents died, I came to Luthmore. Where will the baby have to go?”

  Alex wrapped her arm around Mary. “I’m not certain, but I think he is going to live with us.”

  Long after the sun had set and candles illuminated the small cottage, William’s young mother slipped from their world with the laird of the MacKenzie at her side. When her body was taken to the kirk to rest beside Thomas, Alex’s father took William from the woman who had been tending him. He turned to where Alex and Mary sat together, their backs against the side of the cottage.