The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5

by Lily Baldwin

  So engrossed was she in her mental ramble that she walked right up to the riverman without the captain at her side. Despite the warmth of the day, he wore a black cloak over a patched tunic. His long, dull brown hair blended into his bushy beard. She could not tell where one ended and the other began.

  “Wait for your husband before you board,” he said gruffly, holding out a thickly calloused palm to block her way.

  Her husband?

  “Oh, aye, indeed, I will just wait for my husband,” she said nervously. Tristan joined her a moment later and took her hand. “I’m so glad ye’re here, Captain,” she said, smiling up at him. “This man made me wait for my husband to board, and now, here ye are, my husband.”

  An amused smile curved Tristan’s lips. “It was good of you to wait.”

  She watched as Tristan pressed several coins into the man’s hand. “Can we embark? My wife and I have an appointment with the tailor. We do not wish to be late.”

  “Right away,” the man answered, clearly spurred on by the new coin he added to his purse. He stormed over to where some children sat on a bench. “Clear the way for the captain and his wife,” he barked.

  A frown darkened Tristan’s features. “Thank you, but my wife and I wish to stand and stretch our legs,” Then he crossed to where the children now huddled together, afraid of the shaggy riverman’s wrath. He squatted down and motioned to the bench. “Please, go back and sit.” They stared up at him with wide fearful eyes, but Rose watched their countenances slowly change. Soon, they all climbed back onto the bench.

  “Thank you,” a woman in rough homespun wool said to Tristan. “I worry they will fall in.”

  Rose could not help smiling up at Tristan when he returned to her side. He was as warm-hearted as a man could be, and this made her feel proud to be his wife—even if it was only pretend. “Ye’re a good man,” she whispered to him.

  He pursed his full lips and pressed his finger to them. “Another secret you must keep or else my men will think I’m soft.”

  She laughed. “Yer men adore ye, and ye ken they do. Never have men sung their captain’s praises more.”

  He flashed her a sexy sideways smile, and she felt her knees go weak. She looked down at her tunic to escape the heat of his gaze, which reminded her of what he had told the riverman. She fingered the soft fabric. “Ye mentioned going to visit a tailor, but ye’ve already purchased me this fine tunic. Surely, I do not need more than one serviceable gown.”

  He gave a soft chuckle, the rich sound tempted her to once again meet his gaze. “As my wife, Rose, you will need many serviceable tunics, not to mention veils, wimples, jewels, and an assortment of other items.”

  Her eyes widened at the list of treasures he intended to buy for her. “If ye think that is all necessary, but my brother’s wives have warned me about wimples and headdresses. I might have to draw a line there.”

  He smiled. “I don’t blame you. They do seem very confining, and since you are my Scottish bride from the isles, I believe wearing a veil alone would be appropriate.”

  A short while later, Rose rested her hand comfortably on the captain’s arm while they traversed the long dock. She upturned her face to the warm sun.

  “Are you happy to be on solid ground?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Indeed. It feels heavenly to stretch my legs.”

  They carried on down a dirt road, passing peat huts with thatched roofs like her own on Colonsay. Soon, the one-story homes and shops gave way to two and three-story stone buildings. It was in front of a tall stone building with an oversized pair of scissors hanging above the door that they stopped.

  Tristan opened the door for her. “After you, my dear.”

  Rose smiled and started to step forward, but then she hesitated. “What am I to expect?” she said. “I’ve never been to a tailor. I’ve always made my own clothing.”

  “Expect a flurry of activity. This will not be a relaxed visit, given the demand of my order. They will be measuring, poking, and prodding you amid a dizzying array of fabrics and colors. I promise that you will be exhausted before we leave.”

  “Will I survive?” she jested to hide her sudden nerves.

  “You will, but it is to the tailor and his staff that we must give our sympathy. While I take you for a stroll through the market to recover, they will be working their fingers to the bone to complete our order in time for our departure on the morrow.”

  “Och, those poor people.”

  “On the contrary, I will be lining their pockets heavily to complete the task. Trust me, Rose, they are glad for our business.”

  Rose entered and straightaway a short, stocky man in green hose and a darker green tunic made of thick brocade seized her hand. “You must be Captain Thatcher’s bride.”

  She opened her mouth to confirm his statement when he jerked her forward, robbing her mouth of words. A breath later, she was standing on a stool surrounded by half a dozen sets of scrutinizing eyes and as many pairs of poking and prodding hands.

  “My dear,” Tristan called to her over the heads of the tailor and his servants. “I would like to introduce you to Roger the Tailor. Roger, this is my wife, Rose.”

  Roger stood next to her. “Pleased to meet you, Mistress Thatcher. Lift your arms.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” she said in jest, but the tailor either didn’t appreciate her humor or his brain was too full of measurements, colors, and fabric to have heard it. She raised her arms and saw the smile on Tristan’s face, demonstrating that he, at least, had enjoyed her jest.

  Roger’s nimble fingers proceeded to pinch and poke her from head to toe while he barked orders at her and everyone else in the room. Servants with arms full of draping cloth moved around the room like a dance, gracefully swooping close to her with new fabrics, then backing away again as someone else stepped forward. Colors flashed by her eyes as they were arranged across her shoulders then whisked away.

  “Bring me the olive brocade, Thomas,” Roger shouted.

  A moment later, a thin boy with wide eyes and a panic-stricken face disappeared to the back of the room. When he finished selecting a fabric, he raced back to Roger’s side.

  “Does that look like olive green to you, boy? You are my apprentice. Do not shame me.”

  Rose watched the boy glance at the dark green swath of brocade, clearly uncertain whether his answer should be aye or nay.

  “No, it is not,” Roger barked.

  The boy’s eyes grew even wider as he raced back to the teeming shelves where he stood unmoving, his hands gripping his hair. Rose’s gaze flitted between the impatient tailor and the nervous lad, wishing there was some way she could help. But then Tristan crossed the room and assisted the lad who looked like he wanted to throw his arms around the captain’s neck in gratitude. Her heart flooded with warmth as she met Tristan’s gaze. She decided in that moment that there was nothing more appealing in a man than quiet confidence. Tristan wore his size and strength with graceful ease. He was humble and good, and he led his men with a firm but kind hand. If she did ever decide to marry again, she hoped he possessed the same gentle strength.

  When Roger at last bade her step down, Tristan had ordered seven tunics and surcotes of various silks and rich brocades, several kirtles, just as many veils and sleeping gowns, not to mention three pairs of slippers. She could not imagine how she was ever going to wear everything. It was amazing and ridiculous all at once. And one thing she knew for certain, it was an adventure.

  “Ye’re right, Captain. I’m exhausted,” she said, her heart still racing from the excitement.

  Just as the door was shutting behind them, Roger shouted. “Not that one, Thomas!”

  Rose raised her brows in alarm. “Poor, Thomas,” she said, her heart going out to the hardworking boy.

  “Thomas is very fortunate. He will become a great tailor under Roger’s tutelage. There are many young men in Cardiff who wish they were the one Roger had chosen to yell at.”

  As they w
alked away, they could hear the wild din of activity coming from the tailor’s shop. “And remember, I’ve put in a special order. Normally, Roger isn’t such a tyrant.”

  Rose shook her head slightly, feeling as if she were in a daze. “I still do not know how I am ever to wear seven tunics. Are we quite finished enhancing my wardrobe?”

  Tristan laughed and took her arm, heading farther into town. “We have only just begun.”

  Chapter Ten

  Cardiff Green was teeming with tents draped in banners of every color.

  “You see,” Tristan said, pointing to the endless rows of stalls. “All the guilds are represented: bakers, butchers, grocers, millers, smiths, weavers and more. They all stand together to ensure fair treatment from the aristocracy.” Within each tent stood a vendor calling out to passersby, boasting of the quality of their wares.

  Rose scanned Cardiff’s bustling market. The lively scene could never compare to the Berwick market of her youth, but the colors and smells brought a rush of memories to her heart. She closed her eyes and saw Berwick’s maze of cobbled streets and towering five-story homes. She saw the foreign merchants with carpets, tapestries, and spices for sale. And of course, she remembered her favorite market stalls—the fishermen where her father and brothers had often worked.

  “What are you thinking?” Tristan asked, his gentle voice pulling her back to the present.

  Her eyes flew open. “Forgive me,” she said. “I was in another place, another time.” She stepped forward and allowed herself to enjoy the new and glorious sights. “Where should we begin?” she asked.

  “Let us stroll the market at our leisure,” Tristan suggested. “And while we do, we can decide upon the particulars of our meeting, courtship, and, of course, our wedding so that our stories align.”

  She smiled. “Well, I suppose we should start at the beginning.” She dipped in a deep curtsy. “My Christian name is Rose Coira MacVie Sinclair. What ‘tis yers, Captain?”

  “Tristan Emanuel Thatcher,” he answered, bowing at the waist.

  She pressed her hand to her chest. “That would make me Mistress Tristan Emanuel Thatcher.”

  A smile tugged at his lips. “Yes, I suppose you are. I honestly never thought I would hear a woman say those words.”

  She laughed. “Well, ye do not appear to be overly distressed.”

  He offered her his arm as they continued to stroll through the market. “Not in the least. Now, let us decide on how we met, keeping in mind our first meeting must have happened sooner than it actually did for us to have wed before I made port on Skye and received my father’s message.”

  They passed by a stall selling fabrics in every color: scarlet, yellow, greens, and black. “We certainly do not need anything here,” Rose said, quickening her pace.

  He laughed. “I promise, no more tunics.”

  They moved onto the next stall. She stared absently at the wooden toys and ragdolls while she considered the question of how they met. “I suppose we should hold to the truth as much as we can…One evening on the Messenger, ye spotted something adrift on the open water.”

  Tristan joined in. “And much to my surprise, it was a beautiful shipwrecked woman.”

  Rose felt her cheeks warm. “I thought we decided to keep to the facts.”

  He stopped and took her hands, his face serious. “Rose, believe me when I tell you that you are infinitely beautiful.”

  She dipped her head, her gaze dropping to the ground. No man since her husband had called her beautiful or looked at her the way the captain did. “So are ye,” she said softly, meeting his gaze once more. For a moment, she could not breathe as she lost herself within the depths of his dark eyes.

  Tristan cleared his throat and led her past several stalls. “Let’s see then, so you were sailing your new skiff when a storm swept your boat out to sea.”

  She also cleared her throat. “Indeed, and then ye rescued me and nursed me back to health.”

  “And then we fell in love.”

  Rose’s stomach fluttered at the mention of love from Tristan’s lips.

  Don’t be daft, Rose.

  This was a mission.

  It was not about love.

  It was about saving his family and bringing greater wealth to hers.

  Her eyes brightened, thinking of the Messenger. “Were we wed at sea?”

  Tristan nodded. “That is a fine idea. It would save us from the blasphemy of lying about a chapel wedding. Let us agree then that Philip performed the ceremony, and I as captain authorized the union. It will be as though we handfasted.”

  “Perfect,” she exclaimed. “Then our meeting and marriage are settled. What is left to decide?”

  He smiled. “My sister will ask after decorations, and what we served for our wedding feast.”

  She wrinkled her brow. “How interesting can we make it? Wouldn’t we be limited to what supplies ye had on board?”

  “For such an occasion, I would have sent men to the mainland to fetch whatever provisions we required on our journey south to Skye.”

  “In that case…” Rose’s words trailed off as she started to move about the market for ideas. She picked up a bunch of dried lavender. “Let us say that we hung bunches of lavender off the stair rails leading to the forecastle where the ceremony took place.” Then she crossed to another table where she touched fine silk. “What is yer sister’s favorite color?”

  “Last I knew it was blue, but you know how changeable the young mind is.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Rose said while she considered the different fabric shades. “We hung dark blue silk-bunting across the starboard rails, and sky-blue portside.”

  “The color of your eyes,” he said, his lips lifting once more in that sideways smile. She quickly turned away from his handsomeness and appeared to consider the contents of the next table; however, it took her mind a moment to catch up with her hand. Realizing she was holding a small fish, she turned and smiled. “We…er…served fried kippers.”

  “Excellent,” he said, laughing “What else?”

  She put down the fish. Her gaze danced over the stalls on the other side of the green, which were piled high with fruits, vegetables, and grains. She darted over to one with lovely red apples. Her mother and her sister used to sell apples at market. She picked one up and inhaled its sweet scent. “I love stewed apples.”

  “I do too,” he said. “How does stewed apples with cream sound?”

  “Heavenly, and fresh bread with lots of butter,” she added.

  “And stuffed quail,” he said. “To my father, an occasion is not acceptable without some kind of stuffed game bird.”

  She smiled. “I must say, it sounds as though we had a lovely wedding.”

  “Indeed,” he said, before patting his stomach. “So lovely in fact that I’m afraid our imaginings have churned up a true hunger in me. Would you be interested in picnicking on the green?”

  At that moment, her own stomach growled. “Ye’ve had yer answer, Captain,” she said, laughing. “I’m famished.”

  He gently took her hand. “You know, Rose, if our story is to be believed, do you not think it best to call me, Tristan?”

  Her stomach fluttered, but this time not from hunger. Using his Christian name felt so intimate and made their charade seem that much more real, which was, of course, exactly what they were hoping to achieve. “All right, then. I will.”

  He smiled. “Well, aren’t you going to try it out, or are you now going to avoid saying my name altogether.”

  She straightened her shoulders and gave him a stern look. “I will say yer name when the moment demands it, Captain, and not a moment—”

  “Tristan,” he said, interrupting her.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I know yer name, Captain.”

  He drew closer, his deep-set eyes holding her own gaze captive. “Say it.”

  She bristled. “Ye act as if I cannot say yer name, but I am very capable of speaking. I’m not a simpleton
.”

  “Then say it,” he insisted.

  Her gaze dropped to the ground. “Tristan,” she said quietly.

  “Look at me and say it,” he bade her softly.

  She swallowed hard and looked up. They locked eyes. Her heart started to race. She licked her lips. “Tristan.”

  A slow smile curved his lips wide. “I like how you say it…Tristan,” he said, imitating her accent.

  Rose blushed again. Her hands flew to her cheeks. “’Tis not respectable for a woman my age to go about blushing.”

  He offered her his arm. “I didn’t know blushing was one of the many things we’re forced to relinquish with age.”

  She wove her arm through his. “Now that ye know, I will thank ye to remember,” she said, trying not to smile.

  Together, they scanned the various stalls and chose some meat pies and apples. Then they crossed to the far side of the green and sat on the grass to enjoy their meal.

  “Tell me more about yourself,” he said before crunching into his apple.

  He caught her off guard. What else could she tell him? She couldn’t say too much about her family. Her brothers were Scottish rebels and outlaws to the crown. Ian was not a wanted man, but at that moment, he was on a secret mission for Scotland—not exactly supper conversation. She still hadn’t told him about her husband or her daughters, but that was too intimate, too revealing, and most definitely not for a lovely summer’s day picnic.

  “There is little else to tell ye,” she said, picking at her pie. “I lead a simple life. One day follows the next with little variation.”

  “What do you love?” he asked softly. “What are you passionate about?”

  She looked up and met his gaze. “The sea,” she said without thinking. “I love the sea.” She dropped her gaze. “And my family.”

  He nodded. “We are similar creatures, Rose.”

  She could feel his gaze on her. Remembering that she was a woman grown and not an inexperienced maid, she met his gaze without faltering. “Indeed, we are, Tristan.”