An Outlaw's Word (Highland Heartbeats Book 9)

by Aileen Adams

  He pulled his hand back, looking down at her feet.

  She cleared her throat. “Now. He said it would take two days to reach Cherbourg. That is when we will truly face a challenge, is it not?”

  The lass was merely doing her best to move past that awkward moment, and he could not have adored her more for it if he tried. She seemed to possess an instinctive understanding of him, as he did of her.

  He adored her far too greatly, all things considered. It would pain him beyond measure to take his leave of her.

  “Aye,” he agreed, gruffer than he had intended, but in need of a way to mask his torment. The softening of his opinion of her. “We shall ask about, or, rather, you shall, since I still do not trust myself to speak. Especially in front of the French.”

  “They will know you for a Scotsman in an instant,” she whispered with a soft chuckle.

  “Aye, they will that. You will ask, then, where the Marquis can be found. He has sent for you. I expect almost anyone would be able to tell ye where to find his estate.”

  She waited, eyes wide, breath all but held in anticipation. “And then what?”

  A fair question. One to which he did not yet have the answer.

  “I will think on it as we sail,” he decided, then changed the subject by arranging his bedroll for her. “You ought to rest. The bandages on your leg will need to be changed in the morning.”

  She gasped as though suddenly coming to a realization. “What will you sleep on?”

  He had made his bed out of a horse blanket, using the saddle as a pillow, but they had sold the beast in Burghead to pay for their passage.

  He shrugged. “I shall make do. Ye must consider, lass, how often I’ve made a suitable bed out of far less than a floor and a pack of garments beneath my head. I shall be quite comfortable.”

  She did not look convinced as she settled in, though it was clear from how quickly she relaxed that she was indeed exhausted. The stubborn lass required constant reminding that she was recovering from serious illness and ought not push herself too hard.

  Their quarters, if they could be called that, were humble. All around them sat boxes and crates, sacks and barrels, all of which would be transported to Cherbourg and other points along the coast of France. The cargo provided privacy, at least, the two of them having worked their way to the rear of the hold.

  Would that the sea might remain calm throughout their journey, or else they could be crushed by falling or sliding cargo as they slept.

  The thought kept him alert, always on the watch while Ysmaine slept behind him. He assumed she slept, at the very least, since she went silent soon after lying down.

  What would he do once they reached the shore? He hadn’t thought his plan out that far. he’d never thought any of it out, really, merely acting and reacting as situations presented themselves. So far, this approach had served him well.

  But a Marquis would be no fool. Nor would he wish to part with his money so easily. Without the threat of a murdered bride hanging over his head, how could Quinn convince him to pay the ransom?

  21

  The air was cold, bracing, and it made Ysmaine smile to look all about her and see nothing but sparkling water. She felt stronger and healthier than she had in a long time and gave credit to the fresh air and abundant sunshine.

  At first, it had been her intention to remain in the hold as much as possible. The less she interacted with the crew, the less chance of unfortunate questions. While Quinn seemed to have faith in her, she had little in herself.

  She often asked herself what it was he saw in her. Perhaps he was merely pretending to have more faith in her than he did, all to keep her from destroying their chance of success.

  She wrapped the cloak more tightly about her, shivering slightly but loving every minute of it. This was the first time she had ever sailed, in her heart of hearts, she had feared the notion. What if she became ill, as many did when they bobbed over the water? What if the ship ran into a storm and sank?

  So many questions. It never served her to fret over what had not yet occurred and might never occur, but knowing this did not stop her from doing so.

  She had never risked so much, after all.

  “Good morning to ye!” The captain greeted her in his usual fashion.

  She sensed he’d taken a liking to her, but he’d always been respectful in his treatment after that first attempt at intimidating her on the dock in front of the ship.

  He ran a hand over his balding head as if to hold in place the remaining black curls which blew about it in a cloud. “A fine day, is it not?” he asked with a grin. He loved his ship, loved his way of life. She envied him that love, never having known it herself.

  What would it mean to wake in the morning, certain that the day would bring her that which she enjoyed? To put her hands to work which brought her happiness.

  “It is that,” she agreed. “A fine, clear day. And a calm one, at that.”

  “Aye,” he chuckled. “Tis the sort of day a sailor prays for.” He looked about the deck of the ship. “Where is your escort this fine morning?”

  “Below deck,” she explained, barely keeping her teeth from gritting together. She reminded herself that the man bore neither of them ill will, that he merely asked an innocent question anyone might have asked were they in his position. “He does not take well to the ship’s motion.”

  The captain laughed, though gently. “Aye. It isn’t the life for everyone. Some simply cannot tolerate it. But you look as though you were born to it. A shame you had to be born a woman, begging your pardon,” he was quick to add, an apologetic smile masking his embarrassment. “My tongue gets the better of me at times.”

  She only shook her head. “No matter. I’m sure my father felt the same more than once.”

  “What takes ye to Cherbourg, then?” he asked, and she reminded herself once again that he was merely curious and kindly. Making polite conversation.

  “I have a business matter to settle there,” was her simple explanation. She then took her leave of the man, bowing slightly before retreating to the hold.

  If he felt her rude or abrupt, there was little she could do to make up for it. He asked too many questions, regardless of his intentions. She feared she might slip up and say too much.

  After carefully descending the ladder, she waited while her eyes adjusted to the darkness which contrasted so sharply with the bright light above. The crew came down from time to time, checking on the cargo and fetching their own supplies from the far side of the ship’s hull. She and Quinn were opposite that end, meaning they had little contact with the few men working onboard.

  The shifting of one of the crates made her jump out of the way in case it fell. “Just me, lass,” Quinn breathed.

  She placed a shaking hand over her heart. “You nearly frightened me to death. I thought I was about to be crushed.” She followed him back to the secluded spot they’d claimed as their own, both thrilled for the excuse to spend time alone with him in such close quarters and wishing they at least had a window to look through.

  She had never been very fond of darkness.

  “Conditions are favorable,” she whispered once they were alone. “We ought to reach the harbor by tonight.”

  “Aye, that is good news to be certain.”

  He did not sound certain. Not at all. Neither was she, though she knew their uncertainty stemmed from different places.

  He was uncertain of how they would manage to demand ransom and successfully collect it.

  She was uncertain of whether she wanted to part ways with him at all.

  Quinn had gone from an adversary, her captor, to the closest thing to a friend she’d ever had. Childhood friends were something else entirely, and they were all she had ever known. This man—infuriating and rough and contentious though he was—had earned her respect, her gratitude, her admiration.

  Her affection, which she did not dare express. What a fool he would take her for.

  He sighed
deeply, and in the very faint light which streamed down from above deck, she saw the way he rubbed his hands together, the way he stroked his stubble-covered jaw.

  “You are concerned,” she whispered. Would that she might comfort him at this time, but there was little comfort she felt entitled to give.

  How fantastical, a captive woman wishing to offer comfort to her captor. A man who had once held a dirk to her throat.

  A man who had ridden a horse through driving rain and thick mud in order to save her life.

  “I am tired,” he replied.

  “You did not sleep well.”

  “Hardly at all.”

  “You said a name in your sleep.” She blurted it out before she could stop herself, even though she’d taken a silent vow to never breathe a word of it. The way he had spoken in his sleep the night before. She had intended to keep it to herself, closely guarded as to avoid wounding his pride, but there was no longer a chance of that outcome.

  He grunted. “I did? Who was it?”

  There was no sense in lying, and she was nearly fit to burst with curiosity, besides. “Bridget.”

  His expression was not to be read in the dim light. He turned away just the same, as though not to betray his reaction.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, suddenly wishing she hadn’t said a word. Suddenly more curious than ever before. “I ought not to have mentioned it. It was only that you seemed very uneasy. Fitful. That is all.”

  That was an understatement. He’d sounded furious at first when he spoke her name, before mumbling words Ysmaine had been unable to make sense of and finally sighing.

  The sigh was what had most gripped her heart. The sigh of a brokenhearted man.

  He had slept again after that, while she had fought sleeplessness until dawn broke and the ship came alive with activity. Asking herself all the while who Bridget was to him and why he’d sighed so pitifully.

  “It’s I who ought to apologize, lass,” he murmured. “If I woke ye.”

  “No matter.” She stifled a yawn.

  “I’m glad it was ye who heard the name and not one of my friends, Brice would never have let me hear the end of it if I’d spoken of a woman in my sleep,” Quinn chuckled. She thought she heard a bitter edge there. “They already make light of my… well, of my way with women.”

  This intrigued her, and stirred jealousy in her breast. “You have a way with women?” she asked, keeping her voice light. As though it mattered not.

  “Aye,” he whispered. “Or so they say. Nothing serious, mind ye.”

  This did not soothe her. “If they heard you were dreaming of a woman, then, they would never allow you to hear the end of it.”

  “You’ve summed it up well,” he snorted. “Mind ye, we laugh and jest with each other, and none of us takes it seriously. But there are certain things a man does not want to hear those around him laughing over.”

  “And Bridget is one of those things,” she whispered with a sinking heart. He was still in love with this Bridget, then. She ought to have known he was not truly free.

  “She made a fool of me, and I would rather not be reminded of it.” His hands clenched tight at his sides, nearly at eye-level with her when she sat. How she longed to take one of those fists and ease it open, to hold his hand. To press her lips to his palm and whisper of how all would be well.

  The impulse frightened her with its suddenness and strength.

  He looked down at her, unaware of the alarming direction her thoughts had taken. “We were to be wed, or so I believed,” he explained in a short, curt tone. “We met when I passed through on the way to Largs with the rest of my unit and camped a short distance from her village. She came out along with a group of young lasses to provide food and wine to as many as could be fed.”

  He snorted. “I suspect some of her friends were looking to collect the hard-earned wages of the soldiers they served, if ye get my meaning.”

  Ysmaine blushed. They were of a certain sort of women, in other words. Those who made a living by servicing men.

  “For all I know, she was one of them, as well,” he admitted. “I knew nothing of such things, young as I was. Barely seventeen at the time, into the army straight from the farm, unaware of the ways of the world no matter how experienced and impressive I imagined myself. It is difficult to imagine I was ever so daft. She paid special attention to me throughout my encampment, a comely thing, with fire-red hair and eyes as green as new spring grass. We took walks along the river and spoke of our lives, what we wanted for ourselves. She said time and again how she wished to escape her village, how unhappy she was with her life. Now, I understand why she might have been. But at the time? I imagined myself as her hero.”

  She nodded; what else was she to do?

  “I thought I was a man, capable of making such decisions,” he explained, glancing at Ysmaine. “A brave one, at that, one willing to fight as I did and perhaps die for the sake of a greater cause. I thought I knew everything, the way only young men do.”

  “Young women do, as well,” she pointed out with a wry smile, thinking of herself.

  “Aye, I suppose it is so,” he admitted. “I asked her to be my wife, to marry me when the war was finished. She jumped at the chance. I was happier that night than I had ever been in all my years.”

  He turned his face away again. “It is too shameful to be borne, truly. I gave her all the money I had, which was not much, but I had earned it with the sweat of my brow. I told her to hold it for me, that I would come back for her once the fighting was done and we could be wed.”

  Ysmaine’s heart sank. What a foolish young man he was, indeed.

  “I suppose you can imagine what happened when I looked for her in that little village,” he recounted with a bitter laugh. “She was gone, long since gone, with my heart and my money and my hopes for the future. I had fought with her on my mind ever since that night. Marched with her in my heart. The only thing to keep me going when things were worst was the thought that I would be returning to her. Imagine, then, how humiliating it was to find that not only had she long since run away, but every man in the village knew who she was. And I do mean every man.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Ysmaine whispered, wondering if she ought to speak at all but unable to remain silent when he was clearly pained by the memory. “You said yourself how young and unknowing you were. There is no cause to hold on to any anger or resentment toward yourself for falling into a trap.”

  “Just the same,” he muttered. “I will never forget the shame of that day, hearing them laugh behind my back when I turned away.”

  She imagined this, imagined the younger version of Quinn going from place to place, asking anyone he met about the young woman he had fallen in love with over the course of a few riverside walks. How they must have laughed at him, indeed, if Bridget was the sort of woman he’d described.

  He was hardly the first man she’d taken money from, but her methods had been terribly dishonest in this case. Painfully so.

  She wished nothing more just then than to hold him, to soothe his heart.

  She could not. No matter how close he was to her, merely a breath away, he might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  “I am sorry I spoke of it,” she said, meaning every word.

  He shrugged. “It matters not. I am only sorry I woke ye with my memories. Would that I might be able to rid myself of them.”

  Indeed. She wished that for him as well.

  22

  “All ashore!”

  The captain’s voice rang out over the din of activity both inside the ship and throughout the harbor. It sent a chill to Quinn’s heart, knowing this would mark the end of his quest.

  If all went well, he would have his ransom by the following day and would be on his way back to Scotland, back to Lennox. He’d already taken far too long.

  Would his brother still be alive and healthy by the time he reached the prison?

  He studied Ysmaine from the c
orner of his eye. She was unreadable, lost in thought. What was she feeling as they prepared to disembark? What did she truly think of him, of what he was about to make her do?

  A quick flash of a smile soothed him somewhat, telling him there was nothing to fear. Not that he had feared, or so he told himself.

  He would be able to bear never seeing her again as long as he knew she did not think poorly of him. If her memories of him and their time together were pleasant—as pleasant as could be, under the circumstances—he would rest well at night.

  “We will take lodging at an inn off the harbor,” he reminded her, “and that is where you will set about writing the letter to the Marquis. I’m certain someone in the village would accept a few pence for the trouble of transporting it.”

  They had decided the previous evening to take this course of action. Ysmaine would write an impassioned letter to the Marquis, telling him she had been taken captive and that her captor demanded a ransom for her safe passage to his estate. She would call upon her personal ties to the man—she had still not revealed them to Quinn, insisting on keeping her private affairs to herself.

  Even after he had spilled out his heart to her, sharing the most shameful tale in a life full of shameful tales. For he was not proud of many things he’d done. Lives he had taken for whatever reason. Some men bragged of such doings, but not him.

  Bridget, however, was entirely another matter. For she had made a fool of him, and this was not something he suffered easily. After so many years and so much more life lived, he still felt the acute sting of wounded pride and a broken heart whenever his memory took him back to that horrid day in the village.

  Were it not for her, might he have settled down with some likely lass? Perhaps, after all, when Brice had approached him with an offer to join the band of traveling soldiers Quinn would come to think of as his family, he had accepted because there was nothing better to aspire to.

  Bridget had taken the heart from him, plain and simple, and he had lived a wanderer’s life as a result.