Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) (3 page)

Isabella had been attacked, nearly raped, and then abducted when her only wish had been to see her sister. At once, she realized the empty significance of her thought. After all, her mother’s visit to the market had resulted in her death. On any given day, most people did not ask for much. Few were those who wanted it all and would kill to take it.

She lifted off the saddle, suspended in air for a moment while they presumably leapt over some obstacle in their path. She cursed the blindfold and the hand gripping her waist. At first, fear had clouded her every thought while she had set off into the unknown, enclosed within the arms of her captor. It felt as if hours had passed, although, in truth, she knew it might have been mere minutes so great had been her panic. Still, somehow along the way, her heart had ceased its race and her breathing slowed.

Her eyes had been rendered useless and so she tried to use smells and sounds to guess their location. But the large, hard man holding her dominated her other senses. His breathing, loud and hot in her ear through his mask, muffled bird song and the clomp of the horse’s hooves. She could smell his body, rich and woody and not unpleasant. His scent curled around her, wicked with persuasion, beaconing her exhausted body to lean back into his chest and surrender. She shook her head and straightened her spine. As if his scent had somehow penetrated her mind to peek at her thoughts, his hand shifted from her waist to her stomach. His fingers splayed wide and pressed her against his torso, forcing a gasp from her lips. Even through layers of kirtle, tunic, and surcoat, she could feel his muscles shift and move as they rode. Never had she been so intimately acquainted with a man’s body.

His hand swept down her hip and for a moment rested on her thigh. She grabbed it and jerked it back up to her waist. At the very least, he was a man and not the demon she had imagined when first she glimpsed their masked faces and flashing swords. Men could be reasoned with. She cleared her throat and summoned her courage. “Return me to my father. He will reward you when I tell him of how you saved me from those thieves.”

“Those men were not thieves,” he snapped.

“Of course they were thieves,” she said.

“Nay, Princess.” His masked lips brushed her ear. “We are thieves. Those men were murderers and rapists.”

Her hand flew to her throat. Thieves, murderers and rapists—how could this be happening to her?

“You really did save me, didn’t you?”

She heard him sigh; evidently, he had no wish to be reminded. “Aye, and if ye value yer life at all, ye’ll remain silent now until I tell ye to speak.”

She was about to remind him that from his own lips he was no murderer, but she decided to keep her silence and not push him toward a new occupation.

~ * ~

“Damnation, Jack! What have ye done?” Abbot Matthew said, eying the lass in Jack’s lap when the Saints galloped into camp. The abbot of Haddington Monastery had been awaiting their return. He was one of Jack’s gracious benefactors and allowed Jack and his family to live in hiding on monastic land.

“For pity’s sake, Abbot, what of the code?”

“Blast the code.”

“The code was yer idea.”

“Ye’ve kidnapped an English lady. Unless ye’re plannin’ on wearin’ that mask until we can figure out how to get her back over the bleedin’ border and into her bleedin’ fortress, then I’m afraid ye’ve rendered the code useless,
St. Peter
.” The abbot raked his hands through his thinning brown hair. “How could ye jeopardize all we’ve accomplished with this rash move? What are ye tryin’ to prove?”

“We had no choice. Her coach was attacked.”

The abbot threw his arms up. “Of course it was attacked. Ye attacked it.”

“Will ye just listen to me?” Jack said. “We were trailin’ her coach, waitin’ for the opportune moment, when villains, real ones, rushed the road, killin’ her guard.”

“Who were they?” Abbot Matthew asked.

Jack lifted his shoulders. “In appearance they were peasants, though they fought like warriors.” He motioned to Quinn. “Bring the sword.” Quinn held it out for the abbot to examine. “How would a peasant be in possession of such a fine weapon?”

“How indeed?” Abbot Matthew said as he ran his fingers down the gleaming blade.

Jack jerked his head toward the lady now huddled on the ground. “They would have damaged her had we not intervened. And then what were we to do? Leave her out there alone to fend for herself?”

The abbot scratched at the faint whiskers dotting his chin. He looked at Jack. “Well, that does change matters. I will go now and send a message to Bishop Lamberton, although I cannot imagine how he will react.” A breeze cut through the forest, ruffling his long, black robe. “Work out a way to ensure she can’t identify ye.”

Jack watched the abbot disappear into the forest. Then with brows raised, he looked at his brothers. “Ye heard the good abbot, what are we goin’ to do?”

“The solution is simple,” Alec said before turning away and heading toward his hut. “Keep her blindfolded.”

“Nay,” Ian snapped. “That would be cruel.”

“Then put her in the hole,” Alec called over his shoulder.

“Ye needn’t be so unfeelin’,” Ian called after him. Then he turned to Jack. “Let’s just be clear. Ye will not put the lady in the hole. I’ll not have it.”

“’Tis not a terrible idea,” Quinn said. “We would give her some blankets.”

Ian shook his head, then turned about on his large feet.

“What are ye doin’?” Jack said as Ian marched over to the lady hugging her knees to her chest. Jack knew she must have been terrified. His conscience pricked again, but the desire to comfort her was chased away by the jewels adorning her headdress. Not surprising, however, was his youngest brother’s unfailing compassion. Ian’s kindness knew no limit, but danger to any man who invited Ian’s fury—his temper, once provoked, was a fearsome sight. Jack watched Ian closely as he dropped to one knee in front of the lass. She visibly tensed, clearly having sensed Ian’s presence.

Ian unsheathed his dirk. “I’m puttin’ an end to this debate.”

The lass scrambled away. “Hush now, lass,” Ian crooned, reaching for her. “This will not hurt.”

Both Jack and Quinn lunged for Ian as his knife started toward the lady’s head, but then, in one quick motion, her blindfold fell away.

~ * ~

Isabella blinked against the light as she scurried away from a large, black boot, but it followed after her. Her eyes traveled from the boot, up a thick, long leg. Corded muscles strained against the owner’s fitted hose. Her eyes journeyed further, beyond the impossibly large chest to the terrific masked facade. She screamed when the large man squatted in front of her.

“Oh, sorry.” He reached for the top of his head and pulled off the mask.

Her mouth dropped open in shock. A nervous giggle came unbidden to her lips. She had never been so surprised as she stared up into the kind, blue eyes of a young man no older than she. He had handsome features, a wide grin, and long, flaming red hair that fell below his chest. She had expected someone menacing, toothless, monstrous even…not a lad.

“Ian, get away from her.”

She looked passed Ian to one of three masked men standing in front of her. She recognized the voice as belonging to the man with whom she had ridden. The man she had assumed to be the leader. Ian winked at her. “I’m goin’ to pay for this one.” He stood up and backed away.

“Now what do we do?” It was the masked man on her right who spoke.

The man in the middle cursed before his hands reached out and yanked the mask off the heads of both men flanking him.

The man on her left flashed her a smile that might have made her knees weak if received at court, but in a primitive camp full of thieves, it served only to fuel her fear, so too did the lecherous glint to his eye as his gaze roved over her with slow deliberation. His tongue wet his full, sensual lips. “My name is Rory, my lady,” he said with a bow. His beauty was wicked. Thick, black lashes framed pale, blue eyes. Curly, black hair grazed his shoulders, framing his chiseled jaw. Without returning his greeting or making her own introductions, she tore her eyes away and took in the other unmasked man.

“Quinn, my lady,” he said with a bow.

Quinn appeared older than both Ian and Rory but only by a handful of years. Quinn’s good looks were not as flashy as Rory’s but his rich black hair shone in the sun and his dark eyes scrutinized her with an intelligent air. Once again, she returned no greeting nor did she reciprocate introductions, not that it mattered as they would have learned her family name from the coat of arms displayed on her carriage.

“Princess,” the man in the middle said, his voice dangerously soft. She narrowed her gaze as she strained to see through the mask still concealing his face.  “Follow me,” he said. He started toward a small, thatched hut that stood beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Her feet froze in place. Even if she had wished to follow, she could not. Weary and afraid, she simply could endure no more. She had no intention of following the large, masked stranger into the small, enclosed space.

“As ye wish, my lady,” he growled. Then he stormed toward her. If she had sprouted wings, she would have been no less surprised. Lifting her skirt far too high for decorum, she bolted across the small clearing. For three blissful seconds she thought she had escaped; that is, until a hand clamped down on her upper arm. He jerked her around, tossed her over his shoulder, and stormed toward the hut. Once inside, he set her on her feet. The room was as poor and rustic as the thatched exterior. She glanced at the pallet and table with two rough-hewn chairs, her gaze lingering on the thick loaf of bread at the center of the table. Taking a deep breath, she turned to face her captor. He still wore his menacing mask. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. He stepped toward her, causing her breath to catch. She backed up several steps, never taking her eyes off of him.

He pointed to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

She eyed the chair but then shook her head. She wanted to stay poised to flee or to ward off an attack.

“Suit yourself,” he said as he collapsed in one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. His hand reached over his head and pulled the mask off. Then he laid his head back against the thatched wall, closing his eyes. Confused by his casual air, she did not know what to do or say. Had he dismissed her? She eyed the doorway, wondering if he would notice if she slipped out. She looked at him once more. Wavy, black hair fell away from his upturned face. Long, thick, black lashes rested on his cheeks as he continued to close his eyes. She shifted her gaze from his face to the door and took one step in that direction, but his hand shot out, grabbing her forearm. “Ye’re not goin’ anywhere, Princess,” he said, his voice low and husky.

She yanked her hand free and pressed her back against the wall. They locked eyes. His were black and intense yet not unkind. A smile, seemingly sad and pensive, tugged at one corner of his mouth before he turned away from her once more. It was clear he was not ready to deal with her, or mayhap he did not know how. His fatigue was apparent, but she sensed there was more to his meditation. He rubbed his eyes and shook his head. Then he stared transfixed at the wall and his features relaxed as if he gazed at peaceful beauty. She imagined he stared beyond the thatched wall at a conjured meadow or steady sea, like a quiet soul in the midst of a world on fire.

His hand reached above his head and grabbed the back of his tunic, yanking it off. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at his bare torso. His wide chest was sprinkled with black hair that thinned into a line down the ridges of his stomach, disappearing beneath the narrow waist of his hose. He stood up and in two strides crossed the room and opened the lid to a wooden chest. A gasp tore from her lips. His hose hung low. She could see the curve of his buttock. He did not flinch when he heard her outburst, nor did he acknowledge her obvious discomfort. Pulling on a fresh linen shirt, he returned to the table, taking up a hunk of bread. The renewed sight of food made her stomach growl, betraying her need.

Hunkered low over his meal with both elbows on the table, he took a large bite and said, gesturing with the bread to the chair across from him, “Ye’re welcome to join me, Princess.”

She shook her head. She would have loved to eat but dared not go any closer.

“Sit,” he snapped. “Eat.” His black eyes flashed with anger. The quiet soul had given way to the thief. Her heart quaked. She felt like a cornered mouse surrounded by a hungry wolf. Perhaps she could request a change of guardsman. Not Rory, his roving eyes revealed exactly what he would do to her if they were alone near a soft pallet and warm blanket. There was Quinn who had seemed like a perfect gentleman, allowing she overlooked that his voice belonged to the man who had seemed amenable to sticking her in the hole—whatever that was. Ian, with his kind, blue eyes, was perfect, although given the great unmasking he instigated, she seriously doubted she would be left in his gentle care. Anyway, none of them were there, just she and this man who moved like a sleek cat, smelled like the woods, and exuded power. He was a man clearly used to being obeyed—a dangerous man, an unpredictable man, a man who was very unhappy that she was there—a terrible combination with her at its perilous center.

She closed her eyes, and squaring her shoulders, she sat down, fanning out her soiled tunic. After crossing her ankles, she tore off a piece of bread and took a bite. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her. Sweet Jesus, she wanted to run. But what would happen to the mouse if the wolf caught her?