Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) (6 page)

She stretched her arms above her head before rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The thatched roof came into focus and she jerked upright. The previous day’s event came crashing down around her. She dug her hands into her unbound hair, remembering how the day had ended—with her sobbing in Jack’s arms.

“Oh God,” she groaned and fell back on the pallet. Perhaps, God would strike her dead right then and there and save her from the embarrassment of seeing Jack again. She held her breath and closed her eyes.

“You are meant to be a merciful God,” she muttered, her gaze upturned.

She could hear activity outside. With a sigh, she stood, resigned now to her fate.

She whisked the robe off and pulled on Rose’s tunic just as easily. In the light of day, she saw how tattered and stained the fabric was, but the secret to its softness was in the wear it had seen, which pleased her to no end. Digging around in Jack’s trunk, she found a length of rope, which she used to belt her waist. Dressing for the day was usually an ordeal that required two maidservants. It was a wonder to her how quickly it could be done if one left off all the fuss as Jack had put it. Once more, she worked the tangles free with her fingers, then swept her hair off her shoulders. She smiled. Despite her questionable captivity, she had never felt so free.

Childish laughter outside her hut drew her attention. She stepped outside. Rose was there with five little girls.

Rose waved when she saw her. “Good morrow, Lady Redesdale.”

Isabella hastened across the glade. “Good morrow, Rose.”

“Well, ye seem well enough this mornin’,” Rose said, searching Isabella’s face. “My brother behaved himself then?”

Isabella blushed but nodded.

“I knew he would, but I still say he should have let ye bed down with me.”

Wanting to change the subject, Isabella pointed to the basket in Rose’s hand. “Where are you off to?”

“The lassies and I are goin’ to break our fast by the stream. Would ye care to join us?”

“I would love to, but I’m not certain if I should.” Isabella scanned the camp, which appeared empty except for Rose and the girls.

Rose smiled. “The lads went huntin’, but they’ll be back soon. Do not fash yerself. Ye’re safe with me.”

“My role here is somewhat unclear, am I allowed to go with you?”

“Well, ye must eat. Is that not true?”

As if to grant her permission, Isabella’s stomach growled loudly. Rose laughed. “Come on, pet. I’ve fresh bannock and dried meat.”

Rose hooked arms with her, pulling her toward a narrow pass that cut through the trees. “I’d wager, they’re as hungry as ye,” Rose said, laughing as the girls darted ahead in a race.

“Who are they?” Isabella asked

“Orphans,” Rose replied.

Isabella raised a skeptical brow. “Orphans? Living in a camp among thieves?”

Rose smiled. “Things are not always as they seem, love.”

Isabella nodded. That was one truth she had accepted long ago.

When they reached a stream, Rose pulled out two large blankets from her basket. Isabella helped to spread the fabric under the shade of a large oak tree while two older girls unloaded the bread and meat. Isabella guessed they both were near ten. When the food was spread about, one of the older girls took her by the hand.

“Sit,” she said.

Isabella knelt down. Five little faces smiled at her. She smiled back and reached for a bannock. A faint whiff of steam rose from the firm cake. She held it to her nose and inhaled its warmth. “This is marvelous.”

The girls giggled. The one who had taken her hand scooted closer. Isabella admired her lovely dark braids and starry violet eyes. The girl took a bite of meat and while she chewed she scrunched her eyes up at Isabella. “Ye’ve lovely skin. ‘Tis darker than mine.”

Isabella smiled. “My olive skin was a gift from my mother. She was Sicilian.”

The girl took another bite. “What’s yer name?”

In her mind Isabella recited her usual answer to that question—Lady Isabella Annunziatta Redesdale—but in the end her answer was simple: “Bella. And what is yours?”

“Moira. I’m Jack’s lass.”

Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise. “I did not realize Jack had a daughter.”

Moira laughed. “We are all Jack’s lassies,” she said, gesturing to the little girls littering the blankets.

Isabella’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh my.” It was clear she needed to add womanizer to Jack’s list of titles: Thief, commoner, Scotsman, and now rake.

Rose smiled and leaned close. “Do not fash yerself, my lady,” she whispered.

“I’m hardly worried,” Isabella said as she straightened her skirt to avoid Rose’s gaze. “Jack may father as many children as he likes.”

Rose threw her head back with laughter. “I can tell ye on good authority that Jack has never fathered a child of his own.” Rose’s hand swept out to encompass all of the girls. “I told ye already. These girls are orphans, but they are in Jack’s charge.”

“I do not understand.”

“They’re parents were killed durin’ the massacre. They were abandoned, left to die, in fact. Jack gathered them all and hid them. Abbot Matthew keeps this lot in the monastery. But there are many more than what ye see here. He has them spread throughout the countryside, some in homes with families, others in different monasteries. But he provides for every single one.”

Once more Isabella’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to tell me this is what he does with his stolen gains? He feeds orphans.”

“Aye,” Rose said, still looking amused. “He robs English nobles and gives the money back to the Scottish people and to the cause, of course.”

Isabella leaned closer. “What cause?”

“Now, I like ye very much, but I won’t be tellin’ a Sassanach any more about that. No offense, my la—” Rose’s words were cut off by a chorus of girlish squeals the instant before Jack’s lassies took off back down the path.

“Jack,” they cried.

Isabella’s stomach flipped at the sight of him. He dropped to one knee and opened his arms. The girls threw themselves at him, knocking him onto his back. Isabella blushed at the sound of his rich laughter. Then she glimpsed red hair through the leaves as Ian came into view, followed by Rory, Quinn, and another man whom Isabella had not met but given his height and black hair, she guessed he was the infamous Alec. Ian cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Wee lassies.” The girls looked up, spied Ian and scrambled to their feet, charging toward their new target.

Isabella shifted her gaze back to Jack who was still sprawled out on the ground. He lifted his head, and they locked eyes. His smiled softened, but his gaze did not waver. And though she trembled and grew nervous, she also did not look away. His dark eyes bore into hers with a power to unlock yearning. She imagined night had found its source in their black depths. They blanketed her sensibility with coercive warmth. He stood and walked toward her, his gaze ever constant. A shadow of a beard speckled his cheeks and strong jaw. Her heart pounded as he approached. She fought to swallow her nerves. He eased down onto the blanket. “Are ye feelin’ better today, Princess.” His tone was void of yesterday’s sarcasm.

She tore her eyes from his to hide her pinked cheeks. “I am quite well, thank you,” she said, still not daring to meet his gaze. Then to her relief, one of the littlest girls scrambled onto Jack’s lap.

He wrapped his arm around her. “Have ye met Florie?”

Isabella reached out and tapped Florie’s nose, earning a giggle in response. “I have. We were just breaking our fast together.”

He rested his chin on the little girl’s mop of blond curls. “I am glad ye’re feelin’ better.”

Isabella cleared her throat and straightened her back before she dared to meet his midnight eyes. He wore a plain linen tunic over simple brown hose. Black curls grazed his shoulders and fell across his eyes. He flashed a smile that forced her gaze to drop yet again. He was gorgeous, so raw and masculine and so very strong. She chewed her lip while she studied his hands. They were large and calloused. It was no wonder none of the men at court had been able to set her heart to race when there were men such as Jack in the world.

A breeze swept the glen, lifting her unbound hair from her shoulders. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the new sensation. Normally, if she were to venture outside, her hair and neck would have been confined by a fitted wimple. Only her face would have been exposed to the sun and wind. She laughed outright when the breeze quickened. “This is lovely,” she said.

“’Tis a beautiful stretch of earth,” Jack said.

“Indeed it is,” she said, quickly. “But I was speaking of the wind. You know what I am accustomed to wearing. Feeling the wind on my skin is a rare pleasure. It feels like freedom.”

A sad smile curved his lips. “Freedom? I see little freedom surroundin’ us. We’re all exiles, and ye’re a lady bound by convention.” He lifted Florie from his lap and turned her toward the other girls who were throwing rocks into the river with Ian. Then he stood and reached out a hand to help her up. “Freedom is an illusion—all anyone has are moments in time.” He smiled and winked at her. “And more often than not, those moments must be stolen.”

She smiled, feeling the power of his words. “Freedom is stolen moments.” She took a deep breath, reveling in the ease of her clothing. “Look how easily I’ve become a thief.” Then she put her hand in his. He pulled her up and stepped close.

“Would ye care to steal another moment?” he said.

Her heart fluttered as she met his gaze. She nodded.

“Join me for a walk along the river, Princess?

Isabella looked down at her homespun dress. “I do not look the part of princess anymore.”

His appreciative gaze traveled the length of her figure. “Nay,” he breathed. “Ye do not.”

“Call me Bella,” she blushed and looked away embarrassed by her boldness.

He stepped closer still and crooked his thumb beneath her chin, forcing her gaze. “Shall we…Bella?” Her name he said in a whisper.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

They walked for some time while Jack pointed out which herbs were best to flavor a stew and which had healing properties. She listened, savoring the sound of his deep voice. The sun slanted through the trees. Bird song filled the air, mingling with the distant laughter of Jack’s family. Long had it been since she experienced such easy joy, and it filled her heart to the brim. They had walked in silence for some minutes when she looked at him sidelong. “I learned a little about you this morning.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Och, Rose is a good one for conversation.”

“We may speak freely, may we not?”

Again he laughed. “Aye, that we may.”

“You are not truly a thief, are you?”

“I most certainly am. There are many who have stared down the length of my sword and handed over a bag of coin on fear of death.”

She arched her brow at him. “I do not believe you would actually make good on your threat.”

He winked at her and the simple gesture made her breath catch. “Ye’re right,” he said. “But they don’t know that.”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “If your victims could see you surrounded by little girls, they would no doubt fume over being duped into believing you were a villain.”

“What do ye think of my lassies?” he said.

“They are lovely girls.”

“They are kept hidden in the monastery while I continue to find them homes.” A shadow of worry passed over his features. “It has been five years. Many of these girls came to me as babies. I fear they will spend the remainder of their youth with the abbot, and likely will go to a convent when they are old enough.”

She stopped then and turned to look at the water rushing past. “It really has been five years, hasn’t it?”

“It has,” he said.

“It feels as though it has been only five minutes.”

He grabbed her arm and turned her about. Brows drawn together in a frown, he said, “Ye were there? Ye were in Berwick durin’ the Massacre?”

Confused by his sudden harshness, she tried to yank her arm free, but his grip tightened. She winced. “I was. Now release me.”

He looked down at his hand squeezing her arm. His eyes widened, and he let go. He stepped back and raked his hand through his hair. “I thought ye’d come to Berwick after Edward had claimed the city for England.”

She shook her head. “I was born there. My mother and father met among the market stalls.” She turned away and cast her gaze towards the trees alongside the stream. Their small spring leaves shone in the sun, and she wondered how such destructive hate could exist amid such wondrous beauty. “I loved Berwick.” Her voice broke. “It was a great city.” Tears stung her eyes. “No!” she shouted at herself. Fighting to ignore her aching heart, she stormed away, but he caught her arm and once more swung her around. Her hands covered her face. “I don’t want to cry anymore.”

He had glimpsed the barren ache in her eyes the instant before she hid her pain behind her hands. His own eyes squeezed shut against the reminder of loss. When his mind had quieted, he once again looked at Bella, but it was as if for the first time. He no longer saw the spoiled daughter of a lord. He saw her desperation and the yearning echoed by his own heart. It was a struggle to move beyond the rubble and blood, to find a life worth living again. He reached out and grazed his fingertips down her hands still covering her face. Then he gently pulled her into his arms. “Who did ye lose, Bella?”