Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (13 page)

Quinn shifted over her, settling himself between her slick, hot thighs. He swiftly entered her. Her body held his in a tight grip. Slowly, he thrust, savoring her every whimper and groan. Her legs wrapped around his waist. With every thrust, he sunk deeper and faster. She cried out beneath him, her warm climax surrounding him, pushing him higher and higher until he seized as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through him.

~ * ~

“I cannot imagine you as a thief,” she said to his surprise as she rested her head on his chest.

He stroked his hand down her back. “Well, I am and a terribly good one at that.”

“What do you do?” she said, rolling onto her stomach and looking up at him.

He scrubbed his bristled jaw with his hand. “Well…we…ye know.”

“No,” she smirked. “I really do not know. Tell me.”

He knew to deny her would be futile. “Well…we wait in the woods on any of the roads north into Scotland.”

“What do you wear?” she chimed in.

He smiled. “We dress in black, and our faces are covered in black hooded masks.”

She made a show of shivering. “Quite sinister.”

“We wear large wooden crosses given to us by the Bishop Lamberton himself. And we call each other by our saint’s name to ensure our true identities remain secret.

She smiled knowingly. “And your name is St. Augustine.”

He smiled. “Naturally.”

“Augustine was a great philosopher,” she said. “The name suits you.” Then she cleared her throat. “And did you only robbed English lords?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Nay, not exactly. We also robbed ladies such as yerself…need I apologize?”

She shook her head. “I understand your anger. I have no love for my king, not after Berwick, not after so many lives were taken, and so many more ruined.” She stroked her hand down the hard ridges of his stomach. “Anyway,” she said, laying her head back down on his chest and continuing her exploration of his strong physique. “I am not a lady anymore, remember?”

He threaded his fingers through her hair. “Aye, that’s right. Ye’re my lass now.” He kissed her long and hard and proceeded to show her again exactly what it meant to be his lass.

Rupert scanned the crowded tavern with unconcealed disdain. Residing in the lowlands of Scotland was bad enough. If it were not for the wealth and esteem of Ravensworth Castle, he would have quit those lesser borders long ago for his family’s fortress in London. But having to journey north into the Highlands was intolerable. The tables were filled with unkempt men clad in plaids and little else. It was barbaric and so was there speech. The harsh Gaelic hurt his head. He turned to Stephen. “Hurry up so we can get out of this hell.”

Stephen nodded and stepped deeper into the room with his hands raised high. “Men and women of Cariad, hear me,” he called.

Rupert’s scowl deepened as the Highlanders ignored his brother’s call for attention. At last, Stephen climbed onto a chair and cupped his hands around his lips and shouted, “Silence.”

The room quieted and all eyes turned toward Stephen.

He cleared his throat. “We have reason to believe that my deceased brother, Lord Henry Ravensworth, may have been sent to his grave at the hand of his wife, Lady Catarina Ravensworth.”

Rupert growled and grabbed Stephen by the arm and yanked him to the floor. “Listen to me,” Rupert demanded, his eyes raking the crowd, looking as many men in the eye as he could. “My own brother is dead, murdered by his whore of a wife. I happened upon them, the poker which she used to smash his skull still in her hand and dripping with his noble blood as she hovered over him laughing while the last breath fled his body.” He had their attention now. “She killed him in cold blood. His life was cut short by her vile ambition.”

“The ambition was yours.”

Rupert whirled, his heart pounding. He had heard Henry’s voice in his ear as clear as his own. Sweat beaded his brow while he scanned the faces.  He knew it was impossible. Henry could not have been there, yet still, he could not doubt his own ears. “It cannot be,” he muttered.

A large man with broad shoulders, though not as broad as his own, stepped in front of Rupert. “Why are ye telling us, Englishman?”

The man’s face blurred. Rupert closed his eyes and shook his head. He opened his eyes again and the man’s face came into focus. He remembered the fight, the fight over Catarina. It was her fault. “It is her fault,” Rupert said aloud. He felt hot. The room wreaked of beer and sweat.

“So ye’ve said,” another man chimed in, coming forward. He had blond hair and bright green eyes. “But why are ye telling us?”

Rupert felt a hand grab his arm. He jerked around. It was Stephen. “Are you unwell?”

Rupert wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Finish here then catch up to us,” he muttered before motioning to the rest of his men to follow him out the door.

~ * ~

Sloan stood by and watched the English lord hastened out the tavern door. “Good riddance,” he said, motioning to the bar maid. “I’ll take another if ye please, Mary.”

“A moment more of your time.”

Sloan turned around. The younger man who had first spoke stood once more upon the chair. Sloan scrutinized his dark, intelligent eyes and the frown turning down his lips. Whoever he was, he took no joy in his task.

“The Lady Catarina escaped Ravensworth castle several weeks ago. She is believed to be traveling with a monk named Augustine and her newborn son, the heir of Ravensworth. My brother has put a price on her head. Whoever returns her to us alive and unharmed will be rewarded three-thousand silver marks.”

Ale spewed from Sloan’s lips. 

“Did ye ever hear the likes of that?” he heard someone say. “It would take a hundred lifetimes to earn such a fortune.”

Sloan leaned forward. Like everyone else in the room, the English nobleman on the chair now had his complete attention.

Sweat beaded the young Englishman’s brow. For a moment, his features settled in a pained expression. He seemed conflicted, but for what reason, Sloan could only guess.

“You will know her when you see her,” he continued weakly. “Her mother was not from our shores. She gave her exotic coloring to my lady.”

Sloan’s ear pricked. The man had referred to her as his lady and without anger. Given, she was responsible for killing his brother, Sloan found that rather surprising.

The man continued. “Her skin is dark olive. Her golden eyes gleam. She has ebony hair.” Eyes downcast, he said, “Make no mistake, ye will know her when you see her.”

Sloan swallowed the last of his ale. “He’s talking shite,” he said to anyone who would listen. “No one would offer such a sum for a woman. I don’t care what she’s done. I’ll listen to no more.”

He bid farewell to his friends and gave Mary a pinch at her waist, earning a lighthearted scowl in return. But the moment he cleared the tavern door, he stormed toward the stables. Grabbing his mare by the mane, he swung onto her back in one fluid movement. Maintaining a causal pace, he trotted through the narrow village pathways, nodding to those he passed by, but as soon as he cleared the boundaries of Cariad, he drove his heels into his horse’s flanks and raced all the way back to Sinclair lands.

When he arrived, he passed the stables, pushing his horse to continue on to his laird’s dwelling, chickens and goats scrambling out of his way. He slid to the ground before his horse fully stopped and charged up the stairs. Pushing open the doors, he stormed into the great hall. Hamish sat at the high dais with his father.

Sloan locked eyes with his friend and pointedly held his gaze before he stepped back outside.  In no time at all, Hamish joined him in the courtyard.

“Quinn has been false,” Sloan stated flatly.

Hamish’s brows drew together. “Do not make such accusations lightly.”

Sloan shook his head. “Ye ken I would not.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “I’ve just returned from Cariad. An English lord paid the people there a visit. He spoke of a murder.” Sloan’s eyes darted left then right, ensuring their continued privacy. “He accused Lady Catarina Ravensworth of murdering her husband, Lord Henry Ravensworth.”

Hamish shrugged, his face growing red with impatience. “’Tis no business of ours. What does this have to do with Quinn?”

Sloan released a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry, Hamish. I know Quinn is important to ye. But the nobleman described Lady Ravensworth, and he said we would know her when we saw her. I swear to ye, she and Katie are one and the same.”

Hamish stared hard at Sloan but said nothing. At length, he raked his hand through his hair. “Damn,” he muttered. Then he turned on his heel. “Follow me,” he snapped.

~ * ~

Quinn trailed his lips over Catarina’s smooth, soft back, tasting her dark skin. Breathless, she turned over. He feasted on the view of her ripe body. She reached her him. He moved over her, covering her with his warmth. He wanted to fill her. He wanted to make her his, but the din of approaching footsteps penetrated his ardor.

He froze. His hand flew to cover Catarina’s mouth, silencing her question. She stared up at him with wide eyes. He motioned toward the door to signal that he had heard someone drawing near.

“Quinn, ‘tis I.”

It was Hamish. Quinn climbed off of Catarina and quickly pulled on his brais and tunic.

“Quinn,” Hamish called again.

The urgency in his friend’s voice was unmistakable. Quinn waited until Catarina pulled on her tunic before he opened the door. Hamish and Sloan pushed inside. Without a glance in Quinn’s direction, Hamish crossed to stand in front of Catarina.

“Show me yer hands,” Hamish said to her.

Catarina looked at Quinn with questioning eyes. Quinn nodded. “Do as he bids.”

Slowly, she reached out her hands, palms down. Her heart pounded. She looked for reassurance in Hamish’s broad, rugged features, but the usual warmth was absent from his expression. His gaze was hard and cold as he grabbed her hands and turned them over, stroking his thumb across her palm. With a curse under his breath, he turned to face Quinn, holding her palms out for him to see.

“These hands have never known toil,” Hamish said to Quinn.

Quinn stepped forward. “Do not think ill of her, Hamish. Whatever ye’ve heard is not true.”

Hamish crossed his arms over his chest. “Why don’t ye tell me the truth and let me be the judge.”

“Her name is Lady Catarina Ravensworth, wife to the late Lord Henry Ravensworth who was murdered by his brother, Sir Rupert.”

“That was the name of one of the men at the tavern,” Sloan said behind him.

Quinn whirled around. “He is here?”

Sloan shook his head. “Not here, but he was less than a league south of here at the village of Cariad. He arrived at the tavern with half a dozen of men and told everyone about Lady Catarina and how she murdered her husband.”

“He lies,” Catarina blurted.

Quinn’s chest tightened at the sight of her fear. “’Tis alright, love.” Then he turned to Hamish. “The accusations against Lady Catarina are false. Rupert’s soul is stained with the blood of his brother. Before Lord Ravensworth had even turned cold, he told Catarina that he would put the blame on her head unless she agreed to be his mistress. I, alone, could intervene. I secreted her and her son away from Ravensworth Castle.”

“Then where is the child?” Hamish said.

“Sir Rupert is now Lord Ravensworth, but only until Catarina’s son comes of age. Then the title and the Ravensworth wealth is his. I have ensured the baby’s safety. That is all anyone need know.”

Hamish looked hard at Quinn for several moments before releasing a long breath. “I believe ye.”

Sloan came forward then. “So do I, but there is something ye both must hear. This Sir Rupert has put an unthinkable price on yer head.” His voice dropped. “A fortune of three-thousand silver marks.”

Quinn heard Catarina’s sharp intake of breath, but he kept his eyes locked with Sloan’s. “Are ye certain?”

Sloan nodded. “I was there, my friend. I warn ye now, after he spoke of that great sum, he had the attention of everyone in the room.”

“Damn it,” Quinn cursed, his mind racing. Then he turned to Catarina. “We’ll have to remain here in this croft.”

Hamish shook his head. “Nay, Quinn. Ye cannot stay here.”

“But why?” Quinn asked. “Do ye not trust yer men?”

“Aye, I trust my men with my life, but my life is not worth three-thousand silver marks.”

Quinn knew that Hamish was right. Such a sum of money could drive any man to betray a friend.

Hamish shook his head. “Ye must trust no one—no one. Do ye ken?”

Quinn nodded. “Where can we go?” He glanced at Catarina. Fear flooded her eyes.

“Avoid all villages, all roads,” Hamish said. “No clan is safe either. Ye’ve only one choice.”

“What is that?” Quinn asked.

Hamish untied the scabbard strapped to his back and gave Quinn his sword. “Ye must take to the wild, to the mountains. And remember—trust no one.”