Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (15 page)

Water tumbled in a rush of color and sound in front of the cave entrance. The music of the waterfall concealed their hideaway, shielding their love. Quinn pressed a kiss to Catarina’s brow. She had fallen asleep with her head resting in the crook of his arm. He softly grazed her cheek with his finger. She had become so very dear to him. Surrounded by the roar of the rushing water and enclosed deep within a stone belly, he felt as if he had, at last, found a place where they could truly disappear. He pulled the Sinclair plaid higher about her shoulders. Summer’s heat could not reach their small cavern, which was cool and damp. Her eyelids fluttered, and her arm circled around his neck, a soft smile playing at her lips.

“I love you,” she whispered.

His heart soared. Never had he imagined a creature more exquisite. She was so strong and yet so achingly vulnerable. He pulled her close, wishing there was a way to keep her in his arms, forever shielded from harm. “I love ye,” he whispered before playfully nibbling her ear. Then he pressed his lips to the velvety skin of her neck. Easing his body over hers, his kisses became more arduous, trailing across her shoulders then lower to the swell of her bare, full breasts. Her dusky rose nipples stood like rigid peaks, begging to be taken into his mouth and savored. She arched her back and dug her hands into his hair when his lips surrounded first one hard nub and then the other. His body throbbed with need, fueling the strength of his hand which coursed down her torso, gripping her waist possessively before sweeping over her hips and stroking her smooth, soft thighs. She moaned, drawing his eyes to her face. Her black, silken hair fanned out beneath her. His own hunger was mirrored in her amber eyes, her lids half closed with wanting.

“My body is on fire for you,” she breathed.

Her words stripped away his control. A growl escaped his lips. He kissed her with all of his passion, all of his love. His hand parted her thighs, and he settled himself between her legs and slowly entered her. Filling her, he held himself still, savoring her heat.

“Quinn,” she cried out as though in pain. Her face winced with need. The pang of her nails, digging into his shoulders, triggered his hips as he thrust deep inside of her again and again; until, at last, they rose together toward bliss.

He lay on top of her while she clung to him, both still reveling in their euphoric pleasure. The sound of their ragged breathing competed with the roar of the waterfall. Then another sound found his ears. He froze.

“What is it?” Catarina said.

He pressed a finger to his lips to signal for her to stay quiet. For three days, he had listened to the waterfall. Its sound was constant and unchanging, a comfort in its forceful regularity. He held his breath and waited. And then the intruding note rang out above the din of the fall.

“We must go,” he said, sitting up and grabbing his tunic. He gathered their clothes into a bundle in one hand and grabbed his sword in the other.

“I will be back straightaway,” he said, before diving through the waterfall. After swimming to the side and climbing the rocks to the top, he piled their belongings alongside a mound of dirt, which marked where he had buried their other supplies. Then he went back for Catarina. Holding her against his chest, he swam with one arm to the side and then helped her climb to the top.

“Hurry and dress,” he said.

She lifted her dripping kirtle. “Everything is wet.”

He snatched it from her hands and wrung it out before giving it back to her. “Put it on,” he said, his voice stern. Then he did the same to her tunic before he helped her pull it over her head. She jumped when the intruding noise rang out with piercing clarity in the absence of the waterfall’s power.

Eyes wide, Catarina said, “What is that?”

“Dogs,” he said bitterly. “They have bloodhounds and no doubt something that carries yer scent. We have to run and try to throw them off, or I fear all is lost.”  He did not wish to frighten her, but he also needed her to understand the danger they were in. “We cannot delay,” he said. After she put on her slippers, he grabbed her hand and headed deeper into the woods, following the river that fed the waterfall.

“Why do we not run through the river,” Catarina said breathlessly behind him. “Surely they will lose are scent in the water.”

“We are faster on land. Right now we want to put as much distance between us as we can.” He knew the water offered little protection. Bloodhounds could track a scent even through water, but he did not wish to frighten her any more than she already was. She cried out behind him, and he caught her just before she hit the ground.

“I tripped on a root,” she said. Already he could tell she tired.

“Forgive the indignity of this,” he said before picking her up and tossing her over his shoulder. He trudged into the river. It swirled in a rush about his knees. He stayed course in the water for several minutes before he headed back up on land. He broke into a sprint. Her stomach jarred against his shoulder. She would undoubtedly bruise from his efforts, but bruising was preferable to capture, which she clearly understood, for she grunted but did not complain.

The baying of dogs once more reached his ears. They were closer, much closer.

“Damn,” he cursed. He crossed back into the river, splashing through and then out to the other side.

“Nay,” a man shouted ahead of him.

Quinn stopped in his tracks, looking for the source of the voice. Then a Highlander in a ragged-looking plaid—the pattern of which he did not recognize—jumped down from a large oak just ahead of Quinn.

“Who are ye?” Quinn barked, putting Catarina on her feet and stepping in front of her like a shield.

The man held his hands out as if he was addressing a spooked horse. “My name is Thomas Monroe from the Clan Monroe. My father is laird of my clan. I mean ye no harm.”

“What were ye doing up that tree,” Quinn said, narrowing his eyes on the poorly dressed man.

“I heard the dogs coming. I thought they were coming for me.”

Again the dogs sounded their persistent call.

“God’s bones,” Thomas swore. “I don’t care who they’re coming for. I’m not getting caught, and if ye’ve any sense ye’ll follow me.”

“Why should I trust ye?” Quinn said, still shielding Catarina from view.

“Because,” Thomas said. “Ye’re on my father’s land. I know where to go.”

Quinn hesitated for a moment, but the urging of the dogs spurred him forward. He picked up Catarina to keep her scent off the ground and followed on the heels of the Highlander.

Catarina nibbled the meat off the leg bone of a rabbit while she considered Thomas’s question. He sat across from her, his long, sandy blond hair hung passed his shoulders. Freckles dotted his nose, and his pale green eyes crinkled when he smiled. Although terribly thin for a young man of his age, she guessed he had as many as eighteen or nineteen years. She would know for certain when it was her turn to ask him a question. As for now, she still had yet to answer his. He had asked what her favorite food was. She doubted peacock pie was often enjoyed by peasants, and so she was searching her mind for an appropriate answer. Then she reached for a bannock that she had made herself and had her answer. She smiled. “Here is my favorite.” Then she took a bite. 

“Bannock?” Thomas said skeptically. “Katie, ye can’t lie. That’s cheating.”

Catarina laughed. “You had best not insult my cooking.”

Thomas grabbed a bannock and took a large bite. “I wouldn’t dare,” he muttered while chewing the dry cake. Catarina continued to laugh as she passed him a costrel of water to help him wash down his mouthful. “I still don’t believe ye, and so I get another question.”

Catarina crossed her arms over her chest. “Fine,” she said. After all, she had lied.

“’Tis hot. Why do ye keep that plaid over yer head?”

Catarina adjusted the plaid, pulling it tightly beneath her chin. “I prefer to have my head covered. It is a custom in my family.”

“It looks uncomfortable,” he said.

She smiled. “I suppose it would, but it is very comforting to me. I am simply too tired to deal with feeling self-conscious right now. I would rather just remain covered.” That was the honest truth. When she and Quinn were alone, it felt wondrous to have her hair loose, but it was just too hard when others were near. “Now you must answer my question,” she said. “How old are you?”

He swallowed the last of the bannock and smiled. “Two and twenty.”

It was her turn to cock a skeptical brow. “You just scolded me for lying.”

He flattened his hand over his heart. “If I’ve lied, may the Lord strike me dead.”

“Then forgive me,” she said. “I hope I did not offend.”

He shrugged. “I ken I’m a wee scrawny. I always have been on account of my clan’s stores. They’ve not been full since before I was born.”

Frowning, Catarina squeezed his hand encouragingly. She hated to think of him suffering.

His eyes grew distant, and he pulled his hand away. “These last five years have been the hardest. My father saved what little he could for years and years. Finally, he amounted enough coin to buy fresh cattle from the MacLeod.” A shadow passed over Thomas’s features, and a hard glint narrowed his eyes. “But the MacLeod cheated him. The cattle were diseased and did not survive the winter.”

She gasped. “That is awful. Surely this chieftain was brought to task.”

Thomas shook his head. “How? We could not retaliate. They would’ve crushed us.” His shoulders sagged. “After that, my father was not the same.” But with his next breath, Thomas straightened. “And so the task of raising our clan out of poverty has fallen on my shoulders.” Catarina watched as he shrugged away his sober thoughts. Then he turned to her, his green eyes once more bright and playful. “I believe it is my turn.” He cleared his throat and leaned forward. “I led ye away from the dogs. It could be argued that I saved ye.” He jerked his head at Quinn who was watching Thomas very closely. “Is he ever going to stop glaring at me?” he whispered.

Her hand flew to cover her mouth, smothering her laughter. She shook her head. “He simply does not trust you.”

Thomas pressed his hand to his heart and winced as though her words had caused him mortal pain. “Then the ceaseless tension over the past two days has been all my doing.”

“Precisely,” she said, flashing a smile. “But do not fret. He will come around.” She looked at Quinn. Immediately, his face softened for her. She wished he would allow himself to relax and rest, but she also understood why he refused to take an eye off Thomas. He loved her. Her safety would always come first. On the other hand, she could not have adored Thomas more. He reminded her so much of Stephen. It lifted her spirits to jest and play games. “Now, it is my turn again,” she said.

“Wait,” Quinn said, rising. “I have a question. Thomas, why were ye out here on yer own?”

Thomas cleared his throat. “I go to the Village of Mathas every fortnight. It is beyond that hill ground,” he said, pointing to distant purple slopes. “I do whatever work I can find to pocket money away with the hope of buying some healthy cattle in a few years.”

Quinn stared at him for several moments before he retreated back to his watchful post.

“’Tis my turn,” Thomas said, turning back to Catarina.

She scoffed. “I do believe you are mistaken. It is my turn.”

Thomas smiled ruefully and jerked a thumb at Quinn. “He snaked yer question right out from under ye. Anyway, my question is very important.” He stared her hard in the eye while it looked as though he tried not to smile. “What is it that ye wish for above all else?”

Catarina did not have to think about that. The answer was right on her tongue. “To see my son again.”

Thomas’s brows drew together. “Ye’ve been separated from yer son?”

She nodded and felt the sting of tears.

“I am so very sorry,” he said. Then he jumped to his feet and offered her his hand. “There is only one thing to do. Ye must make a river wish.”

“A river wish?” she said, glancing at Quinn. He nodded, giving her permission to take Thomas’s hand. She stood and followed Thomas to the bank of the river where he dropped her hand and started to root around in his sporran.

“You have managed to fit an abundance in such a small case,” she observed.

Thomas smiled. “I like to be prepared.” He withdrew a small candle stub. Hastening back to the fire, he pulled out a stick and lit the wick. Then he returned to her side and instructed her to find a good, sturdy piece of tree bark. She eyed the ground and found a piece, which measured two hands long and a hand wide.

“Will this do?” she asked, holding up the bark for Thomas to see.

“’Tis yer wish. ‘Tis up to ye to decide.”

She looked back down at the bark and decided it was as good as any she’d seen. She strode back to Thomas and handed it to him.

“Thank ye,” he said. Then he dripped a little wax onto the smooth underside of the bark and pressed the stub of the candle into the wax. At length, he smiled. “That should hold it in place. Now, what ye do next is ye place the candle boat on the river and make yer wish. If it stays afloat and the flame remains lit until it is out of sight, then yer wish is sure to come true.”

She took hold of the boat and looked at Quinn who had remained on a felled log some feet away. He smiled at her, but the smile did not quite reach his eyes.

“Are ye certain he isn’t just a bit surly?” Thomas whispered, jerking his head toward Quinn.

“Not in the least,” she replied with a smile.

Thomas playfully hit himself upside the head. “Och, I forgot. ‘Tis me he doesn’t like.”

“Do not take it personally,” she said. “Now then, shall I position my candle boat?”

“First make yer wish.”

She nodded and closed her eyes, wishing with all her heart to be reunited with James. When she opened her eyes, Quinn was at her side.

“We used to do this when I was a lad,” he said, his lips curved in a gentle smile. His black eyes shone with love. He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “Regardless of whether yer candle makes it around the bend, ye know ye’ll be reunited with James.”

She nodded, grasping his hand with her free one. “I do know that. I believe with all my heart.” She released his hand and squatted down beside the river. “Still,” she said. “A wish is like a prayer, and prayer will only ever help.”

Holding her breath, she released the boat. Swept away by the current, the candle was out of reach in seconds. For a moment, her heart panged with loss as if once more she was witnessing her son being swept from her arms. But then her spirits lifted as she watched the boat tilt and rock but never overturn. And as it rounded the bend out of sight, the flame intensified, stretching higher. She jumped to her feet, her heart brimming with hope, and she threw her arms around Quinn’s neck. “It made it,” she exclaimed.

He cupped her cheeks. “Just as we will.” Dipping his head, he pressed his full lips to hers.

“I know ye will, too,” Thomas said. 

Quinn looked over Catarina’s head and locked eyes with Thomas. The boy appeared earnest enough. His affection for Catarina seemed entirely genuine. Still, Quinn simply could not trust him and refused to take even one eye off of the lad, not for a moment, no matter how well Catarina liked him.

He did have to admit that he enjoyed listening to Catarina’s laughter. She and Thomas jested together as though brother and sister, and it pleased him to see her so lighthearted.

“My lady, the next question is yers t—” The rest of Thomas’s words remained lodged in his throat as Quinn seized his tunic and hoisted him into the air.

“What did ye say?” Quinn snarled, shaking Thomas.

Catarina yanked on his arm. “What has come over you, Quinn. Put him down. You’re hurting him.”

Quinn glared at Thomas but spoke to Catarina. “The two of ye have not been out of ear shot. I’ve been listening to yer every word. Not once have ye slipped about who ye really are, and yet this rodent calls ye ‘my lady’.”

He put Thomas back on his feet but continued to grip the front of his tunic while he waited for Catarina to understand the truth. Her eyes grew wide before she narrowed them on Thomas, but her friend would now not meet her gaze.

“Look at me,” Catarina hissed.

Slowly, Thomas lifted his head.

“You know who I am?” she said, fear and anger forming a knot in her throat.

Thomas’s brows came together the instant before he shifted his gaze back to the ground. She knew his answer when he could not look her in the eye.

She clenched her fists. “How could you?” 

“What were ye going to do?” Quinn gritted, jerking Thomas even closer. Still, Thomas kept his eyes trained on the ground. “Wait for an opportunity to snatch her away and deliver her up to the very devils who destroyed her life, those who would see her hang or worse?” He shook Thomas again.

“Answer me,” Quinn shouted.

“It started out that way,” Thomas said quickly.

“What were ye planning on doing with me then,” Quinn said, his voice deadly soft. “Were ye waiting for the opportunity to slit my throat?”

“I wouldn’t have killed ye,” Thomas muttered. “I was just waiting until ye left her alone.” He looked up then and locked eyes with Quinn. “But ye never leave her alone.”

A sob rose in Catarina’s throat, drawing Quinn’s gaze. She pressed her fist to her lips to choke back her tears.

Thomas reached out his hands. “My lady, I swear I wasn’t going to hurt ye. It was not long after we met that I knew ye couldn’t have done what that man accused ye of. I knew ye were innocent. I swear I wasn’t going—”

A rumbling bloodhound bark echoed through the forest, twisting the pit of Catarina’s stomach.

“They’ve fastened on her scent again,” Thomas said, his voice rising in pitch. “Run!”

Catarina dropped to her knees and started to shove their skillet in her satchel.

“Leave it, Catarina. ‘Tis too late,” Quinn urged, grabbing her forearm and pulling to her feet. “To the river,” he said.

Catarina gripped the plaid beneath her chin and raced behind Quinn, her heart thundering in her ears. Fear choked the air from her lungs. Dogs with sharp teeth and powerful jaws knew her smell and wanted to find her. A whimper fled her lips. She feared the beasts were upon her. 

~ * ~

Sun slanted through the canopy of tall Scots pines while Stephen trailed behind his party. He had awoken that morning feeling more anxious than he had since first setting out. Rupert was becoming increasingly unpredictable and violent. He talked to himself, sometimes shouting obscenities but at no one—just an empty space in a room or an open road. He abused his men over the slightest provocation. The night before, he again refused to feed Jasper or the dogs. Stephen had to slip Jasper coin when Rupert wasn’t looking. Edgar, Jarrett, and Aldwin had grown quiet around Rupert, avoiding eye contact, and more recently around Stephen as well, clearly fearful that Stephen might repeat something overheard to his brother.

Stephen’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his reins. He knew not the best course of action, but what he did know and for certain was that Rupert was going mad. His eyes settled on his older brother who rode in front of the knights just behind Jasper who was jogging with the dogs, their leashes slack in his hand to give them lead. Stephen’s chest tightened. He was struck by how narrow Rupert’s shoulders appeared. And it was no wonder—he hardly ate. He barely slept. In fact, just the night before Stephen and the soldiers slept in the common room on threadbare pallets while Rupert took the one room available upstairs. For hours, Stephen had lied awake, listening to Rupert’s pacing above their heads, broken up by intermittent banging or cursing so loud that it could be heard through the floor boards. His brother’s health was failing. This Stephen did not doubt. Even at that moment, Rupert looked as if he was slipping from his saddle. Stephen pressed his lips together and nudged his horse faster. He would catch up to Rupert and suggest they rest for a spell.