Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (18 page)

Abigail crossed to their side and smiled down at Catarina, feeling her brow. Quinn looked up at Abigail expectantly, but her mouth pressed in a thin line, and she shook her head.

He scowled at her. “She just needs something to drink,” he said and grabbed the cup of water. He lifted Catarina’s head, and this time she swallowed the water down.

“Ye did well, lass,” he said.

Catarina’s lips upturned, a mere hint of a smile, before her eyes closed.

He dropped to his knees. “Catarina? Wake up, Catarina.” He did not want her to close her eyes again. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Tears stung his eyes when his lips touched her fiery skin.

Abigail’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. He looked up into her flooded violet eyes. “There must be more we can do,” he said.

She swiped at her tears and threw her shoulders back. “Indeed, there is. We can hold fast to hope and work until we drop.” Then she pointed to the table. “Grind up more arrowroot. I’ll add more peat to the fire. Do not give up, Quinn.”

“I’m a MacVie,” he growled. “MacVies never give up.”

Stephen sat at a long trestle table in the common room of the Bunkford Inn, just south of Mathas, alongside Jarrett, Aldwin and the rest of the Ravensworth knights. When they had first entered, Rupert banished the other peasant travelers from the room with a few biting remarks. Now, the once bustling table was dead quiet with the exception the occasional scraping of knives or the gentle tap of a goblet of beer being set down. Glancing sidelong at Rupert, Stephen reached inside his bread bowl and pinched a hunk of roasted venison from the thick gravy. Rupert sat in a large, high-backed chair, staring into the wide hearth. The bread bowl on the side table near his arm remained untouched; however, the same could not be said for his drink. Stephen cringed when yet again Rupert impatiently motioned to a lad holding a large jug in the corner. The boy hastened to Rupert’s side and filled his goblet, which Rupert proceeded to down. When the boy started to move away, Rupert clamped his hand on his forearm, causing the boy to wince.

“I did not dismiss you,” Rupert snapped.

The boy’s face twisted with pain. “Forgive me, my lord.”

Rupert held out his goblet to be filled once more. Then with a careless flick of his fingers, he dismissed the boy who scurried back to stand on the opposite side of the room.

Stephen balled his hands into tight fists as he continued to watch Rupert from the corner of his eye. He simply could not believe the change in his brother. Dark circles shadowed Rupert’s eyes. His hand shook each time he brought his goblet to his lips. He did not engage the men. He only sat, staring at the dancing flames, his lips moving as if he spoke, but to whom, Stephen could not even guess. With his own muttered curse, Stephen pushed away his half-eaten supper, having now lost his own appetite. He dipped his fingers in the wash bowl and was soon joined by the other knights. Then before Stephen knew what was happening, Jarrett stood up and piled their bread bowls together and started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Rupert said coldly.

Jarrett froze and slowly turned around. “To the stables, my lord.”

“I did not ask you.”

Jarrett dipped his head in apology. “I was taking Jasper and the dogs the bread bowls, my lord.”

“To feed their failure?” Rupert bit out, his face turning red. “I think not.”

Stephen prayed Jarrett had the sense to sit down. He had already planned on ensuring Jasper and the dogs were fed, but not until after Rupert had retired to his room. Stephen’s shoulders seized as he watched Jarrett open his mouth to speak, but in the end, he remained quiet. The tension eased from Stephen’s body. Of course the men wished to protest against Rupert’s cruelty, but Edgar’s death had rattled them all, and rightly so. As much as the men wanted to champion Jasper, they would not do so if the penalty was death.

Rupert leaned forward in his seat, his face contorted with rage. “Burn the bread, all of it. I do not feed laziness. When they find me the girl that is when they will eat.”

Jarrett did as he was bade and tossed the hollowed bread into the fire. Then he turned away from Rupert and locked eyes with Stephen. Stephen could see the fury, brimming behind his friend’s eyes. His own hands clenched tighter. Rupert was out of control—but the reason for his aggression and folly still remained a mystery.

Without question, Stephen wanted to find Catarina and James, but he would not kill innocent men to do so. He watched as Rupert’s head dropped, his chin resting on his chest. Then it bobbed back up again. It was clear he fought sleep. Stephen pressed his lips together in disapproval. More than anything, Rupert needed sleep. The night before Stephen had once again listened to Rupert pacing the floor, and what little sleep he had found had been riddled by night terrors. Stephen could still hear Rupert’s screams echoing in his mind. It was his brother’s ceaseless nightly torture that kept sympathy firmly rooted in Stephen’s heart. Rupert suffered. Stephen knew not why, but he did not doubt that his brother’s pain was very real.

Having made up his mind to advise Rupert to retire for the night, Stephen stood, but then a knock sounded at the door and in sauntered a comely serving maid with chestnut hair and pretty, green eyes. She smiled and curtsied to Rupert. “My lord, a man has just arrived at the inn. He wishes to speak to ye. He says he has information ye’re sure to welcome.”

Rupert turned, and Stephen glimpsed the glint that suddenly brightened his brother’s dull gaze. His lips twisted in a cruel, greedy smile. “Show him in, damn it. What are you waiting for?”

The maid’s eyes grew wide, and, in a frenzy, she turned and opened the door. “Come in. Come in,” she blustered.

To Stephen’s surprise an old codger shuffled into the room. His wore a tattered tunic, hose littered with holes, and a pair of old brogues that a strong gust of wind could blow apart. But what caught Stephen’s eye was his hat. It had a wide brim with tall feathers of all colors poking out from the top and a ring of heather around the crown. Beneath the hat was a wizened face with droopy eyelids. As he shuffled farther into the room, his lips slowly upturned in a gummy smile. Stephen waited for the man or Rupert to speak, but they simply stared at one another for several moments.

Finally, Rupert’s fist came down on the arm of his chair. “Speak,” he snapped.

The old man did not flinch nor did he hurry to answer. He scanned the room, looking all the men in the eye. When he locked eyes with Stephen, Stephen saw he truly was unafraid. Mayhap, at his age he was too close to death to fear it.

Very slowly, the old man turned back around, giving Rupert his full attention. “I ken something ye’ll pay coin to hear.”

Rupert shrugged. “That depends on the information. Out with in. I am not in a patient mood.”

That gummy smile appeared again before the old man said, “If ‘tis all the same to ye, my lord, I dare not speak until I feel the cold coin in my hand.”

Rupert slid to the edge of his seat, his eyes flashing with anger. “You are lucky I do not break every bone in your ancient body.”

The old man chuckled. “Ah, but then ye wouldn’t know where the lady is that ye’ve been hunting all over the Highlands for, now would ye?”

Rupert’s hands clawed the arms of his chair. Stephen stepped closer, ready to throw his sword up in the old man’s defense if need be. But Rupert sat back as a slow smile parted his lips.

“Pay the man,” he said, gesturing to Stephen. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

Stephen pressed several silver pieces into the man’s gnarled hand. Bony fingers tucked the coins away before the old man looked Rupert square in the eye. “This morning I drove my wagon to Mathas. I saw a man on the side of the road. He held a woman in his arms. He, himself, looked ready to fall over and die, but she looked all the worse.”

Rupert jumped to his feet. “Was it her? Was it Lady Catarina?”

“Even with her sickly parlor, I knew her straightaway from yer description. Dark skin, black hair. Even my old eyes saw her beauty.”

Stephen came forward then. “She is sick?”

The old man turned stiffly to meet Stephen’s gaze. “Aye, riddled with fever, she was. I took them to the village to Miss Abigail’s cottage. She’s a healer and a good one at that, though I don’t think it’ll matter much. Judging by how sick she was, they will not be leaving anytime soon, unless she departs from this world to go to another.”

“What brought the fever on?” Stephen asked.

“A nasty gash on the sole of her foot had begun to fester. I didn’t see the wound itself, but her fever was bad. I doubt she’ll live to see the dawn.”

Rupert stood up. His face shone with glee.

Stephen dreaded to hear the answer to the question he could not avoid asking. “What do ye wish to do, my lord?”

Rupert smiled. “Nothing for now. God is punishing her. This is His will—He does this on our behalf. We will wait the night and ride out in the morning to see if she lives or not.”

“Suit yerself,” the old man said. He scuffed his heels as he slowly turned around and started to make his way toward the door.

Stephen looked away from the old man to Rupert who was sitting once more, staring at the flames dancing in the hearth. But an instant later, his head jerked around. He called out to the old man. “Do me a service?”

Slowly the codger turned back, flashing his gummy smile. “Only for a price.”

Quinn jerked awake. He was on his knees at Catarina’s bedside, his head resting on his folded arms. He looked up. His breath caught when met Catarina’s sleepy gaze. “I did not mean to startle you,” she whispered.

Hair clung to her forehead. He watched a bead of sweat drip down her temple. A smile so wide it ached spread across his face. He jumped to his feet, looking for Abigail who still slept, her head resting on the table. “Abigail, wake up,” he called. When she did not stir, he crossed the room and gave her shoulder a shake. Slowly, her head lifted. Her violet eyes squinted up at him. “Her fever broke,” he said.

Abigail shook the sleep from her head and hurried to Catarina’s bedside. Slowly, a smile curved Abigail’s lips. “That is the power of love,” she said. “No finer medicine in the world.”

Quinn knelt beside Catarina and clasped her hand. Her breaths were coming deep and even.

“Where am I,” she said weakly.

“We’re in the village of Mathas,” Quinn said.

Abigail chimed in then, “Aye, and in my cottage. My name is Abigail. Ye gave us quite a scare, my lady.”

Catarina smiled at Abigail, but then turned back to look at Quinn, her brow drawn. “I am so sorry. I should have told you when I first cut my foot.”

He smiled and shook his head. “Nay, lass. There’s no need to be sorry.” He brought the back of her hand to his lips. “My heart is full with the sight of ye. I thought I was going to lose ye.”

She smiled. “Not this day. That I promise you, Quinn MacVie.”

“I believe ye,” he said, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

Abigail stood then and crossed to the door. Wrapping a shawl around her shoulders she said, “I am going to fetch more Willow Bark. Yer head is going to start to pound soon. Ye’ll want some relief from the pain.”

“Thank ye,” Quinn said before turning back to Catarina.

After the door closed behind Abigail, Catarina said, “Are ye not worried that she might tell someone about us?”

Quinn shook his head. “She could have left at any point during the night. There’s no reason to believe she will do so now. Let me get ye some broth.”

He crossed to the pot and ladled some of the steaming brew into a wooden bowl. Then, supporting her head, he helped her sip it down. After she drank the last drop, he stood to refill the bowl but froze when a knock sounded at the door. He motioned for Catarina to be silent. Grasping the hilt of his dirk, he crept toward the window. With his back pressed against the wall, he lifted the hide just enough to glimpse sidelong out the window to the door. His tense shoulders relaxed when he spied a tell-tale hat with tall feathers and a ring of heather. He lowered his blade and turned back around, smiling at Catarina.

“Not to worry. He’s a friend.” Quinn opened the door. “Good morrow, Pete.”

“Good morrow, yerself,” Pete said, shuffling inside. His eyes went straight to the bed. “Look there,” he said, smiling. “Yer a better color today.”

Catarina smiled.

“This is Pete,” Quinn said to her. “He brought us here to Abigail’s.” Then Quinn shifted his gaze to the old man. “Have ye come then to check on us?”

Pete nodded. “Aye, I did that, and also I’ve come to beg a favor. I need a strong back.”

“What has happened?” Quinn asked.

Pete shrugged. “I was driving my horses down the pass just as some cattle crossed. My wagon overturned, scattering my friends to the wind.” He winked pointing to the new stuffed bird on his hat. “I did catch a few mind, but I cannot right my wagon alone.”

Quinn put his hand out and rested it on the old man’s shoulder. “I owe ye that and more, but I do not wish to leave my lass all alone in her condition. Is there anyone else ye could ask?”

Pete scuffed his foot on the ground. “’Tis just that I’m not well liked in these parts.”

Quinn paused. He hated to leave Catarina, but he was indebted to Pete. Finally, he turned to her. “We own this man our lives. This one favor I must do.”

Catarina nodded, her lids growing heavy.

“I will not delay,” he vowed. “Rest, my love. I will be here when ye wake.”

Catarina savored the feel of Quinn’s lips when he kissed her goodbye. She smiled at him but was too weak to wave as he headed toward the door. She kept her eyes trained on his broad shoulders as he stepped outside. When the door shut, a chill coursed up her spine, and for a moment, she was afraid. But a haze of fatigue soon laid claim to her mind. Her body ached. She was too weak to even sit up. In moments, she succumbed to sleep.

She knew not how long she slept when suddenly she jerked awake, a loud noise still echoing in her mind. Her hands shook as she brought them to her face and wiped her weary eyes. Then she struggled to lift her head. Her breath hitched. Three knights stood in the small cottage, the visors on their helmets pulled low so that she could not see their faces, but by the crest on their surcotes, she knew they were from Ravensworth. She opened her mouth to scream, but then another man, suddenly, filled the doorway. The sight of him stole her breath. His face she knew all too well. Fear gripped her heart as a sickening smile slowly spread his lips wide. He eased the door shut behind him.

“I’ve been looking for you,” Rupert said. “I’ve crossed mountains. I’ve slept on hard ground.” He pushed past the other knights and crossed to her beside. Before she could take her next breath, he bent over, his face hovering just above her own. “You have been a very bad girl.”

She shrank back. Her eyes darted across the room, looking imploringly at the faceless guards. But they made no move to help her, and then she remembered why. They looked at her and saw murderer, someone who had stolen away the heir of Ravensworth. She thanked God above in that moment, even while the enemy breathed down her neck, for giving Quinn the foresight to not have kept James in their company. Because if they had, he would be done for.

She weakly gripped the bedclothes and fought to sit up, but she could barely raise her neck. She knew then she could not run. There was no escape. The fever had stolen her strength, but not yet her resolve. She screamed for Quinn and Abigail, but the sound wheezed from her aching body.

A chilly laugh erupted from Rupert’s lips. “Scream all you want, whore. Quinn is dead.”

~ * ~

As Quinn walked beside Pete he glanced at the new addition to Pete’s hat—a stuffed male Robin. Quinn could not help feeling like the Robin were, indeed, watching him. It was so lifelike he half expected it to fly away, but there it stayed, seemingly content on its perch, forever memorialized on an old man’s hat. Quinn shook his head in wonder of how the people of Mathas could dislike such a kind man. Although eccentric to be sure, he obviously meant well. They carried on, slowly walking through the outskirts of the village onto what Pete called Hill Pass. Straightaway, Quinn saw Pete’s overturned wagon and a dozen empty cages, with doors open wide, scattered about the roadside.

Quinn clamped his hand on Pete’s shoulder. “All yer hard work. I’m sorry for the loss of yer animals.”

Pete shrugged. “’Tis the nature of trapping. Cages fill up only to be emptied once more.” He shrugged again. “If I starve, I starve. No one will miss an old codger like me.”

Pete reached for the wagon, but Quinn stayed his hand. “Save yer strength. I’ve rested since last ye saw me.” Quinn bent low, bringing his back beneath the side of the wagon. Straining with all his might, he rocked it back on its wheels. “Now, do me a favor,” Quinn said through ragged breaths. He leaned against the side of the wagon. “That was no easy matter. Let the cows go first next time.”

Pete laughed and clapped his hand on Quinn’s back. “Thank ye kindly.”

Quinn smiled and reached into his tunic pocket and took out a few coins. “Here,” he said to Pete. “Take this. Had ye not stopped to help me yesterday, ye might not have been on this road today when the cattle came through.”

Pete made no move to take the money. 

Quinn reached out and took the old man’s gnarled hand and pressed the coins to his palm. “Take it,” Quinn said. “I’ll not let ye starve.”

A rush of air fled Pete’s lungs as he looked up at the man with honest, black eyes. Then he looked down at the coin in his hand, which had been freely given with no true fault to bear. He closed his palm and looked Quinn dead in the eye. “Run,” he said.

Quinn’s eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

“Run!”

Quinn heard the unsheathing of a blade behind him, and his heart sank.

Pete scuffed on his heels toward the thicket. Quinn watched as the robin bobbed above the bushes and then disappeared into the trees before he slowly turned around to face three knights, each man bearing the Ravensworth crest on his shield. Quinn reached for the dirk in his boot, but his fingers swiped only air. He scowled. He had left it on the table back at Abigail’s where Catarina was all alone. Rage surged through him, rage at himself for trusting the old man, rage at the men who would do Catarina harm. He balled his fists at his sides and glared at the knights in front of him. “If you want me, come and take me,” he snarled.

One of the soldiers stepped forward, his sword at the ready, but then the knight in the middle snapped, “Stay where you are. Do nothing unless I issue an order.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes, trying to see past the knight’s helmet to the man beneath. He tensed when the knight in command walked toward him. He raised his sword, but not to swing. Instead, he sheathed his blade and pulled his helmet off. Quinn knew him at once.

“Sir Stephen,” Quinn said, grabbing his forearms. “Ye’re her friend. Ye’re dear to her. Ye of all men know she didn’t do it. Ye know she didn’t kill yer brother. She could never hurt anyone.”

Stephen stared Quinn hard in the eye, but then a long breath fled his lips. Shaking his head, Stephen sunk to his knees in front of Quinn. “I do not know what to believe, not anymore.”

Quinn reached down and grabbed Stephen’s surcote, jerking him to his feet. “Aye, ye do,” Quinn gritted in his face. “Ye know she is innocent. Ye just need to find the courage to believe it.”

Stephen pushed away from Quinn. He sucked in a hard breath. “Yes, you are right. I have ignored my heart for too long.” Then he turned to his men. “We have to stop Rupert.”