Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (6 page)

The morning sun had started its ascent. They had walked through the night. Quinn longed to push on until they reached the village of Rùnach where friends lived, but he glanced at Catarina. Her breathing had become labored. And although she had issued no complaints, he knew she suffered. Short of taking leisurely rides in the countryside, to the best of his knowledge, ladies’ bodies were seldom challenged.  As if to help Quinn make up his mind, James began to fuss.

“Follow me,” Quinn said, quitting the path. “We will rest here for a few hours.”

She closed her eyes. “Thank you,” she breathed.

He found a small clearing amid tall Scots pines. “Let me help ye,” he said when she reached to untie the blanket knotted behind her neck with one hand.

“Would you spread it out on the ground so I can lay him down.” Her brow furrowed with worry. “I wish we had another blanket in which to wrap him. He might catch cold.”

“The morning is warm, but ye’re right to be cautious.” He reached his hands over his head and pulled off his thick, black robe, which he then spread out on the ground. He looked at her expectantly. “’Tis soft enough. Go on and lay him down.”

She clutched James close while she seemed to look him over. He glanced down at himself to see why she was so transfixed—tall black boots, fitted black hose and black linen tunic, belted at his waist. He raised a questioning brow at her.

She fidgeted with a piece of James’s swaddle. “I had no idea that was what a monk wore beneath his robes.”

Quinn lowered his eyes. For a moment he had forgotten his disguise. He shrugged his answer, choosing to ignore her questioning gaze. He would keep the secret of his identity as long as he could, but he had no wish to lie to her again. Turning on his heel, he called back. “I’m going down to the river. Ye’ll have yer privacy. When ye’ve finished with James, please change into the tunic I took from yer maid’s room.”

~ * ~

Catarina’s fingers shook as she swaddled James in fresh linens. When he started to fuss, she scooped him up and pressed him close. “Hush,” she whispered in his ears. “Please, not now.” Her eyes darted in the direction Brother Augustine had left. She rocked James and soothed his tears while her heart started to pound and her head reel. The sight of Brother Augustine stripped of his black robe had terrified her. In his tall black boots, fitted black hose, and black tunic he could not have looked less like a man of God. How could chastity belong to his rugged attire or his deep-set, black eyes.

She dipped the tip of the blanket in milk and allowed James to suckle for several minutes before she bundled the heavy robe around him, encircling him in warmth. When once more he slept, she stood and slowly crept down the path toward the sound of a rushing river. She froze when he came into view. He was squatting beside the river. Up until then she had not noticed that his hair was not shorn, it had simply been bound. Now, black curls fell free past his bare shoulders. The sight of his naked, muscular back shifting while he splashed water over his face and head caused her mouth to dry up. Hard muscles rippled down his arms. This was not a man accustomed to fasting and sedentary study. Then a glinting light caught her eye. Atop his shirt, a long dirk caught the glow of the rising sun.

Her muscles tensed. She swallowed and darted forward, lunging to grab the blade. He whirled about, surprise widening his eyes when she thrust the gleaming tip at him.

“You are no monk,” she hissed. She could barely draw breath. Her heart pounded her head.

Slowly, he stood up. Her eyes traveled the length of his wide chest, chiseled stomach, and narrow waist. Power exuded from every inch of his wet body.

His arms remained relaxed at his side. “Ye do not need that, lass,” he said, his tone soft. “Ye need not fear me.”

Her stomach twisted as she stepped back, still keeping her weapon trained on the stranger. “I am not your lass,” she bit out, despite the fear mounting in her mind. “I am your lady.”

His black eyes held hers. “Yer husband is dead, yer father a traitor to the crown. Ye’re no lady just as I am no monk.”

“I knew it.” The words rushed from her throat. She backed away. Her eyes darted left than right, taking in the length of river. She had to get away. Whoever this man was, he had lied to her. Then her eyes widened. “What else have you lied about?” Panic sunk its claws into her quaking heart. “You have lied about it all. Haven’t you? My father and sister. Everything. Who are you?” she cried. “Who are you really?”

He reached out his hands. “Breathe, my lady. I’ll not hurt ye. My name is Quinn MacVie. And ye’re right. I’m no monk, but that doesn’t make me a bad man.”

He took a step toward her. She sucked in a sharp breath and scurried back, waving the dirk about. “Stay where you are.” Desperation made her voice shrill.

“Yer father and sister bade me come, to protect ye, to keep ye safe. What I told ye about yer father is true. I am sorry it is so, but that won’t change what’s happened nor will yer doubts.”

“But why did you lie to me? Why did you pretend to be something you are not?”

“I pretended to be Brother Augustine to gain entry into Ravensworth and to get close to ye.”

Tears stung her eyes. In the matter of a day the safe and satisfying life she had led had been snatched away.

“I am yer friend,” he said softly.

She looked at him through a blur of tears, wanting so much to believe in him. “How can I trust you?”

His black eyes bore into hers. “Because, by now Rupert has assumed consciousness and turned yer people against ye.” 

She faltered. The dagger shook in her hand.

“Ye’ve no choice but to trust me.”

The dagger dropped with a dull thud on the ground. The trees and bushes spun around her in a dizzying blur of brown and green. She could not breathe. Whoever this man was, he was right. She had no choice, but to trust him. Her hands gripped her temples. “I cannot breathe.” Her heart thundered in her ears. Then strong arms and a richly masculine scent surrounded her.

“I’ve got ye, lass.” His words sounded distant as if he were across the glade, but his strength and the heat of his body cocooned her. She still could not draw breath. She grasped for him just as her legs gave way. A rush of air cooled her face as he whisked her into his arms. Her own arms flung around his neck, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the horror of her reality.

“I’m still the same man.” He said, quietly in her ear. “Look at me, my lady.”

Slowly, she opened her eyes.

“I ken that robe represented something to ye,” he said softly.  “I ken it made ye feel safe. Trust me—it feels terrible to tell ye that I’m not a monk.”

She allowed his gentle words and warm embrace to soothe her. But when her world stopped spinning, she looked him hard in the eye. “What are you then?”

“Pardon me?”

“What are you then if not a monk. You are not a nobleman. Therefore, you must have some profession.”

She saw the hesitance in his eyes. “I used to be a fisherman,” he said.

“Go on,” she said, crossing her arms.

He cleared his throat and set her on her feet.

“Before that I sailed with a merchant ship.”

“Interesting, but what do you do now?”

He rubbed the back of his neck and pressed his lips into a thin line. Then he threw his hands up. “I’m done lying to ye. Do ye promise not to panic?”

She shook her head. “No.”

He spun away from her, raking his hand through his hair. Then he turned back. They locked eyes. After several moments, where the only sound she heard was the pounding of her own heartbeat, he said. “I’m a thief.”

Her hand rushed to her heart. “Oh God,” she gasped, turning away.

He grabbed her arm from behind and tugged her back around. “I’m not a bad man, my lady. I do not steal for selfish gain. We’ve the support of Brother Matthew of Haddington and Bishop Lamberton himself. I fight in the name of freedom, against King Edward whose sword claimed both our mothers’ lives and countless lives more. I’m here, leagues from home, on the run with ye. I’m standing by ye when no one else is.” He stepped closer. “Ye’re not alone. Trust in me, Catarina. Quinn is every bit the man Brother Augustine was. I’ll prove it to ye. Trust me as yer father and sister trusted me. I’ll not lead ye astray. I’ll take care of ye.” He cupped her cheeks in his hands. “I’ll make sure this has a happy ending.”

Bone-weary with fatigue and heartache, her knees once more grew weak. Perhaps it was exhaustion clouding her judgment, but at that moment, staring deep into his black gaze, she believed in the strength of his conviction. All evidence showed his goodness. Never had a man treated her with such care and respect. And was that not what she hoped her people would do for her—remember her goodness? She had been a kind and fair lady. She pressed her lips together against the fullness of her emotions. And when she could, she took a breath and whispered, “It is good to meet you, Quinn.”

A slow smile stretched wide across his lips. “’Tis fine to meet ye, my lady.” He drew closer still and rested his hands gently on her shoulders. “’Twill all be alright in the end. I promise ye.” He took her hand then and led her back to camp where he spotted the kirtle and tunic bunched on the ground. “Now that we’ve settled that, I will finish making preparations for our rest. Ye must change out of yer gown.”

She wrinkled her nose at the garments in his outstretched hand and shook her head. “Out of the question.”

Not expecting a refusal, he faltered for a moment, but then thrust his hand out. “Yer gown is covered in blood. Take these.”

She glanced down at herself then met his gaze. He noted the stubborn tilt to her chin. “I shall wash it.”

“’Tis a lot of blood.”

“There is a whole river beyond those trees as you well know.”

“My lady, I really must insist…” he began to say, but she thrust her hand up to stop him.

“Save yourself the trouble of arguing. My refusal is final. I am still a lady.”

As a matter of fact, she was not still a lady, but he would not remind her of that. Anyway, title or no title, the woman standing before him was clearly accustomed to being obeyed. “Ye may be a lady, but ye’re also my responsibility. Ye and yer son are in my care. Let me remind ye, they will be looking for a noblewoman.”

She lifted her chin. “And?”

He pressed his lips, trying to hold fast to his patience. “Well…ye see, my lady, it might behoove ye to not appear to be a noblewoman.”

She threw her shoulders back. “A lifetime of learning and good breeding cannot be disguised.”

He could not help but roll his eyes. “It can it ye wish to live.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. “What do you suggest then?”

“I thought I made that clear,” he said, holding up the maid’s clothes. “Ye must change yer tunic.”

Looking as if she grasped something that had been dragged through refuse, she slowly reached out and pinched the tunic from his hand with two fingers and held it out in front of her. “Truly, you ask too much,” she grimaced.

Quinn snatched it back and held it up. He saw no rips or stains. The tunic was old and had seen better days, but overall it was a serviceable enough garment. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

She shook her head. “It is ugly and rough to the touch. It will wreak havoc on my skin.”

Quinn pressed his lips together again while he offered her the kirtle to feel. He thought of how different Catarina was from her sister, Bella. Bella had never given them this much trouble. “Here,” he said, shoving it toward her. “Ye’ll not feel the tunic at all over this kirtle. ‘Tis soft as James’s bottom. I promise ye.”

She crossed her arms and looked away.

He released a heavy sigh. “Forgive me, my lady, but let me put it this way. Ye’ll go behind those trees there and change, or I will change ye myself.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He took a step forward, holding out the bundle of clothes. “Ye’ve one more chance to make the right decision, or else I’ll make it for ye.”

“I am not a child,” she snapped.

“Prove it.”

Her eyes narrowed on him. Then, at last, she reached out and snatched the bundle from his hands and stalked toward the tree, disappearing behind it.

When she was out of sight, he leaned back against a nearby tree and expelled a heavy breath while he slunk to the ground, letting his head rest against the trunk. This was going to be harder than he had first thought. Not one minute had passed when she came back out from behind the tree still clad in her soiled but fine attire.

He groaned. “Ye can’t be serious.”

“No,” she snapped. “It is not that.” She looked away, seemingly unable to meet his gaze. “I cannot change without assistance.”

His eyes widened. “Oh,” he said. Then he cleared his throat and stood. She eyed him warily as he slowly walked toward her. “Do not fash yerself, my lady,” he said. “One does not have to be a gentleman to know how a lady need be treated.”

First offering her what was meant to be a reassuring smile, he turned her about and set to work on her laces.

“You certainly do not untie laces like a monk,” she bit out.