Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) (7 page)

He smiled at her insinuation that his fingers appeared well practiced but resisted the many jests that came to mind, and, instead, worked quickly to loosen her surcote. Gently, he eased the fabric from her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She stepped free from the folds, but kept her back to him. He reached for her headdress, unwinding layers of gauzy silk. Next, he removed several pieces of stiff fabric and netting.

“Turn around,” he said.

She pivoted on her foot, presenting herself to him but kept her eyes closed. He reached for the pins near her temples. “I ken ye’re in here somewhere,” he said, as he unpinned the layers of fabric fitted around her chin. When he pulled the silk away, his fingers grazed her velvety neck. In every detail, she had been made to tempt, from the exquisite lines of her face to the fullness of her red lips to the richness of her ebony hair. Still tightly wound at the nape of her neck, he could not help wishing to see her hair unbound.  His eyes swept over the swell of her full bosom and womanly curves. Unable to resist, he leaned close, inhaling the scent of her hair. “My lady,” he whispered.

Her eyes jerked open. She drew a sharp breath. A slow smile curved his lips before he retreated several steps. “I believe ye can manage from here.” He bowed low and turned on his heel to head down to the river. She needed her privacy, and he needed to douse himself in the cold water.

~ * ~

Catarina’s eyes followed after Quinn. She stood there, still staring even when his strong, bare back had passed from view. Ignoring her racing heart, she crossed to where James slept. She knelt to brush her fingertips across his forehead, but her hand shook. She balled her fingers in a tight fist, hiding the evidence of her fluster. “I hardly know what to think anymore,” she whispered.

Remembering herself, she stood, her spine poker-straight, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she lifted the hem of her tunic and circled around the tree where she set to work removing the remainder of her finery. The wind rustled through the trees carrying the scent of bluebells. She inhaled deeply and listened to the forest. How odd it was to be naked out of doors. She felt like Eve standing amid Eden, but who did that make Quinn—her Adam? Her skin tingled, and her heart raced. A short distance away, Quinn likely crouched near the river, beads of water cascading off his strong shoulders. She could still feel his calloused fingers brushing her skin. His touch, so slight, had felt more intimate than any of her couplings with her husband. Laying with Henry had been simply another duty not so different then ensuring clean rushes lined the great hall or that the larder was fully stocked. She had hoped Henry would grow to be more loving, but he never did.

Remembering her dead husband stole the heat from her body. Cold and full of sorrow, she dressed quickly in the borrowed garments. Smoothing out the tunic, she had to admit the wool did not feel as harsh as she had predicted. More than that, it felt divine to be free of her headdress, although she could not help feeling self-conscious. She reached behind her head. Thankfully, her long hair was still pinned in a coil at the nape of her neck. She took a step forward, her fine slipper peeking out from beneath faded wool. Her heart sank—she was a commoner. For a moment, self-pity consumed her, but then she glanced over at James, her precious child, asleep on the forest floor. 

“Are there slippers?” she asked when she came up behind Quinn. He turned, his chest still bare. Her eyes traveled the length of his muscled torso before she met his gaze. “These will not do.” She lifted the hem of her worn tunic, revealing sky blue, pointed-toe slippers, embroidered with white flowers and marred by drops of Henry’s blood. He grabbed for his tunic and pulled it over his head. She chewed her bottom lip while she glimpsed his muscles shift and decided it was a pity to cover something so fine.

“Here,” he said, producing a pair of simple, leather slippers from the bundle.

She reached for the plain shoes. A shiver shot up her spine as their fingers touched. “Thank you,” she said and turned to retreat, but then she paused and looked back. “I spoke through pride before.”

He raised a questioning brow at her.

“I am speaking of my refusal to wear my maid’s clothes. You had our well-being in mind, and I thank you for that.” She lifted her chin, imbuing her stance with strength. “I will do whatever it takes to protect my son.”

Quinn knelt at her feet. “May I,” he said. She swallowed hard and slowly placed the slippers in his open hand. Her breath caught in her throat when he gently lifted her foot and slid off her fine shoe. His warm hand encircled her heel. She fought to swallow again. Then he slid the new slipper on. He gave her other foot the same slow, deliberate care. By the time he finished, her heart raced, and she could barely draw breath.

“Thank you,” she said, unable to meet his gaze. She cleared her throat and took a step back, smoothing her hands down the front of her tunic. Then she straightened her sleeves.

“Ye look lovely,” he said.

Her head jerked up, and she met his gaze. 

A slight smile curved his lips, his dark eyes traveling the length of her with unconcealed appreciation. “I can actually see ye now without all those veils and fuss.”

She blushed. For reasons she dared not consider, she liked that Quinn could now ‘actually see’ her.

Quinn cut the cooked pheasant into pieces, then stuck the tip of his dirk into the meat and offered the morsel to Catarina.

Instead of biting the offered meat, she blushed. “It is indecent for you to feed me.”

Quinn could not help smiling. “The trees won’t tell nor will I.”

She laughed out loud, and the sound made his smile widen. She closed her eyes, pressing a hand to her heart. “Forgive my outburst. I am so tired that I fear delirium has set in.”

“There is nothing to forgive. You have a lovely laugh,” he said. “I will have to see that you use if more often.” He offered her the meat again. This time she leaned forward and gingerly bit down, pulling the meat from the tip of his dirk. She closed her eyes and chewed. He studied the soft contours of her face, her slim, pert nose and full lips. She swallowed and opened her eyes, but her lids appeared too heavy to remain that way.

“Rest now,” he said.

She nodded, crawling to where James lay. “I have never slept out of doors.”

He smiled. “To me, there is nothing finer than a soft pallet and a canopy of leaves or stars overhead.”

She sat up, resting her head on her elbow and stared at him. “We have lived very different lives, have we not?”

He nodded. “Aye, that we have, but I’d wager we have more in common than ye might guess.”

She laid back down and was quiet for several minutes. He had thought she had fallen asleep, but then she sat up a little. “Earlier you spoke of your mother. You said she died by King Edward’s hand.”

He nodded. “Like yer mother, she was killed during the massacre.”

She shook her head. “So much death.” She stared off into the trees. “I miss my mother every moment of every day.” She paused for a moment and then continued saying, “We had little in common, although in appearance, I am very much like her.”

He studied her profile while she continued to stare outward.

“She was the daughter of a merchant,” she said. “In life, she had been bold and strong, refusing to be tamed by convention; whereas, I strove always for refinement.” She shifted her eyes from the trees, meeting his gaze. “We would argue.”

“Mothers and daughters often do. I had the privilege of having two sisters.”

“Had the privilege?” she said.

A pang of regret filled his heart. “My youngest sister, the youngest of all my siblings, was also killed during the massacre.”

Her eyes widened. “Quinn, I am so very sorry.”

“Me too,” he said.

She turned onto her side and pulled her knees in to her chest. “We argued that day,” she blurted. “My mother and I. We argued the very day King Edward invaded. She had been wearing her hair uncovered and unbound for days. I accused her of trying to start a scandal to ruin my chances at a good marriage.” She shook her head. “I often accused her of ruining my chances. My mother was common. I did not have the fair skin favored at court. Despite my family’s wealth, I doubted, and rightly so, my ability to make a prudent match.” He glimpsed unshed tears the instant before she cast her gaze downward. “It was because of our argument that my mother sought solitude and left for market on her own that horrible day.” She was quiet for several moments before she once more met his gaze. Tears wet her cheeks. “I have never told anyone about that, not even my sister.” Her voice cracked, and she became very still.

He longed to pull her into his arms and rock away her misplaced guilt. “Her death was not yer fault,” he said softly.

A sad smile curved her lips. “I know that,” she said, swiping at her wet cheeks. “I have always known that. But there is a difference between knowing something and believing it. I never forgave myself.” She shook her head. “I think that is why I agreed to marry Henry. I knew he would take me away from Berwick, away from my father’s grief. I believed that since I could not forgive myself, that I would have to settle on forgetting.” She absently pulled at a loose thread on the sleeve of her tunic. “And I suppose I did. I was all too happy to disappear from the world, enclosed within Ravensworth castle for the rest of my days.” Her voice broke again. “It was a decent life.”

He crossed to where she lay and stretched out on the other side of James, resting his head in his hand. “A decent life? Forgive me for saying so, but ye can do better than a decent life.”

She shook her head. “After everything that has happened, how can you say that to me? How could anyone ask for more in a world so full of wickedness?”

“Ye don’t ask for more,” he said. “Ye seize it, and it’s because of life’s hardship that you don’t wait—you may not have a lifetime to get it right.”

“I thought I had it right.”

“Hiding away in Ravensworth Castle is clearly not yer destiny.”

She raised her head. “What is my destiny?”

“That is for ye to decide. What is it that ye wish for?”

Her eyes fell on James. “For him to survive all this.”

Quinn reached across James and squeezed her shoulder. “Yer son will live, my lady. I promise ye.”

“You promise?” she whispered, tears once more filling her eyes.

He nodded. “Aye, I do, but that is yer son’s destiny. What is yers? Ye must have some secret longing.”

She shook her head. “If I do, I have not told myself.”

Just then James stirred. Quinn smiled and whispered, “Mayhap this journey will reveal the workings of your heart along the way. For now, just close yer eyes, my lady, and try to rest. We dare linger only a few hours more.”

She laid her head down, resting now on the crook of her arm. “What of yourself? Do you not require rest?”

He sat up. “I will stay awake and keep watch. When we reach a safe place, that is when I will rest.”

“Is there such a place?”

A sideways smile upturned the corner of his lips. “There’d best be, or else I’m going to be mighty tired.”

Stephen sat at the high dais in what should have been Catarina’s seat. His shallow breaths filled his ears as he fought to block out Rupert’s voice. Even now Rupert stood in Henry’s place, addressing the Ravensworth castle guard.

“Catarina Redesdale is the daughter of an outlaw and a whore,” Rupert said, his voice booming.

Stephen’s stomach twisted. He clenched his fists to keep his hands in his lap when all he wanted to do was cover his ears and scream his protest to anyone who had ever loved Catarina. He refused to believe her capable of the wickedness Rupert describe, and yet, his eyes had seen the bloody poker and his own brother’s broken skull. 

“She killed my brother, our lord and master, in cold blood,” Rupert shouted, his words echoed throughout the great hall. “But she did not act alone. The Gospel of Matthew warns us of monk’s like Brother Augustine. Matthew said to beware of false prophets, which come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.”

Stephen slunk lower in his seat as members of the castle guard shouted slurs against Catarina, including some of Stephen’s closest friends—Jarrett, Aldwin, and even Edgar who had professed on several occasions to being secretly in love with the lady of Ravensworth.

“This wolf was sent to us by none other than Catarina’s father, the former Lord Redesdale—a man guilty of treason and a coward running from the law.” Rupert pulled back his sleeve and thrust his bandaged arm beneath Stephen’s nose. “I have felt the sting of his claws.” He then held up his arm for all to see. “The very claws that stole one of our finest knights, your brother at arms, Sir Matthew Archard.”

The hall erupted with fresh jeers from the guard.

“And worst still, the she-devil and her wolf have kidnapped the heir of Ravensworth, my nephew, James.”

Stephen straightened in his seat at the mention of James. He looked sidelong at his brother’s bandaged arm. How could he deny Rupert’s truth when he witnessed the murders and suffered injury for his attempts to intervene? How could Stephen deny Catarina’s role when James was missing? His hands gripped the sides of his head against the fire of doubt burning his heart.

“Your lord
will
be avenged. James
will
be returned. Because
I
will hunt down Catarina and her monk and bring them to stand before King Edward.” Rupert’s promise was met with passionate support from all of the Ravensworth knights.

At that moment, the doors in the rear of the hall swung wide. Stephen’s chest tightened as Jasper, the castle dog handler, and his four bloodhounds entered.

“Come forward,” Rupert said eagerly. He stepped from the high dais and met Jasper in the middle of the great hall.

“These are your finest?” Rupert asked, looking over the dogs.

“Aye, Sir Rupert,” Jasper answered.

Rupert stiffened and narrowed his eyes. “I am your lord now. Just as you are master over these mutts so too am I master over you.”

“Forgive me, my lord,” Jasper said.

Although Jasper spoke words of repentance, Rupert did not feel satisfied. There was an arrogance in the dog handler’s bearing most unfitting a serf. But then again, if his animals proved worthy, Rupert might be more forgiving. The dogs sat, alert but quiet, at Jasper’s feet. “They appear docile,” Rupert said, gesturing to the hounds. “I want animals trained to attack as well as track.”

Jasper reached down and scratched one of the hounds behind the ear. “This is Molly. She follows my command. The others follow her. If I command Molly to attack, ye can be sure she will.”

Rupert looked down at Molly. She was a black and tan with brown eyes, droopy jowls, and long ears. “What is the command to attack?” Rupert asked.

Jasper gathered the leashes, shortening their length before he said, “Finish it.”

“Finish it,” Rupert whispered to himself. Then he reached down to pet Molly, but she snarled and bared her teeth at him.

Rupert smiled. “Yes, I think they will do nicely.” Then he looked Jasper hard in the eye. “Do not disappoint me,” he said, before turning on his heel and returning to the high dais. His eyes settled on Stephen. He shook his head and looked out across the hall to his men. “Look at how my poor brother mourns Henry’s passing. Will we allow his murderers to go free?”

The men pounded their fists on the table, calling for action.

“Will you stand with me, brother?” Rupert said for Stephen’s ears alone. But Stephen’s eyes remained downcast. “For Henry,” Rupert insisted.

Stephen sat back in his chair. His face was drawn, his eyes red. “Do you swear upon all the sacraments that you speak naught but truth?”

Rupert clamped his hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “You know I do.”

Stephen slowly stood. “Then I have no choice but to stand with you.”

Rupert’s confidence grew. He grabbed Stephen’s arms. “Thank ye, brother, for that is what we are, and nothing is more important than brotherhood.”