The Scottish Outlaws Collection, Books 1 - 5 Read online

  A shift in light told her it was time to bid her sanctuary farewell until the morrow. She dared not delay, for as much as her husband, Lord Henry Ravensworth, did not love her, he did, most assuredly, love punctuality. With a prayer of gratitude offered to her patron saint, Catarina started to stand, but a hand clamped hard on her shoulder, forcing her back down. She twisted her neck, looking up and met cruel eyes shadowed by thick, black brows.

  “Let go of me,” she snapped, glaring at her husband’s brother, Sir Rupert Ravensworth. She squirmed free and scurried toward the door, but heavy footsteps followed. He grabbed her from behind and jerked her around, pressing her flush against his powerful body. He dipped his head, bringing his face close to her neck. “You smell of lavender,” he breathed, inhaling deeply. “What I would give to see you steeped in a warm bath, the water barely covering your dark nipples.”

  “You’re disgusting,” she spat, wrinkling her nose against the foul stench of his breath, a now all too familiar scent of garlic and stale beer.

  He pulled away just enough for his gaze to rake over her body with slow deliberation. “Stop fighting me,” he purred, his muddy brown eyes heavy with drink. She tensed beneath his visual assault. He drew closer, once more pressing her against him. Then cool metal grazed her cheek. She strained away from his iron hand, a replacement for the one of flesh and bone that he had lost five years earlier, fighting Scottish rebels at the battle of Dunbar. Catarina grimaced, wishing it had been his head that had been severed from his body instead.

  “So soft,” he whispered, leaning closer.

  “Mass has ended,” she gritted, straining to push him away. “Your brother, our lord and my husband, expects me in the great hall.”

  His exploration of her body continued undeterred. “If you do not care for the touch of iron, my other hand works just fine.” He bent her, arching her back like a willow laid low by harsh wind. “So do my other appendages. One in particular grew hard and thick the moment I saw you standing alone, without your guards, without even Stephen to protect you.”

  With all her being, she wished her husband’s youngest brother, Stephen, would walk into the chapel at that moment. She strained to see the door. Surely, Stephen would have noticed her absence by now and would come looking for her. Despite her prayers, the chapel doors remained closed, forcing her to renew her attempts to reason with the most unreasonable man she had ever met. “Henry will want to know why I have been delayed.” She grunted when he grabbed her breast, a leering smile spreading his lips wide.

  “You wish to run back to my spineless brother?” He squeezed harder.

  She winced but refused to cry out.

  “One day, I will have you. Your mouth mine to explore. Your naked breasts mine to suckle. Your heated loins mine to ride. And on that day, oh, what pleasure I will take from your willing body.” He laughed and shoved her toward the door. “Run along now. Run to my brother. I’ve given you something to think about while you go about your day.”

  Catching her balance, she summoned the courage to plant her feet firmly apart, her hands on her hips. “Do not for an instant believe I will think of you beyond this moment. It is you who will be tormented by thoughts of me. Only remember this—you will never have me, willing or otherwise.” She turned on her heel, her head high and walked calmly from the chapel. But when the door shut behind her, she leaned against the wood, closing her eyes—just for a moment, one precious breath—before she checked the position of the sun in the sky.

  “Blast,” she cursed.

  Lifting her skirts beyond the demands of decorum, she sprinted across the empty courtyard toward the kitchens. Weaving her way among cooks and serving maids, she passed through the pantry to the servant’s entrance of the great hall where she stopped to straighten her headdress. Then she smoothed the layers of her ruffled wimple in place and adjusted the belt about her waist. With a deep breath, she opened the door and walked deliberately into the large crowded room, making her way to the high dais where her husband, Lord Henry Ravensworth, sat alone.

  Standing, he hissed through his wooden smile, “You are late.”

  She dipped in a low curtsy before taking her seat. “Forgive me, my lord. I was delayed after mass.”

  He sat beside her, his face a pleasant mask. “Smile. No one else need know of my displeasure.”

  She faced forward and smiled while he leaned close and whispered in her ear. “How am I to maintain order in my keep if my own wife flouts my wishes? You are to be waiting for me behind the screen so that I may appear with my dutiful wife at my side for all meals. You will never again scurry in from the servant’s entrance like a blasted scullery maid.” Clearing his throat, he sat back in his chair.

  She raised her brow, her smile never faltering. “I did not scurry, my lord,” she said gently to cover her insolence. “I chose my course through the kitchens to ensure your pantry met with your high standards.”

  From the corner of her eye, she watched him adjust the cuff of his tunic over his wrist while he scanned the hall. When he motioned for one of the servants to come forward, she knew she was forgotten. Something else in his perfectly ordered world must have been out of place.

  “Good morrow, Sister!”

  Catarina smiled at Stephan, her husband’s youngest brother, while he bounded up the stairs to the high dais. She had to bite the corner of her cheek to keep from smiling too wide at his exuberance. Henry did not appreciate displays of emotion—happy or otherwise. “Good morrow, Stephen.”

  He came to a halt in front of her. “What is the matter?”

  Her eyes widened slightly before she caught herself. Stephen could always see through any facade she wore to mask her true feelings. She swallowed down the truth and tried to make her last words to Rupert ring true—she would force him from her thoughts. Anyway, he had no real power over her. Lord Henry Ravensworth did not share his armor, or his horse, and he certainly did not share his wife. As much as Rupert’s wandering hands and disgusting threats revolted her, she knew they would amount to nothing—not while Henry lived. Just as her husband would severely punish a stable hand who might abuse his horse, if any man dared touch her, he, too, would be made to suffer, and Rupert knew this—not because Henry doted on her. Her husband protected her only because she was his, his property.

  Indeed, if Henry knew what had just happened in the chapel, he would not be now sitting at her side, dipping his fingertips in the washing bowl. Rupert would be in irons. Still, she would never confess Rupert’s obscenities, because she knew her life would only change for the worse. Henry would doubtless increase the number of guards on her heels. Two already followed her whenever she stepped foot from the keep. They would have been with her in the chapel that morning had she not insisted she be allowed to pray in solitude. Frowning, she realized her mistake.

  “I have a slight headache,” she said in answer to Stephen’s questioning gaze.

  “Well, it is no wonder when you have been cooped up for the past two days.” He plunked down in the chair beside her. “Ride with me today.”

  She smiled at Stephen’s enthusiasm. As the third son, Stephen lacked the responsibility Henry shouldered and the entitlement that—as second son—drove Rupert’s jealously and ambition. Her eyes darted sidelong at Henry for a moment before she replied, “A ride is not included in today’s schedule.”

  Stephen rolled his eyes. “I would not be at all surprised if he started scheduling your visits to the garderobe.”

  Catarina choked on her smile. “Do not let him hear you or else he might.”

  Stephen’s laughter rang out just as two castle guards entered the hall from the courtyard, followed by a large cloaked figure with a black hood pulled low over his shadowed brow.

  Stephen leaned close and whispered, “A Benedictine monk. Father Kenneth will be no doubt be pleased.”

  Catarina hid her smile behind her hand. Father Kenneth possessed a pleasant enough countenance, but after nearly forty years of service to
Ravensworth Castle, he found the daily rigors of priesthood overly tasking, which he never let anyone forget. The short, rather stout priest availed himself unduly of Catarina’s time with complaints about his various aches and illnesses. She did her best to hear of each new condition with a compassionate heart, but when he lamented an itchy elbow as if he were riddled with smallpox, she struggled to remain sympathetic. In truth, for a man of nearly sixty years of age, Father Kenneth celebrated excellent health.

  Catarina studied the monk’s approach. His black hooded cloak stretched across wide shoulders, the breadth of which were greater than those of either guard flanking him. She straightened in her seat when, suddenly, he raised his head just enough to lock eyes with her. Black eyes, deep-set and knowing, bore into hers.

  “He is staring at you,” Stephen whispered.

  She blushed and lowered her eyes to break the connection, but still she could feel the intensity of his gaze.

  “My lord, I present Brother Augustine of Glenrose Abbey,” one of the guards said.

  She looked sidelong at Henry. He motioned for the monk to come forward. “You may speak, Brother.”

  She tried to resist looking at him again, but curiosity got the better of her. Brother Augustine stood before Henry with his head still humbly bowed. “My Lord Ravensworth, I ask for yer charity, a modest place to rest and simple fare to ensure I might continue our Lord’s good work.”

  His voice was deep. She dipped her head in an attempt to glimpse his face.

  “Where is Glenrose Abbey?” her husband said.

  “Near Dunshire.”

  Henry sat back in his seat. “You will sleep here in the hall and take your meals here as well. Father Kenneth will require your assistance in the chapel for the duration of your stay.”

  Brother Augustine bowed to Henry and then turned, once more meeting Catarina’s gaze. “Lady Ravensworth?”

  She nodded and extended her hand. Large, warm fingers enclosed hers. She watched with what she hoped was concealed fascination as his full lips pressed against the back of her hand. She looked sidelong at Henry to see if he had noticed the monk’s lingering kiss, but he had turned his back to her and was engaged now in conversation with Stephen. She shifted her gaze, locking eyes once more with Brother Augustine. “The Lord above reminds us of something,” he said.

  She tugged her hand free. “And what is that?” she said, growing increasingly uncomfortable every second those steady black eyes held hers.

  He stepped closer. “The lamp of the wicked will be put out.” He dropped her hand and backed away. A smile curved his full lips the instant before he spun on his heel and left the hall.

  She fought to keep her mask of indifference in place. The monk’s searing eyes and threatening words had unnerved her to her core, but she did not want Henry to know. She had learned long ago—the less Henry knew the better. She took a sip of wine to wet her dry lips. The lamp of the wicked will be put out. What could he have meant? Had he glimpsed wickedness in her? Or did he reveal a flaw in his own character? Either way, she would not soon forget Brother Augustine.

  Chapter Three

  Quinn stood in the rear of the chapel, seemingly in quiet reflection when, in truth, he awaited the arrival of Lady Catarina. He had learned from Father Kenneth—right before the good father put himself to bed with a stomach complaint—that following the evening meal and entertainment in the great hall, the lady always went to the chapel to pray before retiring to her chambers for the night.

  The chapel doors swung open. Candlelight illuminated Lady Catarina’s profile. Her olive skin stood out in contrast to the stark white of her wimple and headdress. Eyes solemnly downcast, her thick lashes shadowed her cheeks. Behind her, equally as solemn, trailed two maids, followed by two castle guards. Quinn cursed under his breath as he stepped further into shadow. Catching Lady Catarina alone was going to be no small feat.

  Quinn silently shuffled to the left to have a better view of the lady, who was now hidden behind her entourage. Her rich tunic trailed behind her, dragging across the stone floor until she reached the altar. Kneeling with head bowed, she made the sign of the cross. After several quiet moments, she stood and turned around. The guards and ladies bowed to her and then stepped to the side. With her company following at her heels, she unknowingly walked past Quinn, her head still piously bowed.

  The chapel doors closed behind them. “God’s bones,” Quinn muttered before remembering where he was. Every day blasphemy was one thing—God may have made man in his image, but man’s tongue was all too human. However, blasphemy in His house—that was a different matter entirely. Quinn crossed himself, muttering a quick prayer before he hurried outside, his long stride easily overtaking her party.

  “Forgive me, my lady, I would beg an audience,” he said, choosing to ignore the guard. They were unlikely to censure a man of God.

  She did not slow her pace as she turned to meet his gaze. Even in the dim light of dusk and torch, her eyes shone a vibrant amber. Their lightness stood out against the backdrop of her perfectly arched black brows.

  “You may speak, Brother Augustine,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

  Quinn smiled. “Ye remembered.”

  She nodded but offered no more pleasantries.

  He looked at her full lips and watchful eyes. She was beautiful. There was no denying that. In fact, she could have been the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. His eyes shifted from her lips to the rich, dark skin of her cheeks, then lower to the full curve of her chest, which even her wimple could not hide. She had the body of a woman, rounded and sensual. Her trim waist flared out to full hips. His thoughts strayed to what it might feel like to stroke that curve.

  “Brother Augustine, you wanted to tell me something.”

  Her words rushed over Quinn like a bucket of cold water. He shook his head, banishing his wandering thoughts. He glanced at the guards standing just behind her. Then in a low voice he said, “My lady, could we speak in private?”

  Her eyes grew wide, but before she could utter the refusal Quinn instinctively knew was on the tip of her tongue, he leaned close. “Yer sister, Bella, has sent me. The matter is urgent. Meet me after dark upon the battlements.” He turned away, heading back toward the chapel, confident he had said all that was needed for her ladyship to risk a secret rendezvous.

  ~ * ~

  Catarina slowly wound her way up the narrow stone staircase, which led from the east wing to the battlements. She had waited until her brief nightly visit with her newborn son was over and her ladies were asleep in their chamber before setting out. Given the late hour, she treaded the steps with some confidence that she would not encounter anyone else. Her one fear of discovery was that Henry might come to her room looking to appease his masculine hunger. Thankfully his visits were infrequent, not to mention perfunctory. On the rare occasion he did come to her, he opened her door and crossed the room to stand by her bedside. With a dip of his head in greeting, he would pull back her bed coverings and ask her to lift her nightdress. Then without ceremony, gentle word, or soft caress, he would penetrate her. She, in turn, always closed her eyes, gripped the headboard and prayed he finished quickly. After he climbed off of her, she would jerk her nightdress down and, with relief, watch her husband leave her room without so much as a backward glance. During three years of marriage, he had only kissed her once and that had been in the chapel by order of Father Kenneth to seal their marriage vows.

  She shook her head, chasing away her complaints. Indeed, she did not know the feel of a tender kiss, but she also did not know the lash or the back of a hand. Henry may not have been doting, but he never sought to hurt her with word or deed. Given the terrible stories she had heard at court of husbands with biting tongues and fists, she knew to count her blessings. She was satisfied at Ravensworth, and that had to be enough.

  Stepping out onto the ramparts, she ducked below the first opening to avoid being seen from the courtyard below and took refuge behind the adjacent
stone merlon. Henry did not place permanent guards on the inner wall. They were reserved for the outer wall alone, their watchful eyes turned ever outward. Her heart started to pound as she scanned the battlements set aglow with torch fire. Then someone grabbed her arm from behind. She jumped. A hand covered her mouth, smothering her scream.

  “Hush, my lady. ‘Tis only I,” came a whisper in her ear. Slowly, the hand dropped from her lips. She turned around and stared up into black eyes. Brother Augustine was close, very close, also seeking concealment behind the same merlon. His nearness made her instinctively step away, but he gently clasped her hand, pulling her back.

  “At this late hour the courtyard should remain empty,” he said. “Still, we must be cautious. The castle guard could always pass through.”

  She nodded, staring up into his deep-set, black eyes, fringed with thick, black lashes. Her gaze dropped to his full lips and strong jaw and then to the large wooden cross hanging from his neck. What business did a monk have being so large and formidable, not to mention handsome? Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “Brother Augustine, against my better judgment, I have come. Deliver the message from my sister at once.”

  A smile, slight but not unkind, curved his lips. “Ye do not resemble Bella overly in appearance, but the way ye just gave that order tells me ye truly are sisters.”

  Catarina did not return his smile. “Do not toy with me. Neither one of us will benefit from being found together. Speak your message.”