Quinn: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 2) Page 4

  Quinn ceased pacing and leaned against the stable wall. How long until the guard came for him? Doubtless, Lord Ravensworth would send for Quinn the very moment Catarina made her confession. They would search for Quinn in the great hall and courtyard first. Then likely they would scour the chapel. But would not the next likely place be the stables? He clenched his fists in frustration as concern for Catarina’s safety mounted in his mind.

  “Brother Augustine.”

  Quinn’s head jerked around. A castle guard approached.

  “What took ye so long,” Quinn snapped. The guard’s eyes widened in surprise. Scowling, Quinn barreled past him out into the courtyard.

  “Brother Augustine, fall back!”

  Quinn pressed his lips together to contain the less than holy refusal on the tip of his tongue while he waited for the guard to catch up.

  “You will follow behind me,” the guard snapped.

  Taking a deep breath, Quinn smiled. “Lead on then.”

  They entered the great hall and passed behind the screen in the rear, which hid a wide stairwell. Quinn followed, memorizing the layout of the keep along the way. The stairs opened to a landing. At the rear of the landing were two more stairwells on opposite sides, which stretched to the next floor coming together to form a balcony. From where he stood, Quinn could see beyond the balcony to the top of several passages leading in different directions. Following the guard, he started toward the left stairwell but froze mid-stride. A door on the second floor swung wide and out rushed Lady Catarina. Red smeared her gown and hands, which covered her face as she sobbed from sight. The guard needed no urging, he raced up the stairs two at a time with Quinn following behind. When they reached the top, the guard turned left from where Catarina had exited.

  Quinn jerked his arm free and pointed in the direction she had fled. “Ye must attend yer lady. She may be hurt.”

  In a flash, the guard drew his sword from its scabbard and thrust the tip beneath Quinn’s chin. “My first concern is my lord.”

  “Damn it,” Quinn cursed. “Fine. Go, just go.”

  Behind the massive doors, fine tapestries and flickering candles whizzed past Quinn as he and the guard hastened down the wide hallway. Then they turned the corner.

  The guard froze.

  Quinn froze.

  A large man with black hair had Lord Ravensworth slung over his shoulder.

  “Sir Rupert, what has happened here?” the guard said. “Is my lord hurt?”

  “Stay where you are, Matthew,” Rupert ordered. Then he turned and looked at Quinn. Quinn did not care for the wicked glint that suddenly lit the man’s eyes. “You are the monk who brought Lady Catarina news of her father’s treachery.”

  Quinn nodded, but said nothing as he scanned the room, his eyes settling on the blood dripping down the hearth.

  Rupert smiled. “It is rather fortuitous that you’ve arrived.” He bent forward. The body draped over his shoulder landed on the ground with a thud. Quinn’s eyes widened. Lord Ravensworth was dead.

  Matthew dropped his sword. “He’s…he’s…” he stammered. The color fled his face.

  “Yes, he is dead,” Rupert said, his voice flat.

  Matthew grappled for his sword. “Did you kill him?”

  Rupert quickly withdrew his own sword and pointed it at the guard’s heart. “No, I did not kill him. He did,” Rupert said, looking at Quinn.

  Quinn raised his hands, palms facing out and backed away. “I never touched him—” Before he could finish defending his innocence. Sir Rupert sliced the blade across Matthew’s throat. Quinn’s mouth fell open. He stared, unable to breath as Matthew crumpled to the ground and bled to death.

  “That will have to be your fault too.”

  Quinn’s head jerked up and stared at Sir Rupert in disbelief. “But…I’ve killed no one.” And that was true. Quinn was a thief. He had beaten and maimed men before, but he and his brothers always stuck to a code—they were thieves not murderers. Quinn had never taken a man’s life. He glanced down at his robes, remembering his disguise. “How could I? I am a monk.”

  Rupert’s eyes gleamed. “Indeed, you are the very monk who brought news of Lord Redesdale’s treachery. Why?”

  Quinn’s eyes darted around the room for the nearest weapon, knowing he would never have time to maneuver his dirk from beneath his voluminous robe if Rupert were to strike. “Lord Redesdale wanted to warn his daughter.”

  Rupert took a step forward, his bloody sword held at the ready. “No,” he said, slowly shaking his head. “That is not the reason at all.”

  Quinn threw the question back. “Then why did he send me?”

  Sir Rupert’s face stretched in a sinister grin. “He sought to spread his treachery. You came here to incite further rebellion against King Edward. And when Lord Ravensworth asked for you to come to his solar, you attacked him, striking his skull with the poker.”

  “I’ve been busy it would seem,” Quinn said dryly to mask his confusion. His thoughts turned to Lady Catarina’s bloody dress as she had fled from that very room. Had she killed her husband? Was Rupert looking for a way to cover up her crime? One thing Quinn knew for certain was that he had not killed Lord Ravensworth or Sir Matthew. “I will not confess to these crimes.”

  “You do not need to. I witnessed everything. You struck my brother. I came to his defense, sustaining an injury for my trouble before I ran you through.”

  “What injury? You have no injury.”

  “Not yet,” Rupert said. “Watch.” He held out his forearm and before Quinn knew what was happening, Rupert sliced his sword across his own arm. Blood seeped from the deep gash.

  Dumbstruck, Quinn stared at the self-inflicted wound. “Ye’re mad,” he said, the soft words coming unbidden to his lips.

  Rupert stepped toward Quinn. “You have misjudged my thoroughness.” He pointed to Henry’s body, crumpled in a bloody heap. “My brother used to say that nobility resides in the details—the same can be said about a well-constructed lie.” He stepped toward Quinn. “Now to bring truth to the end of my tale.”

  Quinn stepped back. “Ye’re referring to the part of about ye running me through.”

  Rupert raised his sword. “Indeed, I am.” He swung his blade.

  Quinn dove for the bloody poker. Rupert snarled, bringing down his sword. Quinn rolled, still clasping the poker. The clang of steel on stone rang out. He jumped to his feet in time to block Rupert’s next attack.

  Rupert’s eyes narrowed on him. “You have some skill, monk.”

  Quinn held his poker at the ready. “The lord blesses those who uphold his virtues.”

  “We shall see,” Rupert spat, thrusting his weapon. Quinn dodged left. Then his fist shot up, catching Rupert beneath the chin. His neck snapped back, and he stumbled, hitting his head on the arm of a chair. He fell to the ground and did not get up. Cautiously, Quinn crossed to where Rupert lay. He was out cold. Quinn grabbed the belt from his waist and tied Rupert’s hands. And then he secured his feet with the dead guard’s belt. Time was limited. He rushed to the door. He needed to know the truth of what transpired in the lord’s solar that night, and he knew there was only one person still living who could tell him—Lady Catarina.

  *

  Catarina raced down the hall, torches flashing past in a blur of fire and tears. Her hands, slick with blood, gripped her skirts high, allowing her legs the freedom to sprint. Ragged sobs tore from her throat. Her shallow breaths struggled to fuel her race. She was almost to her door. The slated wood loomed before her. She reached for the handle but grasped air as the door swung wide and out stepped her maid, Elizabeth.

  Catarina was incapable of stopping the steady flow of tears wetting her eyes.

  Elizabeth gasped. “My lady, what is…” Her words trailed off. She stared down at Catarina’s blood stained hands and dress.

  Catarina thrust her hands behind her back. “Go to your room,” she snapped.

  Eyes wide, Elizabeth nodded, dipped in a hurri
ed curtsy and then rushed to the door next to Catarina’s.

  “You will remain in your room until I tell you to come out,” Catarina shouted before Elizabeth could shut her door.

  Catarina closed her own door behind her and collapsed to the ground. She fought to breathe. Henry’s lifeless eyes flashed again and again in her mind.

  “No,” she said aloud. “It cannot be.”

  Shaking her head, she paced her room as if trying to outrun the truth. But then she froze and raised her shaking hands in front of her eyes. They were coated in her husband’s blood.

  “Oh God,” she cried out. Rupert had killed Henry. She sagged onto her bed, despair claiming the strength from her limbs. Rupert had killed Henry and now she would have to submit to his demands or face accusations of murder. How could this be happening?

  What he said was true. Her mother had been a commoner. And if the monk’s report was correct, then her father was a traitor to the crown. No one would believe her. No one would take her word over Rupert’s.

  “Do not be alarmed.”

  She sat up with a jerk. Standing in front of her bed was Brother Augustine. She had not heard him enter.

  His deep-set eyes met hers. “Is any of that blood yers?”

  She shook her head, unable to find her voice.

  “Did ye kill yer husband?” he asked.

  “No,” she cried, her hands once more shielding her face. Then she blurted out, “But Rupert plans to accuse me unless I agree to be his mistress.”

  “Sir Rupert is quick to assign blame,” he said under his breath. “We’ve little time,” he said louder. “Quickly, gather what ye need. We must flee.”

  She looked up at him in a daze, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Then with a furious nod, she climbed from bed and hurried across the large, richly appointed room. She threw open the lid of a truck and then flung wide the doors of a large wardrobe and began tossing velvet and silk tunics into the trunk.

  He shook his head in amazement. “What are ye doing?”

  She whirled around. Confusion widening her swollen, red eyes. “I do not know.”

  “Take a deep breath,” he said. Then he reached into her wardrobe and grabbed a mantle. “This is all ye need.”

  She shook her head. “No. I need my son.”

  Quinn nearly dropped the mantle. “Yer son?” Bella had mentioned nothing about a child. “Where is he?”

  She crossed the room and opened a door, which led to the room next to hers. Inside a woman sat in a wooden chair with wide, unblinking eyes, a stiff back and her hands pressed over her ears.

  Without a word to the woman, Catarina rushed to the cradle and scooped a baby into her arms. “I am ready,” she said, turning to Quinn.

  Quinn raked his hand through his hair as he stared dumbfounded at a tiny baby only weeks old. How were they going to run with an infant? Pushing aside his shock and doubt, he turned to the woman. Her fear was palpable. He needed her help and quickly. “What is yer name?” he said.

  “E…Elizabeth,” she stammered in reply.

  “Elizabeth,” he said gently. “We need extra linens.”

  She jumped to her feet and opened a chest and took out a neat stack and handed them to Quinn.

  “Thank ye,” he said. Then he grabbed a blanket from the cradle and opened it up on Elizabeth’s narrow bed, laying the cloths in the center. “What’s in there,” he said to her, pointing to a cupboard.

  “My clothes and things,” Elizabeth said quickly.

  He nodded and swung open the door and grabbed the simplest kirtle, tunic and slippers in the lot, which he added to the pile in the middle of the blanket. Then he took the four corners of fabric and tied them together into a bundle.

  He led Elizabeth back to her chair and helped her sit. “If ye value yer life at all. Do not leave this room,” he said calmly.

  “Ye have my word,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  Grabbing the bundle, he turned back to Catarina, who had remained silent, clutching her baby close. “Follow me.” He crossed her large chamber and cracked the door, peering out into the hallway.

  “’Tis empty,” he whispered, glancing back. “Just stay close to me.”

  “Where are we going?” she whispered.

  His eyes looked heavenward for patience, then he pulled the door closed. “We are escaping—with our lives I pray.”

  She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. “There is a hidden passage in the lord’s bedchamber.”

  A jolt of relief shot through him. “Lead on,” he said.

  He followed her to the opposite side of the room and opened a large door that led into a massive chamber. The fire already burned bright in the lord’s hearth and candles were lit along the mantle and tabletops.

  She froze in the middle of the room, her eyes welling with fresh tears.

  Quinn grabbed her arms, looking her hard in the eye. “Yer husband has no wish for ye to mourn him at present.”

  She nodded and swiped at her eyes. “This way,” she said, walking toward a large tapestry. She pulled the heavy folds back, revealing a narrow door. “It winds down below the kitchens and comes out beyond the outer wall somewhere. Henry told me of its existence after James was born. Supposedly, no one else knows about it. He said I was to take James to safety if the keep were under siege.” Her voice dropped as she peered into the darkness.

  Quinn grabbed a lantern from the large mantle. “Tread carefully,” he said. “These stairs are narrow.”

  She glanced back with a regretful heart at the surrounding warmth and finery. Then, taking a deep breath, she stepped down into the bleak unknown.

  Chapter Seven

  Catarina cradled James close. Stale, musky air filled her lungs. Still, she breathed it deeply and evenly, focusing on the rhythmic sound instead of the hard, sinister stone walls, which seemed to ebb inward whenever she looked up, the tunnel becoming narrower and narrower.

  “’Tis a trick of the mind,” Brother Augustine had told her when she first accused the walls of shrinking. The warm lantern light had softened the lines of his strong jaw. “I will lead us to safety. Ye think only of yer breathing and the babe asleep in yer arms. The rest ye leave to me.”

  The tunnel began as a narrow stairwell and eventually leveled off, sloping and turning now and again. Stones and tree roots broke the surface of the ground, signally they had breached the keep itself. Given how far they had walked, she knew they likely had passed beyond the outer wall, and still the tunnel continued. For the briefest of moments, she glanced down at the baby asleep in her arms and to her surprise she smiled. Her husband had been murdered, her dignity and life threatened, and now she was escaping her home, her safe haven with nothing but the ruined dress on her back and a lone monk for protection—and still, she smiled. And the sole reason for the warmth that filled her heart was James. Since first she pushed his little body from hers, she had never once been allowed to hold him for so long.

  Brother Augustine glanced back, a frown marring his handsome features. “The tunnel stops up ahead.”

  Her heart started to race, her breathing forgotten. She pulled James closer, not daring to take another step. Her eyes remained fixed on the path ahead. Brother Augustine hastened forward, but the lantern light reached the solid wall first. She gasped. “Our way is blocked.”

  “It can’t be,” Brother Augustine said calmly as he set down the bundle and lantern. His hands splayed wide against the stone, feeling the surface, then moving to the periphery. He dug his fingers into the edge, disturbing bits of stone and dirt. Then, planting his feet one in front of the other, he bent his back, leaning into the stone and started to push. She held her breath, listening to his sustained groan and the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her eyes darted around her. The walls of the tunnel were closing in. The crushing weight of the earth above threatening to flatten them where they stood.

  “Do not panic,” she said out loud.

  He turned, threw back his h
ood, and flashed her a smile so exquisite that it somehow expanded the tunnel in her mind and made her legs feel even weaker. “I never panic,” he said. “I promise ye that.” Then he turned and renewed his battle. The rock shifted. A torrent of dirt and stones rained down his back as the wall gave way to his strength. She breathed deep the fresh air. “I see the night. It is working!”

  His hands shifted from the wall to his knees while he caught his breath. “Just a little more,” he said, glancing back. With a growl, he put his shoulder into it. Slowly, the opening grew wide enough for him to pass through.

  As if to mark the occasion, James roused in her arms and started to fuss. Stepping out into the night, she inhaled deeply and let her head fall back, savoring the cool air on her face. She did not wish to move. She wanted to savor that moment, the sweet relief of it all, but James’s fussing erupted into woeful tears.