Jack: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 1) Read online

  “What of Jack and Quinn,” Isabella asked. “Why were they not in Berwick when the king attacked?”

  “Once upon a time, Jack and Quinn were fishermen.” She cleared her throat and brightened her sad eyes. “Right. Enough sad talk. And I’ll spare ye my account of Jack. I figure ye’ve learned enough of him for now.”

  Isabella’s thoughts wandered straight back to Jack’s kiss. Did Rose know how acquainted they had become? Isabella hid her blush by busying herself with stacking the dirty bowls. She felt a nervous jump in her belly.

  Rose stood, dusting off her hands. “Now that ye ken a little more about my younger brothers, are ye ready to rejoin their company.”

  Wishing she could just remain beneath the cool tree, she nodded reluctantly. “If we must.”

  Chapter Seven

  Isabella was sitting on a log by the fireside very nearly alone with Jack who had chased the rest of his siblings away with his glib tongue. Rose had gone to bed more than an hour before—right after Jack had denied her request for Isabella to bed down with her. At that moment, Isabella had discovered that Rose, like Ian, had a temper to match her hair.

  “She cannot sleep in your hut. ‘Tis indecent, Jack,” she had said.

  But Jack had been unyielding, arguing that he was responsible for everyone’s safety including Isabella’s.

  “How do ye intend to keep Lady Redesdale from escapin’ if she had a mind to do so?” Jack had said to Rose.

  Isabella had pledged not to attempt to leave their camp. Still, Jack had only grown increasingly adamant. Finally, Rose could do naught but storm off in a huff. Having been forced to find a new champion, Isabella had looked to the younger brothers with pleading eyes, but none would shoulder her cause. One by one, they had all retired.

  Now, only she, Jack and Quinn remained. Isabella stared hard at Quinn who shifted in his seat. Nigh jumping to his feet, he said, “I bid ye goodnight, Lady Redesdale.” And with a bow, he was gone. It took all her restraint not to call after him and beg him not to leave her alone with Jack.

  “’Tis time, Princess.”

  Her eyes locked with his. “Time for what?”

  A slow smile spread across his face. “’Tis time for sleep.”

  She arched a brow at him. “Sleep?”

  “Ladies do sleep, do they not?”

  She rolled her eyes and stood. Chin raised high, she turned on her heel and started toward his hut. She had not taken three steps before he was standing in front of her, blocking her path.

  “Ye’re eager to make it to my quarters.”

  “Eager is a strong word,” she snapped.

  One side of his mouth lifted in a cocky smile before he bowed low at the waist. Then he straightened and offered her his hand. “Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he said, mimicking her speech.

  Fists clenched, she pressed her lips together to restrain the slew of rebuttals fighting to break free. She refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he unnerved her. Making a show of flipping her hair off her shoulder, she stormed around him and strode away in possession of her dignity—or so she had thought. Glancing back over her shoulder, she froze in mid-step. He stared after her with that same quiet expression on his face that he had worn earlier. A shiver shot up her spine as a slow smile tugged at the side of his lips. Confused, she whirled back around and raced the rest of the way to his hut. Her heart beat her chest as she opened the door. She was about to let it close behind her, but decided in the last moment to release a taste of her frustration and, instead, slammed it shut. She scowled at the thin branches laced together. The flimsy door was incapable of demonstrating her true state of upheaval. She paced the room, muttering the scathing remarks she now wish she’d let loose. How dare he speak to her with such disrespect and then a moment later look at her in that warm, appreciative way as if she were the conjured meadow or steady sea? She backed away from the door, her eyes scanning the room for something heavy enough to bar his way. Her scowl deepened when she eyed the small chest and lightweight table and chairs. None of the sparse furnishings offered sufficient weight to keep Jack out. Still, she was too confused and exhausted to face him.

  She expelled a sigh of defeat just as the door swung wide. He stepped into the small room, which seemed to shrink around her with the addition of his massive frame. Despite the tongue lashing she longed to give him, she instinctively backed away, pressing against the thatched wall. Her frustration was giving way to trepidation. She was alone at night in the woods with a man who was both savior and captor. At that moment, she certainly felt more captive than saved. There was nowhere to run. He eyed her as if she were a fine cut of meat at market.

  From his sporran he pulled out a thin linen robe. “Courtesy of Rose.”

  She stared up at him unable to speak. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears. Despite how she tried to think of something else, her mind fixated on the last time they had been alone in his hut. As if of their own accord, her eyes traveled to his full lips, lips that had been pressed against her own. She tried desperately to hold in her mind the many reasons she should dislike the man standing in front of her, but when she met his gaze, she suddenly felt as if she were drowning in a black sea. His eyes bore into hers. He took a step toward her. Her breath hitched. Again he stepped closer. She fought to swallow, but her throat suddenly felt thick. He stood so close now. She opened her mouth to protest, to punish his audacity and pride, but the words did not come. Her objections remained lodged in her throat along with her thundering heart as he planted his hands on the wall on either side of her head. Surrounding her, he enclosed her in a cage of muscle and his all too familiar woody scent. He was so big and strong and smelled so good. He was unlike any man she had ever met. The intensity of his ebony gaze burned through her like wild fire. He drew closer still. She could not breathe. Slowly, he bent his head, lowering his lips until they were a breath away from hers. A sweet ache coiled in her stomach. She closed her eyes and waited for his lips to touch hers, but they never came. A cool breeze caressed her cheek and forced open her eyes the instant before the door shut behind him.

  Her knees gave way, and she slid to the ground, resting her head against the thatched wall. “Jack,” she whispered.

  She hid behind her hands. Dear Lord above, her body had been awakened by the last man on God’s green earth she should ever want. Her mind was spinning out of control as the day’s events combined with the tumult of new sensations coursing through her body. She gripped her stomach, feeling as though she would be sick again, but it was not bile that pushed for a way out. A wave of tears stung her eyes, and she collapsed beneath the weight of the day.

  *

  With hands in tight fists, Jack plowed his way through the grove. His heart thundered in his chest, igniting a searing pain that pulsed at his temples. He stormed around a copse of birch trees and passed into a small glen, heading straight for a clear, deep brook. Jerking his tunic over his head, he dove into the icy water and let the chill ease his body. God above, he wanted her.

  “Why?” he growled out loud.

  He had spent less than a full day in her company, and here he was fixating on her, burning for her. Hell, he had nearly taken her against the wall, and what drove him near to madness was that she might have actually welcomed his touch. He closed his eyes then to better remember her parting lips and quick breaths as she held still, waiting for his kiss.

  He should have taken her. What sort of lady would not fight the advances of a commoner, and a thief at that? Perhaps she was free with her kisses and made light of her virtue with the English lords in her treacherous King’s court. He should have had his way with her. Then he would not now be paying for his self-control. With a curse, he dove once more beneath the water. That was not his way. He was not a rake like his younger brother, Rory. He was a thief—that was the beginning and end of his sins and likely enough to reserve him a place in hell as it was.

  Water sluiced off his shoulders as he s
trode from the brook. His body remained hard and hungry for her, despite his cold bath. Pausing only to grab his tunic, he headed straight back through the woods no more relieved than before he set out. When his hut came into view, he stopped and forced his lungs to fill. Then he blew out before taking another deep breath. An English lady had no business occupying his thoughts. He had to remain focused on what mattered most—the many people dependent on him for their very survival. His attraction to the Lady Redesdale was a physical and emotional betrayal on his part. How dare he dally with the enemy?

  Striding past the pit fire, which had smoldered down to a pile of ash, he walked right up to his door and stopped. Lips pressed tight, he considered his options. He never had any intention of forcing the lady to sleep with him in his hut. He had always planned to sleep just outside in front of the door, thus barring her way from escape. But if he were honest, sleeping with her was exactly what he wanted. He reached for the door, but his fingers froze in midair. His already erect length grew harder just thinking about her stretched out beside him. His hand dropped. He lay down on the ground, lacing his fingers behind his head. He stared up at the stars and tried to think of something other than silky brown hair and pale green eyes.

  Scowling, he lifted his head off the ground. Had he heard something? He held his breath. A quiet, muffled noise reached his ears. It was she. He pressed his ear to the door. Mayhap, she slept but not soundly, and it was her unrest he heard. A soft hiccup emanated from within. Or perhaps she had the makings of a slight illness, and it was her blocked nose that he heard. Then an unmistakable whimper reached his ears, and he could no longer deny that she was crying.

  “For pity’s sake,” he muttered, shaking his head. He stood up and eased the door open. There, in the middle of his pallet, she sat with her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her shoulders shook as she sobbed into her hands, muffling the sound.

  “Princess?” he said, quietly.

  Her hands jerked away from her face, and she turned wide, glitteringly wet, exquisitely beautiful, pale green eyes on him.

  His heart broke. He had never been able to withstand a woman’s tears. The hard front he had been struggling to hold in place since they had first met melted. At once, she was no longer Lady Redesdale. She was just Bella, a woman who had been through a great deal that day.

  “Don’t cry, Bella. Please don’t cry.”

  Hugging her arms around her legs, she buried her face, hiding her tears.

  “Go away,” she sobbed.

  He wrapped his arms around her. “Hush, lass,” he crooned. Gently, he picked her up, cradling her in his arms. Her wet cheek pressed against his bare chest. He sat down on the chair and gently rocked her. Her soft body yielded to his.

  “Never ye mind. Ye just cry it out, lass. Ye’ve earned yer tears.”

  Whether it was his urging or just the weight of the day, she did just that. Her arms came around his neck. He breathed in the lavender scent of her hair and held her tighter. Slowly, he stroked her back and whispered softly in her ear. “There, there, love. ‘Twill be alright. Just let it out. Cry all ye want.”

  Her body trembled in his arms. Tears dripped down his chest. She buried closer to him, and he pressed a kiss to her brow. He let her cry until her tears ran dry. Then, even with her sorrow spent, she did not move but kept her arms around his neck. He savored their intimacy, and he continued to rock her, imagining the sea cradled them both.

  After a while, the heat of her breath warmed his chest at regular intervals. He knew then that she had fallen asleep in his arms. He stood and carried her to his pallet. He knelt and laid her down, but her arm held tight to his neck. Gently he tugged, but she stirred. Having no desire to wake her, he stretched out beside her, pulling her into his arms.

  Her head rested on his chest. His fingers grazed her silken skin.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “This feels good.”

  Chapter Eight

  She stretched her arms above her head before rubbing the sleep from her eyes. The thatched roof came into focus and she jerked upright. The previous day’s event came crashing down around her. She dug her hands into her unbound hair, remembering how the day had ended—with her sobbing in Jack’s arms.

  “Oh God,” she groaned and fell back on the pallet. Perhaps, God would strike her dead right then and there and save her from the embarrassment of seeing Jack again. She held her breath and closed her eyes.

  “You are meant to be a merciful God,” she muttered, her gaze upturned.

  She could hear activity outside. With a sigh, she stood, resigned now to her fate.

  She whisked the robe off and pulled on Rose’s tunic just as easily. In the light of day, she saw how tattered and stained the fabric was, but the secret to its softness was in the wear it had seen, which pleased her to no end. Digging around in Jack’s trunk, she found a length of rope, which she used to belt her waist. Dressing for the day was usually an ordeal that required two maidservants. It was a wonder to her how quickly it could be done if one left off all the fuss as Jack had put it. Once more, she worked the tangles free with her fingers, then swept her hair off her shoulders. She smiled. Despite her questionable captivity, she had never felt so free.

  Childish laughter outside her hut drew her attention. She stepped outside. Rose was there with five little girls.

  Rose waved when she saw her. “Good morrow, Lady Redesdale.”

  Isabella hastened across the glade. “Good morrow, Rose.”

  “Well, ye seem well enough this mornin’,” Rose said, searching Isabella’s face. “My brother behaved himself then?”

  Isabella blushed but nodded.

  “I knew he would, but I still say he should have let ye bed down with me.”

  Wanting to change the subject, Isabella pointed to the basket in Rose’s hand. “Where are you off to?”

  “The lassies and I are goin’ to break our fast by the stream. Would ye care to join us?”

  “I would love to, but I’m not certain if I should.” Isabella scanned the camp, which appeared empty except for Rose and the girls.

  Rose smiled. “The lads went huntin’, but they’ll be back soon. Do not fash yerself. Ye’re safe with me.”

  “My role here is somewhat unclear, am I allowed to go with you?”

  “Well, ye must eat. Is that not true?”

  As if to grant her permission, Isabella’s stomach growled loudly. Rose laughed. “Come on, pet. I’ve fresh bannock and dried meat.”

  Rose hooked arms with her, pulling her toward a narrow pass that cut through the trees. “I’d wager, they’re as hungry as ye,” Rose said, laughing as the girls darted ahead in a race.

  “Who are they?” Isabella asked

  “Orphans,” Rose replied.

  Isabella raised a skeptical brow. “Orphans? Living in a camp among thieves?”

  Rose smiled. “Things are not always as they seem, love.”

  Isabella nodded. That was one truth she had accepted long ago.

  When they reached a stream, Rose pulled out two large blankets from her basket. Isabella helped to spread the fabric under the shade of a large oak tree while two older girls unloaded the bread and meat. Isabella guessed they both were near ten. When the food was spread about, one of the older girls took her by the hand.

  “Sit,” she said.

  Isabella knelt down. Five little faces smiled at her. She smiled back and reached for a bannock. A faint whiff of steam rose from the firm cake. She held it to her nose and inhaled its warmth. “This is marvelous.”

  The girls giggled. The one who had taken her hand scooted closer. Isabella admired her lovely dark braids and starry violet eyes. The girl took a bite of meat and while she chewed she scrunched her eyes up at Isabella. “Ye’ve lovely skin. ‘Tis darker than mine.”

  Isabella smiled. “My olive skin was a gift from my mother. She was Sicilian.”

  The girl took another bite. “What’s yer name?”

  In her mind Isabella recited her
usual answer to that question—Lady Isabella Annunziatta Redesdale—but in the end her answer was simple: “Bella. And what is yours?”

  “Moira. I’m Jack’s lass.”

  Isabella’s eyes widened in surprise. “I did not realize Jack had a daughter.”

  Moira laughed. “We are all Jack’s lassies,” she said, gesturing to the little girls littering the blankets.

  Isabella’s hand flew to her lips. “Oh my.” It was clear she needed to add womanizer to Jack’s list of titles: Thief, commoner, Scotsman, and now rake.

  Rose smiled and leaned close. “Do not fash yerself, my lady,” she whispered.

  “I’m hardly worried,” Isabella said as she straightened her skirt to avoid Rose’s gaze. “Jack may father as many children as he likes.”

  Rose threw her head back with laughter. “I can tell ye on good authority that Jack has never fathered a child of his own.” Rose’s hand swept out to encompass all of the girls. “I told ye already. These girls are orphans, but they are in Jack’s charge.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “They’re parents were killed durin’ the massacre. They were abandoned, left to die, in fact. Jack gathered them all and hid them. Abbot Matthew keeps this lot in the monastery. But there are many more than what ye see here. He has them spread throughout the countryside, some in homes with families, others in different monasteries. But he provides for every single one.”

  Once more Isabella’s eyes widened. “Do you mean to tell me this is what he does with his stolen gains? He feeds orphans.”

  “Aye,” Rose said, still looking amused. “He robs English nobles and gives the money back to the Scottish people and to the cause, of course.”

  Isabella leaned closer. “What cause?”

  “Now, I like ye very much, but I won’t be tellin’ a Sassanach any more about that. No offense, my la—” Rose’s words were cut off by a chorus of girlish squeals the instant before Jack’s lassies took off back down the path.