Alec: A Scottish Outlaw (Highland Outlaws Book 4) Page 9

  “Are you an angel or the devil?” she whispered.

  He looked down at her. His face remained unchanged. “I am just a man.” Despite his aloof tone, his voice was deep and unhurried and fueled the fire that continued to warm her body.

  She curled deeper into his arms. “Liar,” she whispered. And then the world faded away into a dreamy haze.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alec cradled Joanie close. His arms enveloped her, her body pressed tightly to his, and yet he sensed nothing. Never had he known the pleasure of simply holding a woman in his arms. In the past, whenever he had held a woman close, he had also embraced her emotions and memories. But not with Joanie.

  Still, habit and caution bade that when he entered the Anchor tavern and followed Moira into one of the rooms upstairs, he laid Joanie on the bed and immediately stepped back, putting distance between them.

  “For pity’s sake, Alec, do not be so hard,” Moira scolded before turning to stroke Joanie’s cheek. “Poor wee lamb.” Then she looked back to Alec. “Help me remove her cloak and turn her so I can see the wound better.”

  Alec did not step forward. The stone around his neck blazed against his chest, which only added to his confusion. Why did the stone respond to her? He stared at the creature on the bed who was such a mystery to him.

  Moira put her hands on her hips. In her anger, her true Scottish brogue came out. “Ye heard me, Alec MacVie. I know there’s a beating heart somewhere in that body. What little compassion ye have, ye may want to spend on her.” Then she cocked a brow at him. “Unless ye want me to bring one of the lassies in to help.”

  Alec cocked a brow back at Moira. There was no way he was going to let anyone else in the room. He took a deep breath, then reached for Joanie. Untying her cloak, he lifted her and set her upright on his lap, letting her head rest against his chest. He closed his eyes, waiting, expectant, but again nothing came to his mind. Lulled by her quiet soul, he leaned against the wall and listened to the steady beating of her heart. All he felt was peace — no chaos, no revealing truths or hidden deceptions — only peace. He watched Moira’s expert hands quickly and gently cleanse and dress the gash on Joanie’s head.

  “’Tis done,” Moira said. “Ye can lay her back down.”

  Which Alec did … eventually. But first he stayed there in that spot and held her, savoring the peaceful rhythm of her heart and breath.

  ~ * ~

  Joanie struggled to open her eyes. Slowly, the room came into focus. A fire burned brightly in the hearth. She stared at the dancing flames. Then her eye caught a movement near the foot of her bed. She sucked in a sharp breath and scurried against the wall as she met Randolph Tweed’s hard, emotionless face. He said nothing, but stood and moved his seat away from the bed next to the hearth where he continued to stare at her.

  She didn’t know what to say or how to explain her running away. Was he vexed? Was he trying to frighten her? She just wished he would say something. Finally, she could handle the silence no longer. She blurted out, “Master Randolph—”

  But he cut her off before she could say another word. “My name is Alec MacVie. And I am not yer master.”

  A thick Scottish brogue shaped his words. She stared at him dumbstruck. “You’re Scottish?” she asked hesitantly.

  “Aye, is that a problem?”

  Who was this man?

  He stared at her for some time, not speaking. When he did speak, she jumped.

  “Moira will be in with food for ye.” He stood up and looked down at her. “She will lock the door behind her when she leaves to make sure ye don’t decide to run off again.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “Aye. The coin I paid for ye wasn’t mine — it’s Scotland’s money. I’m going to get it back.”

  Her eyes widened. “Geoffrey is not just going to return your money.”

  Alec looked at her. If she didn’t know better, she might have thought a smile played at his lips. “I wasn’t planning on asking him,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “Do you mean you are going to steal it?”

  He shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  He crossed once more to her side. He was so still, his face unreadable, but she felt him like fire inside of her. She knew he wanted to say something or do something, but he held back.

  “Moira will see to yer comfort,” he said, then he turned and left without a backward glance.

  Joanie’s jaw hung slack as she stared at the door. She did not know what to think. But she was warm, and for that she was grateful. A few minutes later, a woman with a bright, pretty face and lovely red hair came into the room.

  “Good morrow” she beamed. “My name is Mary. Do not fret, Randolph will return shortly.”

  Joanie shot the woman a glance then turned back to look at the fire, wrapping her arms around her knees. “He told me his real name.”

  “Did he now?” Moira’s surprised tone also carried a Scottish brogue. She smiled when Joanie looked up. “If he trusts ye enough to give ye his Christian name, then I suppose I should do the same. Ye can call me, Moira, lass.”

  Joanie pulled her knees tighter to her chest and started to rock.

  “Ye don’t need to be so nervous, Joanie. Ye can trust me.”

  “Why are you in London then, pretending to be English?” Joanie blurted.

  Moira shook her head but smiled kindly. “Now if Alec has not yet enlightened ye on that count, I will follow his lead and hold my tongue.” Moira cocked her head to one side as she looked down at Joanie with kind, warm eyes. “Ye needn’t be frightened, love. No one is going to hurt ye. I don’t yet know Alec’s interest in ye or what his plans are, but I tell ye for certain that he will keep ye safe from whatever danger ye’re in.”

  Joanie stiffened. “What makes you think I’m in danger?”

  “A wee lass like yerself shows up in the arms of Alec MacVie, bleeding and unconscious, I’m going to have to assume she’s met with trouble. And from what I know of trouble, it doesn’t go away so easily.”

  Joanie looked away and stared back at the fire. Moira was right about that. Trouble had followed Joanie her whole life.

  Moira sat next to her and swept back a lock of hair that had fallen in front of Joanie’s eyes. “I brought ye some soup and some bread,” she said in a soft voice. “Come sit with me by the hearth and try to eat a little.”

  Joanie looked at the broth and crusty bread but felt no desire to eat. She had long since moved beyond hunger to numb emptiness. How could she eat when despair laid claim to her heart? Tears stung her eyes, and she looked away, hiding her face from Moira.

  Moira’s arm came around her comfortingly. “What is it, love?”

  Joanie sniffed and swiped at her tears, shaking her head.

  “Ye’ll feel better if ye tell me.”

  “I don’t want to feel better,” Joanie snapped. “Not when Diana suffers so.”

  Moira continued to stroke Joanie’s hair, and when she spoke her soothing tone was unaltered by Joanie’s outburst. “Who is Diana, and why does she suffer?”

  After several moments passed, Joanie finally turned to look at Moira. “She is my mistress.” Her lips trembled. She swallowed the hard knot in her throat so that the remainder of her words could get out. “And she is dying. Even as I speak, she could be slipping from this world.”

  Moira’s eyes widened. She placed her hand on Joanie’s. “Where is she? I will take ye to her myself.”

  Tears blurred the fire into watery orange streaks. “She sent me away. She didn’t want me to stay with her. She wanted me to get away from London, away from our master.” Then she paused and looked at Moira. “Away from Randolph too … I mean Alec.”

  Moira pulled her into her arms and rocked her. “She wants to protect ye then.”

  Joanie could not answer. Instead, she allowed Moira to hold her and nodded through her tears.

  “If her time is not long for this world, then what would matter most to her is no
t herself but those she leaves behind, namely ye, Joanie.”

  Joanie knew Moira was right. She knew that Diana had only been thinking of Joanie’s wellbeing when she sent her away. Joanie let the dam holding back her emotions break as she buried herself deeper in Moira’s arms. Moira continued to rock her and say soothing words like her grandmother used to say to her. There, there, wee lamb. Ye just cry all ye want, sweetling.

  After a while, with no more tears left to cry, she sat up and wiped her eyes. Immediately, her gaze was drawn to the large wet mark on Moira’s tunic. “Forgive me. I should not have carried on so.” She shrunk away closer to the wall, but Moira grabbed her hand, ensuring she could not go far.

  “Hush now. None of that nonsense. Ye’ve been through a great deal.” Moira reached out and cupped Joanie’s cheek and softly said, “And judging by those big wounded eyes, I’ve barely glimpsed the dark shadows that haunt ye.”

  Joanie didn’t know what to say. She was not accustomed to compassion.

  Moira smiled, and Joanie allowed her to pull her to her feet, lulled by her kindness.

  “I’m starving,” Moira said. “Ye’d be doing me a favor if ye’d sit and break yer fast with me.”

  Joanie did as she was bid. She could not deny Moira after she had been so kind. She sat in the chair and curled her knees into her chest. She didn’t like chairs. She had always felt so vulnerable with her feet on the ground, and her soft underbelly exposed. She preferred the floor where she could fold her knees into her chest. She nibbled on the bread and stared into the flames. Allowing her mind to empty, she surrendered to numbness.

  After their meal, Moira left and returned several minutes later with a basket of mending. She set it on the floor near the table and took out a tunic in need of hemming.

  Joanie eyed the basket. “May I?” she asked, glancing across the table at Moira.

  A sad smile curved Moira’s lips, but then her smile grew and she nodded, her lovely red curls bouncing. “We’re kindred spirits, ye and I,” she said. “I can’t sit with idle hands either.”

  Blushing, Joanie lowered her head, hiding her gaze from Moira’s. Then she snaked her hand out and quickly grabbed a folded length of linen from the top of the pile. With new purpose, she unfolded her legs and reached for a needle.

  Two hours later, with a neat pile of newly mended clothing, Joanie set her needle down and stretched her arms over her head just as the door swung open. Alec had to dip his head when he entered. His long hair framed his face, falling below his chest on either side. Her heart started to pound when his black eyes met hers.

  “We have to go,” he said. Then he shut the door behind him and began to gather his few belongings, stuffing them into the satchel he wore crossed over his torso.

  His face remained impassive, but the hurried motions of his hands belied his emotionless facade.

  Joanie stood. “Where are we going?”

  Alec shook his head. “There is no time,” he said, his voice hard.

  “Were ye not able to get the money back?” Moira asked, standing.

  Alec shook his head. “I have Scotland’s money. The fool Geoffrey left the bag in clear sight in his room, too drunk on ale and fury to protect what was his.” He gestured to Joanie, “which is not surprising, considering his lack of care for his servants.”

  “What is it then?” Moira asked, her voice rising with the concern and emotion that Alec’s own tone refused to betray.

  “A legion of Edward’s knights rode through the palace gates as I was leaving.”

  Moira’s eyes widened. “Do you think he knows about the robbery?”

  Alec nodded. “I know he does. The keeper sent word about the stolen treasure a fortnight ago. We all should leave London.”

  Joanie’s head darted from Alec to Moira as she listened closely to their exchange. She did not understand much of what they spoke of, but she could tell by Moira’s tone that Alec had brought ill news. Still, he himself could have been speaking on any subject — the cold weather, a list of chores that needed doing. Listening to his emotionless voice, no one would have guessed he spoke of the return of kings and stolen treasure.

  “Close the inn. And spread the word. I want all of Scotland’s agents out of London by tonight.” Then he strode over to Joanie and took her by the forearm. “We are leaving.”

  She tugged her arm free, afraid of the black eyes staring down at her. “Can I stay with Moira?”

  But with a shake of his head, he shattered her hopes. She looked at Moira, hoping Moira would champion her, but she only shook her head.

  “Nay, lass. ‘Tis too dangerous. Stay with Alec. He’ll protect ye.”

  Alec took hold of her forearm again. Joanie looked at the resolute expression Moira wore and knew she would not yield to Joanie’s pleas. She turned and looked at Alec. His shoulders, although not overly broad, were strong, just like the rest of him. She knew it was pointless to struggle, and so surrendered, allowing him to lead her from the inn.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord Aldrich Paxton stormed into the great hall of the king’s palace, a band of twenty knights following at his heels. His eyes were drawn first to the high dais, left empty just as the king had commanded.

  “At least the keeper did something right,” he muttered under his breath. Then his eyes dropped to a trencher table at the fore of the room where a dozen richly-dressed men now stood at his approach. Moving to the center of the room, each man knelt on one knee and bowed his head.

  “Stand,” Lord Paxton commanded when he reached the keeper and his cronies, not trying to conceal the disdain in his voice. “Which one of you is John Bigge?”

  The man in question stood, but kept his head downcast. Lord Paxton circled around him. “How well-ordered the hall appears,” he said, making a sweeping gesture with his arms. “Where are your drunken companions now? Where are your whores?” He drew close to John and hissed in his ear. “Word reached Edward of the state of his palace, of the philanderers and villains who have roamed his halls and fornicated on his floors.”

  “My … my lord,” the keeper stammered.

  “Silence,” Aldrich shouted. Then he turned his back to the group and moved several feet away while he fought to control his temper. He had been taught that any expression of emotion was weakness, even when in the right.

  After several moments, during which he knew the keeper and the other men likely grew increasingly nervous, Aldrich turned back around. “Word of the disastrous order you have kept reached Edward not two days before your message about the robbery of the chapter house.” Aldrich closed the distance to stand in front of the keeper. “Do you have any idea what you’ve allowed? The theft of holy relics and priceless royal treasure,” he shouted in the keeper’s face, answering his own question. He swung back around, showing his back once more to the men.

  “I have sent many of the king’s guards who remained here to recover the treasure,” the keeper said in a quiet voice.

  Aldrich turned back around. “By my command, Edward’s soldiers have spread throughout the city and countryside with orders to drag the rivers and ponds and to search merchant stores, fresh graves and every hayloft from Dover to Cape Wrath. I do not doubt that the treasure will be recovered. Meanwhile, I have ordered the palace guards to return while I continue to investigate you, Keeper John Bigge.” He scanned the men standing behind the keeper. “And the rest of you. You are all under house arrest. You and your households are to remain inside the palace until we have recovered the treasure and found the guilty parties. And in case you are all too dimwitted or still drunk from your revelries to understand my full meaning, allow me to state the obvious — you are all suspects in the theft of the chapter house treasure.”

  The men gaped at him with eyes wide. “You are all merchants?” he asked, eying their garb, absorbing their stances and expressions. He considered himself a good judge of character, and despite the apparent wealth of each man, not one held true honor in his eyes. They were
all thieves and sinners at heart, men who lacked the conviction needed to fight for justice or truth. These were not servants of God or protectors of the crown. These were men who served themselves alone.

  He gestured to the long trencher table they had initially occupied. “Sit down,” he snapped.

  The men spread out along the benches while Aldrich removed his cloak, gesturing for one of the guards to take it. He laid his helmet and gauntlets on the table. Smoothing a wayward lock of red hair from his eyes, he ran his hand down his beard before he sat down at the head of the table. Folding his hands, he continued to consider the group, sizing up each man.

  “’Tis simple, really,” he began. “I am going to give you all the opportunity to supply me with what you know, specifically the names of guilty persons. Now, before you decide to keep your own confidence, I would like to remind you that you are all the king’s prisoners and will remain so until this matter has been satisfactorily resolved.”

  “Jonathan,” he said, looking to where a scribe stood among the warriors and gestured for the small man to join them. Jonathan’s roughly-made brown tunic grazed the floor when he hurried over. Without a word, he reached into the satchel hanging across his chest and withdrew a piece of parchment, a jar of ink, and a quill. When he finished assembling what he needed, he nodded to Aldrich to signal he was ready.

  Aldrich then turned to the group. “Would anyone like to give me a name?”

  Without hesitation, the keeper spoke up. “Richard Ash.”

  Scratching of pen to parchment dominated the room for a moment as Jonathan scribbled the name.

  “Go on,” Aldrich said, looking expectantly at the keeper.

  “He is your man, Richard Ash. Isn’t that right?” The keeper asked, scanning the surrounding men for support. A murmur of quiet agreement echoed his plea.

  “Yes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “He’s the one.”