Page 1 of Jack (Highland Outlaws #1)

B efore King Edward of England sacked Jack MacVie’s beloved city of Berwick upon Tweed, Jack had lived a quiet life, setting sail each morning to fish the waters of the North Sea, alongside Quinn, one of his four brothers.

Muscles straining, heart pounding, he would haul in the day’s catch as the sun shone on his brow and salty breezes filled his lungs.

Waves would crash against the ship’s hull while gulls cried shrilly, mingling with the never-ceasing music of the sea.

How he missed her song.

Long had it been since he had gripped a sodden net or heard fish slapping their breathless bodies upon the deck, for the English king’s merciless deeds had driven him toward a new profession.

Now, he was one of Scotland’s secret rebels. He and his remaining siblings risked their lives every day, fighting for freedom and justice and for the memory of their parents and youngest sister, who had been among the thousands slaughtered during the English attack.

Still, it was not vengeance that fueled his strength and commitment to the cause.

It was the memories of the life Jack had once known and the dream that one day he would return to the great city of his birth and again set sail.

For even amidst the forest where he now sat astride his loyal mount, leagues away from the docks and gulls, his heartstrings could pluck the ocean’s rhythmic sounds, which were harbored deep in his soul, never to be forgotten.

But at that moment, he needed to quiet the waves lapping gently in his mind.

Now was not the time for remembrance.

He drew a deep breath, becoming aware of the forest sounds surrounding him, the gentle rustling of branches swaying in the slight breeze, the endless trickle of a nearby stream, and the hooves pounding the earth in the distance.

Now was the time for action.

Jack shook his head. “I miss being a fisherman.” Lowering his black hooded mask over his face, he glanced back at his four brothers, Quinn, Alec, Rory, and Ian.

Quinn was the closest to Jack in age. He was intelligent, cool-headed, and fiercely protective of his family.

Alec was the next oldest. He was a man of few words and thought by most to be cold and unfeeling, but only because they did not know Alec’s secret—a secret even Jack had trouble understanding.

Next in line was Rory, the second youngest. He was reckless and unpredictable, and the only things he loved more than women were his siblings and Scotland, both for whom he would lay down his life.

And lastly, there was Ian, who, despite his massive size, was the youngest sibling now that their wee sister was dead.

The rumble of the approaching carriage broke into his thoughts. “Protect them,” he prayed under his breath. Then he raised his fist in the air to draw their gazes. Their horses snorted and stomped at the ground. “Saints, masks on,” he hissed.

His brothers lowered their woolen masks, concealing their faces.

“Stick to the code—do not speak our real names. Ye’re called by yer saint’s name.

We are not heading into battle. There are likely women, even children, in the approaching carriage.

They may be English, but it is not for us to judge the worth of their souls.

Our mission is to fill Scotland’s coffers, not to kill anyone.

We are Scottish rebels, not murderers. Remember yerselves, lads. ”

Jack swung down from his horse and strode around the trees toward the ribbon of road beyond the thicket. Narrowing his eyes to see through the slits in his mask, he scanned the road for the carriage they had been tracking and nodded grimly when it careened into view, along with half a dozen guards.

Quinn nosed his horse forward, stopping beside Jack with Jack’s mount in tow. “The hour grows late,” Quinn said, his tone casual despite the tension in the air. “They appear to be in a hurry to reach the next village before dark.”

Jack stretched his neck to one side and then the other. He took up his reins and mounted his horse in one smooth motion. “’Tis a pity we’ll have to delay them,” he replied to Quinn before kicking his horse in the flanks. He and his brothers surged forward, but then Rory shot ahead.

“Damn his reckless hide,” Jack snapped. “What the devil is wrong with him?”

“He’s going to collide with the carriage,” Quinn shouted.

Without slowing his horse, Jack dropped the reins and cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting to Rory through the fabric of his mask, “Pull back, St. Thomas!” But either Rory did not hear his warning or chose to ignore it.

Bending low in his saddle, Jack urged his horse faster to catch his wayward brother, but it was too late.

Jack cursed as Rory shot through the trees onto the open road, straight into the carriage’s path.

Rory’s horse reared up on its hind legs.

A shout went up from the carriage driver while the guards whirled to meet Rory’s blade.

Another cry from the driver grabbed Jack’s attention. The carriage rocked, then listed hard right. The driver pulled back, but the vehicle bounced to the left, the right wheels airborne for an instant, then it toppled onto its side and skidded.

Jack urged his horse to move faster. He reached the edge of the road and slammed into one of the mounted guards.

The enemy flew from his horse and hit the ground with a thud.

The force of the collision rocked Jack back in the saddle, but he held his seat.

Another guard charged him. He parried the blow, then whipped around and swung.

The flat side of his sword slammed his attacker’s forearm.

The enemy’s blade dropped to the ground.

One guard disarmed.

Jack swung around, his sword carving into a shoulder.

One guard maimed.

Jack heard the sound of iron clanging off iron as the swords in his brothers’ hands met the weapons wielded by their enemies.

Fury swept through him. Sword raised high, he readied for the next assault, but only a cloud of dust stirred.

He scanned his brothers—none injured, all had kept their seats.

Then he eyed the guards on the ground—none dead.

With a grunt of approval, Jack swung down from his horse. His brothers followed.

In the fading light of day, Jack knew they were a terrific sight.

They were all large men, tall and broad, but the most formidable of all was Ian, who loomed like a giant in the dusk.

At only nineteen, he stood a hand taller than the rest, who were already well over six feet in height.

The tunics they wore were made of black wool, over which gleamed shining black chain mail.

The hose they wore was also black and tucked into tall, black boots.

Large wooden crosses hung around their necks, and their hooded masks made them look like ghostly sainted shadows, sent forth into the night to punish the wicked.

To Jack and his brothers, no one was more wicked than English nobles with holdings in Scotland.

“St. John,” Jack said to Ian. “Secure the guard.”

“Aye,” Ian answered. With rope in hand, he turned on the guards, whose eyes bulged at his approach, clearly terrified by Ian’s size.

Jack couldn’t help the smile that curved his lips at the sight.

What the guards didn’t know was that despite Ian’s towering height and breadth of shoulder, he was as gentle as a lamb—unless provoked.

Jack’s smile faltered. He needed to stay focused to ensure their mission went swiftly and smoothly, thus minimizing the chance of his brothers losing their tempers.

He didn’t want any unnecessary bloodshed.

Turning to his middle brother, Alec, Jack said,“St. Paul, check the carriage. Make certain no one was injured when it overturned.”

With a curt nod, Alec crossed to the toppled carriage.

Next, Jack motioned to Rory. “St. Thomas, gather the weapons.” And then to Quinn he said, “St. Augustine, take up collection.”

A terrible screech drew Jack’s attention back to the carriage. “St. Paul,” he called pointedly to Alec. “What the hell is going on?”

A moment later, Alec pulled a thrashing mass of silk and lace from the carriage. He set the lady on her feet. She screamed and lashed out, her fingers bent into claws. Alec seized her arms, pinning them behind her back.

“St. Paul, release her,” Jack ordered.

With a shrug, Alec dropped her hands and stepped back. The lady screeched and shifted her gaze to Jack. “St. Paul, St. John—You are no saints. How dare you make a mockery of what is holy?”

Jack turned his back on her. He was certainly not going to give audience to a selfish noblewoman’s ideas of devotion.

At his dismissal, she snarled her fury. “I am Lady Eleanor de Clare. You will feel the full wrath of King Edward. You worthless, Scottish—”

Jack turned and lunged forward, bringing his masked face inches from hers.

“I have already felt the full wrath of yer King, which is why ye’re feeling mine.

” He closed his eyes, reclaiming his control.

He would not take his fury out on a woman, no matter how deplorable.

Taking a step back, he looked at Quinn, who rifled through one of her trunks. “What has she given to our cause?”

“A handsome bag of coin, but that is all,” he answered.

Jack turned back to her. “I know ye by reputation. Ye and yer husband squeeze the good folk who work the land ye call yer own, although should rightfully be theirs, until they have barely enough coin to put bread on their tables.” He grasped the wimple she wore.

Fear widened her eyes. She shrank away as he rubbed the fabric between his fingers.

No finer silk had he ever felt. He lifted his gaze to her face.

Although he guessed she had as many as five and thirty years, her beauty had yet to fade.

He met her furious yet fearful blue gaze and reached down, seizing her fingers.

Three rings with gems the size of blackberries gleamed even in the dim light.

He shook his head in disgust. The cost for such riches could no doubt feed a Highland village for years.

She yanked to pull her hand free, but he grabbed her wrist and held her still while he worked the rings from her fingers.

He would make certain her precious gems would do just that—care for the battered and hungry people of Scotland.

He dropped her hand, and she quickly covered her throat. Jack reached for her.

“Stay back, you Scottish bastard!”

He shoved her hand aside. His fingers made contact with a string of pearls lying on skin as smooth as velvet.

His gaze dropped from her neck to her chest, raking across her display of rounded flesh, pressing with her every inhale against the bold cut of her bodice.

Then he reached behind her neck, slowly grazing her silken skin, and unclasped the string of pearls. “Scotland thanks ye, my lady.”

Jack handed the jewels to Quinn. “Add these to the lot.”

Ignoring the insults that spewed from Lady De Clare’s lips, his gaze scanned the bound guards with approval. It would be some time before she was able to free one of her men. Then, they would still have their wounds to dress and the carriage to right before her ladyship could be on her way.

Satisfied that their work was done, he called to his brothers, “Saints, let’s ride!”

They swung up on their horses and, like swiftly moving black waves, barreled deep into the forest, leaving the road behind.

As the rhythm of the ride overtook his thoughts, he could feel the lull of remembrance once again calling to him.

Before too long, he knew they would be back at their hideaway, where they could rest and ready themselves for the next English noble who was foolish enough to enter Scotland.

But until then, Jack could surrender to his dreams and imagine that he was once more at sea and the city he loved had never been turned to ash.