Page 15 of Jack (Highland Outlaws #1)

A s they walked, Jack kept her close, their arms brushing against each other.

The river flowed quietly beside them, the water clear and calm.

Bella breathed deeply the scents of the forest and wildflowers.

She felt alive and renewed, as though she had been awakened from a deep slumber.

She looked at Jack, and he caught her gaze, his eyes softening.

Suddenly, Bella noticed a flower growing at the edge of the riverbank. It was a deep purple, almost black in color. Its petals were long and pointed, and the center was a brilliant yellow. She crossed over to it, taking in its beauty.

“That’s a Mouse Ear,” Jack said softly. “‘Tis a symbol of love and remembrance.” His voice was low and gentle as he continued to explain the flower’s meaning to her. “It reminds us that no matter what happens, those we love will always be with us.”

As they continued along the river, Jack pointed out more flowers and which herbs were best to flavor a stew or had healing properties.

She listened, savoring the sound of his deep voice.

The sun slanted through the trees. Bird song filled the air, mingling with the distant laughter of Jack’s family.

Long had it been since she experienced such easy joy, and it filled her heart to the brim.

The further they walked, she tried to focus on the surrounding scenery—the swaying trees and the sound of the water rushing past them—but her mind was too preoccupied with Jack’s closeness.

She couldn’t help but feel his hand still warm against her skin.

They walked in silence for a time, and Bella began to feel nervous but not out of fear.

She felt a tension growing between them as if there was something inside him that had latched on to something inside her, and it fought to pull them together.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Ye seem different today,” he said, his tone curious.

“Different?” Bella echoed nervously.

“Aye,” he said. “Ye seem more...comfortable.”

She laughed nervously. “I assure you that I am anything but comfortable at the moment.”

He looked at her in confusion. “Are ye unwell?”

Her cheeks warmed. She shook her head. “I’m very well. Thank you. That is not what I meant.” She cleared her throat, wanting to change the subject. “I learned a little more about you today.”

He laughed. “Och, Rose is a good one for conversation.”

She stopped then and met his gaze. “We may speak freely, may we not?”

He nodded slowly, cautiously. “Aye, that we may,” he said, but with a touch of wariness in his tone.

“You are not truly a thief, are you?”

He cocked a brow at her. “I most certainly am. There are many who have stared down the length of my sword and handed over a bag of coin for fear of death.”

She arched her brow at him. “I do not believe you would actually make good on your threat.”

One side of his lips lifted in a sideways smile that stole her breath. “Ye’re right,” he said. “But they don’t know that.”

His mischievous response made her laugh out loud. “If your victims could see you surrounded by little girls, they would, no doubt, fume over being duped into believing you were a villain.”

Warmth flooded his gaze. “What do ye think of my lassies?” he asked.

She could see how much he loved them. “They are wonderful girls, so bright and playful.”

“That they are,” he began, then a shadow of worry passed over his features as he continued, “The abbot keeps them hidden in the monastery. It is only out here that they are free to run and play. It has been five years, and I have yet to find homes for them. Florie came to me as a baby. I fear they will spend the remainder of their youth with the abbot and will probably go to a convent when they are old enough.”

Her heart ached for them all. “I would like to help, Jack. Perhaps when you find a way to bring me safely home, I could speak to my father. He has many connections and may be able to find families for them.”

He raised a skeptical brow at her. “Lord Redesdale is going to help poor Scottish orphans?”

She met his gaze with steady insistency. “Not all English lords are sympathetic to King Edward. My father has every reason to hate him, as do I.” She stopped then and turned to look at the water rushing past. “It really has been five years since the massacre, hasn’t it?” she said absently.

“It has,” he replied.

Her chest tightened around the familiar pain. “It feels as though it has been only five minutes.”

He grabbed her arm and turned her about. Brows drawn together in a frown, he asked, “Ye were there? Ye were in Berwick during the massacre?”

Confused by his sudden harshness, she tried to yank her arm free, but his grip tightened. She winced. “I was. Now release me!”

He looked down at his hand, squeezing her arm. His eyes widened, and he let go. He stepped back and raked his hand through his hair. “I thought ye’d come to Berwick after Edward had claimed the city for England.”

She shook her head. “I was born there. My mother and father met among the market stalls.” She turned away and cast her gaze towards the trees alongside the river. Their small spring leaves shone in the sun, and she wondered how such destructive hate could exist amid such wondrous beauty.

Jack placed a hand on her arm. “I’m sorry, lass,” he said softly. “I shouldn’t have grabbed ye like that. Ye surprised me. I had no idea ye were born in Berwick.”

“I loved Berwick.” Her voice broke. “It was a great city.” Tears stung her eyes. “No!” she said, scolding herself. Fighting to ignore her aching heart, she stormed away, but he caught her arm and once more swung her around. Her hands covered her face. “I don’t want to cry anymore.”

Jack pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her. “Ye don’t have to hold back yer tears around me, Bella. ‘Tis necessary to let it all out.”

She shook her head against his chest. “I’ve cried enough tears for ten lifetimes.”

He stroked her hair, his fingers soothing. “Sometimes ‘tis the things we try to keep locked away that hurt us the most. ‘Tis all right to feel the pain, lass. It means ye’re still alive.”

She looked up at him. “What about you, Jack? Do you still feel the pain?”

“Every day,” he replied.

JACK CLOSED HIS EYES as the familiar, barren ache settled in his chest. Taking a deep breath, he opened his eyes again and looked at Bella, but it was as if he was seeing her for the first time.

He no longer saw the spoiled daughter of a lord.

He saw her desperation and the yearning echoed by his own heart.

Theirs was a struggle to move beyond the rubble and blood, to find a life worth living again.

He reached out and grazed his fingertips down her cheek. “Who did ye lose, Bella?”

She pressed her lips together and swiped at her wet eyes. “My mother,” she whispered at length. And then her eyes locked with his. “And my father.”

“They were both slain?”

She shook her head. “My mother was stabbed through the heart and her head split open.” A sob tore from her throat, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

“My father survived those days, untouched by blade or fire. His body lives, but he does not reside inside of it. Every day, I lose a little more of him to his grief. He shuts out life and me along with it.” She sagged in his arms. “Five years have passed, but it has not truly ended. The world is still on fire.”

He lifted her into his arms and carried her further down the bank of the river to a slope shaded beneath a large oak tree. He sat cradling her and rocked her gently.

After a while, he pulled away just enough to see her face.

“Bella,” he said, his voice low and steady.

“I understand yer pain.” He closed his eyes for a moment, the memories flooding back.

“Our youngest sister, Roslyn, set out that morning to help my mother sell apples. She was cut down in the streets.” His own voice cracked.

“My parents were also slain.” Expelling a long, slow breath, he rested his head back against the tree and stroked her soft waves.

The song of the river surrounded them. He swallowed the remainder of his lament and waited for the familiar numbness to return.

After a time, she sat up in his lap and dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her tunic.

He touched the fabric. “Forgive me for giving ye such an old tunic to wear.”

She met his gaze. “If it is so old, then you won’t mind if I never give it back.”

He raised a questioning brow at her. “Could an English lady, accustomed to silk and lace, truly be happy in homespun wool?”

She smiled and released a long breath. He could see the tension ease from her shoulders. “I already am,” she replied.

His gaze passed over her olive skin as he studied her, his heart hammering in his chest. The way she spoke of her mother and father, the sorrow etched on her face, made him want to take her pain away.

It was as if their shared suffering had connected them in a way he could not explain.

He longed to hold her close and never let go, to keep her safe from the world that had turned so cruel.

“We aren’t so different after all,” he breathed.

Pale green eyes locked with his. “It would seem not.”

For a moment, he believed his own words, but then truth raised its ugly head.

Suddenly, he was staring across an endless, uncrossable gray chasm, to where she stood, draped in wondrous colors that his rough hands could never hold.

Bitterness entered his heart. “Except that ye’re a noblewoman and I, a commoner. ”

She reached out to touch his face, but he pulled away before her fingers made contact. “I can’t forget my place in this world, Bella,” he said, his voice tight with emotion.

Her eyes narrowed with determination. “Jack, I am the daughter of Lord David Redesdale but also of Annunziatta Santospirito.” Tears once more filled her eyes, but she smiled through them.

“And she was the daughter of an Italian merchant. She was a commoner, but there was nothing common about her.” She reached out to cup his cheek.

This time, he let her warm hands touch his skin.

She drew closer, her face a breath from his own.

“And I see nothing common about you,” she said in a whisper.

A rush of fire exploded in his heart. It was as if a dam had burst inside him, unleashing a torrent of emotions that had been suppressed for far too long.

His lips seized hers. He kissed her deeply, fiercely, pouring all his pain and longing into the kiss.

She responded with equal fervor, threading her fingers through his hair, pulling him even closer.

For a moment, everything else fell away. All he could feel was the warmth of her body pressed against his. His hands roamed over her, his fingers tracing the curves of her hips and waist. She melted into his touch. It was as if they were the only two people left in the world.

“Jack,” a deep voice shouted, intruding upon the moment.

Jack tore his lips away and moved to stand, shielding Bella from Quinn’s gaze as he hastened toward them.

“’Tis Bishop Lamberton,” he said. “He’s here!”

Jack’s chest tightened. He had not expected the bishop to arrive so soon. He must have ridden through the night. “Very well,” he replied.

Brows drawn, Quinn looked as if he wanted to speak, but then he simply nodded and took his leave. Jack turned and looked down at her.

Her gaze was desperate. “The bishop has come for me, hasn’t he?”

“Aye,” he said in a quiet voice, helping her to her feet.

“I thought we’d have more time.” As he looked into her eyes, there was so much that he wanted to say.

He wanted to tell her to forget her life in Berwick, to stay with him.

He would take care of her. But he knew that they had only just met and that he had no right to ask so much of her.

A pang of regret and sorrow gripped his heart as he kissed her hands before reluctantly letting them go. Then he stepped back, putting space between them. The realization of what was to come settled over him like a dark cloud. “Come, Lady Redesdale, our stolen moment is over.”