Page 17 of Jack (Highland Outlaws #1)

I sabella followed behind a tall, lanky monk with a stooped back.

Despite his gangly appearance, he walked like a swiftly moving cloud, soundlessly gliding down the narrow halls of Haddington Monastery.

The air was thick with the smell of incense and wood smoke.

They passed through a maze of shadowy corridors lit by torches, which flickered, creating dark shadows that danced across the rough stone walls.

With every step, she felt as though they were burrowing into the dark belly of a mountain.

She followed the silent monk down yet another hallway that was lined with heavy wooden doors.

At the end of the hallway, he opened a door, revealing a small cell.

She slowly stepped inside, her gaze taking in every detail in just moments.

There was a wooden platform with a thin blanket folded on top, clearly intended as her bed for the night.

Beside it was a rough wooden table, upon which sat a single flickering candle and wooden rosary beads.

Bishop Lamberton had warned her to expect modest accommodations.

She was not bothered by the poverty of her surroundings, but the gloom was hard to bear.

After the monk retreated back the way they’d come, she released a heavy sigh and shut the door.

Then she spread out the blanket upon the hard planks and laid down, looking up at the low ceiling.

As her gaze moved across the surface, it became a bare canvas for her to paint her dreams. In her mind’s eye, she easily conjured Jack’s image as though he were hovering above her, just out of reach.

The imaginary Jack looked at her with sensual yearning, but then he raised a scolding eyebrow at her. Ye know I shouldn’t be here, Princess .

“I know, but who could find out?” she said aloud. “There is no one here but us.”

Princess, ye’re alone. I’m only a fantasy.

“I know that, but now I don’t feel so lonely. So why don’t you just cooperate and call me Bella?”

As ye wish, Bella.

She smiled and blushed, despite knowing she talked only to herself and not to him.

“I love how you kiss me,” she said softly, confessing what she wished she could to the real Jack. “It is so different from Hugh’s kisses.”

Her imaginary Jack scowled. Who’s Hugh?

She shrugged her shoulders. “He was my best friend. Now, he’s my betrothed.”

Were ye not going to tell me that ye’re to be married? Her pretend Jack growled.

“There was hardly time between you rescuing me, offending me, then sweeping me off my feet.”

Don’t change the subject, Princess. Who is he? A stuffy English lord with pasty skin and soft hands.

She nodded. “He is soft compared to you, but he is also a good man.”

If he’s so wonderful, then why am I here, and not Sir Hugh?

“He’s a lord, actually.”

Jack’s scowl deepened. Fine. Why am I here, and not Lord la di da?

A sad smile curved her lips at her imagined jest. “He doesn’t stir my soul,” she whispered.

Jack flashed his sideways grin. And I do?

“Yes.” She covered her face with her hands. Then she took a deep breath and, once more, met his imaginary gaze. He smiled at her, his eyes full of feeling.

I wish ye could be mine, Bella.

Brows drawn, she shook her head. “Surely, there is a way.”

His smile diminished, and his eyes grew dark with yearning.

Nay, lass. I am a Scotsman, and ye’re my enemy.

Her heart sank as his image faded. Blinking back tears, she stared at the cold, hard ceiling. If she could not make a romance with Jack work even in her dreams, then surely it was hopeless.

More than ever, she wished she had never set out to visit her sister.

Before, she had felt sorrowful and wanting, but she had no taste of desire and no face to imagine.

Now, she would have to walk through life trapped by a wimple and a passionless marriage, all the while knowing the feel of strong hands on her body.

She curled into a ball, closed her eyes, and again and again, she relived her last kiss with Jack.

In the morning, a soft rapping on the door stirred her awake.

She winced, feeling a dull ache throb at her temples.

Staring up at the ceiling overhead, she willed Jack’s image to appear, but her despair was too great.

The weight of her heavy heart pinned her to the hard platform bed.

She drew a shallow breath and closed her eyes, wishing to retreat into slumber, but the knocking grew louder.

Whoever waited outside her cell was not going to leave her to her misery.

Wiping sleep from her eyes, she stood and pulled open the door. The tall, stooped monk who had been her guide the night before stood with eyes downcast. Once again, he did not speak but motioned for her to follow. They wound back through narrow hallways, then out into the courtyard.

The crisp morning revitalized her senses.

Shadow still hung heavy in the sky. She filled her lungs with fresh air, glad to be free from the confines of the cloisters, but her relief was short-lived.

Expelling the breath with distaste, she realized that it was a treacherous lie, as potent as any betrayal.

Within the tantalizing morning air, one breathed the day’s beginnings—its very origins.

But her day, like all her days, was stagnant before she’d even taken her first breath.

It was the same for countless women who had come before her—women with voices unheard.

Women with passions left to wane until all desire faded.

The space afforded her life was a fraction of the size of the monks’ starved cells.

She was crammed into a dark hole, and the world ignored her screams. Her fists clenched.

She would relinquish every luxury of the body to feel the richness of the soul that only love could provide.

She would rejoice in the feel of rough wool on her skin if the hands that swept her tunic from her body stoked her passion.

“My lady?”

Her head jerked up, and she met Abbot Matthew’s kind, patient eyes. She cleared her throat and uncurled her fingers.

“The wagon is ready.” He gestured toward the open gate.

Monks with hoods pulled low over their faces, as if in prayer, waited for her to join them on the benches lining the sides of a rough-hewn wagon.

Their solemn reception mirrored her life—disciplined and stark, void of the pleasures that ignite the spirit.

Freedom is a stolen moment.

Jack’s words hit her hard in the gut. She was no thief. If freedom was stolen, she was doomed to be chained.

She had tasted rapture. Her blood had ignited.

Her soul struck deep with yearning, but now it was left cold and hollow.

How could she return to the echoing grandness of her lonely fortress?

She pictured the vast, empty rooms full of lost dreams and teeming with sorrows.

Very soon, she would leave behind one prison to join Hugh in another—his fortress in the heart of Berwick.

The despair in her heart swelled when her thoughts turned to her once beloved city. The English king’s defensive walls would be higher than when she’d left. In that moment, they became waves in her mind, high and fierce, crashing around her, swallowing her youthful heart.

But she was not meant to be caged!

With word and deed, her parents had taught her that love was as essential to life as water or food. It sustained one’s soul.

The tall, gangly monk bowed to her before taking her elbow and helping her climb into the wagon. None of the monks already seated moved from their pious positions while she claimed her place on one of the benches.

Moments later, the wagon pulled forward, led by a team of donkeys.

Passing through the gates, she glimpsed the sun peeking out from beneath the horizon.

Tears stung her eyes as she gave her despair over to the soft pink light.

It tinted the morning fog, which writhed and shifted across the surface of a distant lake, but its sensual dance made her long to feel Jack’s lips on hers.

She closed her eyes against the dawn and allowed the countryside to pass unseen.

Their journey could never be long enough.

Too soon she would be home where the towering city walls would block her view north into Scotland. ..where love dwelled.

Pounding hooves caused her eyes to open. She looked forward and saw a dozen knights approaching on horseback, carrying banners bearing the Trevelyan coat of arms. Her heart sank when she spied Hugh riding in the lead.

“Bella!”

He had seen her. Her heart pounded in her ears. She took a deep breath and prayed for strength. She could not deny her truth. Despite how she might wish otherwise, she was Lady Isabella Redesdale. Sweeping her unbound hair away from her face, she knotted it demurely at the nape of her neck.

“Abbot Matthew,” she said, her voice steady, though beneath the surface of her calm she struggled against the inevitable. “Stop, please. The lord approaching is my betrothed.”

“Yer what?” She heard a voice say.

She stared at the monk in front of her. His body was still, his head solemnly bowed. Her gaze followed the outline of broad shoulders.

Could it be?

She clasped her hands in her lap to conceal how her fingers shook and leaned forward in her seat. Narrowing her eyes, she strained to see through his ink black hood.

“Bella!” Hugh’s voice jarred her from her trance.

“I am here,” she called, though her gaze remained fixed on the monk.

“Praise be to Mary and all the Saints, you’re alive!” The wagon shook as Hugh climbed in.

She had no choice but to look at her betrothed. He stood with open arms. Forcing a smile to her lips, she rose but shifted her gaze back to the monk in front of her. Once more, her gaze traced his broad shoulders.

It was Jack. She was certain.

His closeness stole her breath. All she had to do was reach out, and she could once more wrap her arms around his neck.