Page 2 of Jack (Highland Outlaws #1)

L ady Isabella Redesdale dipped a chunk of soft white bread into a trencher of trout steeped in cream just as her father, Lord David Redesdale, did the same.

Their hands bumped. She looked up with a hopeful smile, longing to see warmth in her father’s eyes.

But he averted his gaze and kept his head bowed.

Her heart sank as she turned away and numbly brought the sodden bread to her lips.

She imagined that it was a stone, and that when she crushed it between her teeth, it would echo through the great hall, drowning out the oppressive silence that had taken up residence within its walls.

But their home had not always been filled with such sorrow.

Once the Redesdale house had hummed with laughter and a love so bright and strong, it warmed the heart of anyone fortunate enough to be welcomed beneath their turreted rooftop.

The two-story fortress was part of the once thriving city of Berwick Upon Tweed, but five years ago, all joy had fled her city, her home, and her heart.

Isabella raised her gaze to the tall windows that ran along the length of the hall. Light poured through. Spring had arrived, but the warmth could not be felt. Warmth, laughter, and love had been shuttered from the Redesdale house the day her father brought home her mother’s lifeless body.

The memory sent her abruptly to her feet, knocking the table and overturning a cup of ale.

“Are you well, Bella?” her father asked, his voice gravelly from lack of use.

She looked down into his anguished eyes. No , she screamed on the inside. I have been entombed!

She took a deep breath and slowly sat down. A servant rushed to wipe up the ale before placing a fresh cup in front of her. “Forgive me, Papa. My thoughts had turned to sorrow. I just wanted it to stop.”

Her father offered her no comfort. He bowed his head and turned away.

She wanted to scream, to cry, but despite her pain, she couldn’t. She had shed so many tears over the past five years, enough to fill the River Tweed, that none remained.

Her father had also stopped crying long ago, but when his tears dried up, so too did his heart.

The man whose laughter used to echo throughout the hall, who had never spoken a harsh word to her or her sister, was no more.

He had retreated inside himself, becoming a shadow of the man she once knew, just as her city was now a wasteland of rubble and misery.

She looked out the window, remembering how life used to be.

Berwick had once been a thriving market port, the very heart of Scottish export and trade.

Merchants had come from faraway lands to sell exotic fabrics, carpets, and spices in the bustling city center.

Her own father, whose estates in Northumberland bordered Berwick, had often frequented the Scottish city.

It was in Berwick where he first met Isabella’s mother, Annunziatta Santospirito, who had been the daughter of a wealthy Sicilian merchant.

One clear summer’s day, they had each gone into a market stall and reached for the same piece of soft Flemish wool, and their hands touched.

Annunziatta had told Isabella that her heart ignited with love’s fire when she first met David’s pale green gaze.

Only a fortnight later, David broke the news to his parents that he wanted to marry Annuziatta, who, although wealthy, was a commoner.

Expecting to face resistance to the match, David had been surprised when his Sicilian lover was embraced by his parents, although he knew they were likely swayed by the substantial size of Annunziatta’s dowry.

But to David, her money had been of little consequence.

They had loved each other; nothing ever mattered more.

Isabella closed her eyes and remembered walking the cobblestone streets with her family amid the bustle of market life, her father picking her up so that she could touch the high-hanging fabrics, her mother’s laughter clear and bright.

But an instant later, reality cut through the vibrant colors and her memories disappeared beneath a tidal wave of blood and death.

She pressed her eyes tight against the images, but she could not escape the horror.

Love may have once set her mother’s heart aflame, but it was King Edward who set their city on fire.

His orders—show no mercy.

Men, women, and children were put to the sword.

The streets of the great city had run red with blood.

The invasion had turned into a massacre of unimaginable proportions, but it was not only Berwick’s Scottish residents who had perished.

The Great Hall, a large building dedicated to trade, had been torched, killing hundreds of Flemish merchants.

Many English residents had also been slain in the chaos.

Her beloved mother had been one of those tragic souls.

On that now distant day, Annunziatta had gone to market while Isabella, Catarina—her older sister, and her father had been occupied in their garden.

When the King attacked, David had set out to find his beloved wife and bring her home.

Meanwhile, Isabella, Catarina, and their servants had been ordered to remain behind and bar the door.

For two full days and two full nights, Isabella and her sister had hidden within the solar,forced to listen to the never-ending cries of the dying. Finally, on the third day, her father had returned, carrying her mother in his arms.

“I’ve brought her home,” he’d said before collapsing to his knees, his eyes heavy with anguish. All hope had fled Isabella’s soul as she stared at her mother’s gray skin and hollow, unseeing eyes.

Trying to expel the painful memories from her mind, Isabella leaned her head back against the cool stone wall.

Her father, who sat beside her on the bench of the high dais, still hadn’t moved, not even to take a sip of ale.

In front of her, two long tables stretched the length of the hall, but their surfaces were bare.

Even the servants could not stomach the gloom and chose instead to take their meals in the kitchen.

“My lord?”

Isabella turned in the direction of the voice.

Mary, a young servant girl with long flaxen hair, smiled at her in greeting.

Her dark green tunic and cream-colored surcote grazed the floor as she dipped into a low curtsy.

When she straightened, her gaze settled once more on David.

Isabella cast her gaze to the side, scanning her father’s haggard profile.

“My lord,” Mary repeated.

Isabella held her breath, waiting for her father to acknowledge the servant or even to move or blink...something... anything!

Isabella cleared her throat and took a calming breath. Then at length she turned to the girl. “What is it, Mary?”

Mary’s eyes brightened. “A messenger has arrived sent by your sister.”

Isabella jumped to her feet, once more spilling her ale. “Show him in and make haste!” She had not seen Catarina, who had married an English lord with holdings to the north, for three long years.

She turned to her father. “Did you hear what Mary said? Catarina has sent a messenger!”

Moments passed. Then her father looked up. Slowly, the fog seemed to clear from his eyes. He reached out and squeezed her hand. “I see your excitement, but prepare yourself, daughter. He could bring ill tidings.”

Her smile faltered. “I remember a time when you would urge me to hope for a heart full and never take for granted a mouthful.”

Suddenly, her father’s eyes brimmed with tears, and a faint smile curved his lips. He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I...I did say that.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, savoring the rare moment of affection.

“You did, very often, in fact.” She smiled into his pale green eyes so like her own, but before she could draw her next breath, the moment was over.

Just as quickly as it had come, all light once more faded from his countenance, and despair returned.

A painful knot lodged in her throat. Her hands dropped to her sides.

His coldness invited fear into her own heart.

After all, Catarina rarely sent messages, and despite Catarina’s defense of her husband, Isabella had never liked him.

Three years ago, Catarina had been introduced to Lord Henry Ravensworth during the feast of St. Stephen at Berwick Castle.

Within a month’s time, he had made an offer for her hand—Catarina’s first. Given her sister’s celebrated beauty, Isabella could not have guessed why she bade their father accept his offer so quickly.

Lord Ravensworth was more than twenty years Catarina’s senior, not to mention sour-faced and hard.

Isabella had begged Catarina to put off Lord Ravensworth’s advances, promising that someone better suited to her tastes would come forward with an offer.

But when pressed, Catarina declared she loved him, and perhaps she did.

Isabella liked to imagine there was a hidden side to Lord Ravensworth that was kind and attentive, although given his unrelenting scowl, she knew it was doubtful.

More than anything, Isabella suspected her sister married to leave Berwick and its legacy of misery behind.

Regretfully, that also meant leaving Isabella behind.

Mary hastened back into the room. Following behind her was a young man of slim build with brown curls that clung to his sweaty brow. He crossed the hall and stood before the high dais, bowing low at the waist.

Isabella could not wait. “What word have you brought from Catarina? What does my sister say?”

A smile stretched his face wide, showing white, even teeth. “’Tis my immense pleasure to share the happiest of tidings. Lord Henry Ravensworth and Lady Catarina Ravensworth have been blessed with their first child, a boy, baptized Nicholas Henry, the heir to Ravensworth Castle.”