“Bloody hell! You English and your damned knights!” For a moment, staring into those fathomless green eyes, he’d been in danger of forgetting who she was. “You don’t need to tell me what a knight would do. I know all about English chivalry. If you think your countrymen are like heroes in some troubadour’s tale, you are dead wrong. Your king put a sword in my hand when I wasn’t much older than your nephew, and he invited my father and some other local chieftains to a parley—under a truce—and then treacherously slaughtered them all.”
Her eyes widened and blinked, slowly.
“Whatever I have done,” he continued, “I assure you, your countrymen have done far worse. Should I remind you of the two women who were hung in cages from English castles for over two years? Where the hell is the chivalry in that? Bruce’s queen, sisters, and daughter are still imprisoned by your king. The English have done everything they can to destroy and impoverish us: razing our countryside, taking our castles, raping our women, and killing our people for over fifteen years. So if winning this war and seeing my country free from English occupation and subjugations means I have to use a squire to do so, you can be damned sure I will do it. There is very little I wouldn’t do to win, so perhaps you’ll remember that before you start spouting off about rules and codes of which you know nothing.”
She drew back at the onslaught but did not cower. “My God, you are nothing more than what they say: the Devil’s Enforcer. Bruce’s hired muscle. A brigand and a thug.”
He’d been called a hell of a lot worse, but somehow her words pelted like stones—deeper and sharper than he would have thought possible.
Furious, he stood and hauled her up beside him. It was a mistake. Standing close to her was like being caught in a fierce undertow. His senses flared as wildfire ignited through his blood.
Their eyes held. He swore he could see the tiny flutter of her pulse at her neck and had to fight the urge not to reach down and caress it with his thumb.
He couldn’t tell whether she was scared or aroused.
She sucked in her breath and awareness crackled between them. The soft parting of her lips answered his question:
aroused
. Hot with it. Soft with it. Ripe with it.
His eyes fixed on her mouth. A desire so fierce and strong rose inside him, every muscle in his body went rigid. He was a hairsbreadth from lowering his mouth down onto hers.
What the hell was he doing?
He let her go and took a step back. “If I were you, I’d be hoping you were wrong in your estimation of my character. A less-than-honorable man might think about taking you up on your invitation.”
Her eyes widened, the vivid emeralds sparking with indignation. Lady Rosalin Clifford might look sweet and docile on the outside, but as he’d seen with her defense of her young nephew, the little kitten had the claws of a she-tiger when stirred. Usually he preferred women with more of an edge—experienced women who knew what they wanted. He’d assumed sweet meant boring. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Her combination of sweet and fierce was oddly arousing. Maddeningly arousing.
“An invitation? By God, you must be mad! I don’t know what you think you saw, but I assure you, I am no longer a naive, starry-eyed maiden susceptible to a generous display of flexing muscle.” She smiled sweetly, her gaze skimming over some of those flexing muscles. “I outgrew oversized barbarians when I turned seventeen.”
Claws
and
a sharp tongue to go along with it. Part of him admired her spirit, while another part of him wondered whether she spoke the truth. Had he imagined it?
His eyes narrowed at something else.
Seventeen
. Christ, how the hell young had she been?
The kiss that neither of them wanted to mention hung between them.
“You weren’t eighteen,” he said flatly.
Her small smile had a distinct devilish glint, as if she knew how much the answer would bother him. “Nay, just sixteen.”
He grimaced and swore. Which meant she was only two and twenty now. Compared to his two and thirty, she was a child. God knew, in those ten years he’d seen a lifetime of pain and suffering.
Suddenly, in the eyes of this beautiful girl brimming with youthful innocence and radiance, he felt very tired and very old.
“You have until the morning to reconsider. But if I were you, Lady Rosalin, I’d take the offer. ’Tis not one you are likely to get again. I do not think you will find the hardships of war to your liking.”
She stayed. Not that there had ever been a question on her part. Rosalin wouldn’t leave Roger to face the brutes and brigands on his own. They were in this together, and together they would get through it. Preferably without having to spend another wretched night sleeping on a dirt-floored cave with little more than a plaid for cover.
Boyd was right. She didn’t like the “hardships” of war, especially living like an outlaw without even the most basic of necessities. She’d thought travel before difficult, but then the long stretches of riding had been broken up by stops at castles—or at the very worst an inn—with her own bedding and plenty of servants to attend her every need. Here, she didn’t even have a pitcher to wash her face or a comb to run through her hair.
She supposed she should be grateful that she wasn’t sleeping outside surrounded by a bevy of brutish barbarians but was instead in a cave alone with Roger. But it was hard to be grateful for small mercies when they were imposed with such harshness.
Boyd’s coldness toward her stung. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to be, but it wasn’t this horrible and unfeeling brute. He’d hardened to stone—just like that muscled body of his. He seemed a shell of the man he’d once been, consumed by vengeance and intent on vanquishing the enemy at any cost. Finding out she was Cliff’s sister had seemingly erased whatever good favor she might have curried by releasing him. She wasn’t surprised that he hated her brother or the English; she was just surprised by the depth of that hatred and that it included her.
How dare he act like this after what she’d done! To Hades with the blighter. She supposed one good thing had come out of all this: he’d certainly cured her of any romantic fantasies. She would marry Sir Henry when this ordeal was over and never look back.
As it was clear he had no intention of releasing Roger, her thoughts turned toward escape. Although she and Roger had been permitted to be together in the cave, the moment they woke and tried to go down to the stream to wash, they were separated. Roger was taken to rejoin the rest of the group, while she was permitted a few moments—a
very
few moments—of privacy in which to tend her needs, wash her face and teeth in the icy water, and run her fingers through her hair before braiding it with the one frayed ribbon she had left. On second thought, she left her hair loose and tucked the ribbon in her purse, which hung from the thin leather girdle belted around her waist. She had an idea.
The best part of the morning, however, was when she was led back to camp and learned that over half the men had departed, including—to her and Roger’s great relief—the Black Douglas. Apparently, they were taking all the ill-gained pirate plunder from the raids to Robert Bruce in the North. She and Roger were being taken elsewhere. Their captor was far less forthcoming about that, but from the southwesterly direction they’d been riding, the daunting Ettrick Forest still seemed a likely destination.
The second-best moment of the morning had been learning that horses had been arranged for her and Roger, so she would not be forced to ride tandem with the stoic and taciturn Callum. It also gave her an opportunity to begin implementing her plan.
Working carefully, to ensure no one could see what she was doing, Rosalin slid the frayed pink ribbon from her purse and began pulling threads free, dropping them every furlong or so. If her brother and his men were tracking them, the threads would leave a trail for them to follow. But without the sumpter horses and extra goods, they were traveling at a much faster pace. She would have to try to find a way to slow them down.
Her first effort had the unexpected benefit of irritating her captor. “Again?” he demanded, glaring at her as if she were a child. “You just went before we left—
thirty
minutes
ago.”
The blush staining her cheeks wasn’t feigned. How like him to be ungallant enough to question her! She lifted her chin. “I must have had too much ale to drink while breaking my fast.”
Grumbling the entire time, he called for a stop. After Sir Alex helped her down, she took her time finding a bit of privacy in which to pretend to relieve herself. By the time she returned, Boyd’s irritation had turned to full-fledged chomping-at-the-bit impatience. He didn’t say anything, just glared at her. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
He grumbled something unintelligible about “lasses,” and they were off again. She wondered how many times she’d be able to get away with the ploy before he became suspicious and put an end to it. If she could get past the embarrassment, the next time he questioned her, she planned to plead her woman’s curse. Surely that would properly mortify him. Maybe she’d top it off by asking him to go find some rags for her to use?
She smiled, thinking the embarrassment would almost be worth it to see the formidable countenance pale with male horror.
By all rights she should be terrified of the man, certainly not thinking of ways to irritate him—even if it was for a good cause, to slow them down. But for some reason, despite his reputation, his harshness toward her, and his intimidating physicality, she sensed he would not hurt her.
Her attempts at conversation with the other men were brusquely cut off by all except Sir Alex. He was no more forthcoming than Boyd, but at least he curtailed her questions with a smile.
She spent most of her time keeping an eye on Roger, and when the opportunity arose, attempting to keep his spirits up. “Just think of the stories you will have to tell when this is all over,” she said. “I’m sure the other squires will be hanging on every detail.”
Her nephew seemed to consider this, and after a moment his sagging shoulders lifted just a little. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think they will be impressed?”
Rosalin tried not to smile, knowing how important it was for boys of his age to impress their peers—boys of any age, she might add. “I should think so. Not many English squires have come face-to-face with the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer. Not to mention nearly plunging your dagger into his back and drawing your sword against a knight of Sir Alexander Fraser’s stature. Aye, you will have quite the stories to tell. I daresay, you will have the young lasses at the castle interested as well.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Although you probably aren’t interested in the lasses?”
His red face told her differently. He hesitated, looking as if his surcoat were tied too tight. “Actually, there is a lass at Norham who might be interested.”
She lifted a brow. “I thought there might be. Cliff wasn’t much older than you when he first met your mother.”
Roger looked at her in surprise. “Really?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking it was so romantic.” Then she added for Boyd’s benefit, as she suspected he was listening to every word, “Of course I was young and prone to silly romantic fantasies at the time. Your father and mother were very fortunate; most youthful romances only lead to disappointment.” She saw Boyd stiffen and knew her barb had struck. Suddenly, remembering who she was really talking to, she turned back to her nephew with a smile. “But you shall have plenty of time for that, and unless I’ve missed my mark you are very much like my brother in another way. He seemed to have every young girl in the Marches half in love with him.”
Roger blushed, and the opportunity for further conversation was lost when Boyd—not coincidentally, she suspected—quickened their pace. Every now and then, Boyd or one of his men would break off to scout ahead or behind to make sure they weren’t being tracked.
Rosalin was making more of an effort to remember identifying landmarks for their next opportunity to escape, but as they seemed to stick to the forests and hills and avoid any size village, only the occasional church or house in the distance provided any break in the monotony of rusty heather-covered hillsides and ghostly gray forests. In the spring it would undoubtedly be beautiful, but right now it just looked cold and forbidding.
God in heaven, she wanted to go home!
She was just about to demand another stop to tend her needs when she glimpsed black billows of smoke in the trees to the east a few furlongs in the distance. “Hold,” she said, pulling back on her reins.
Boyd, who was riding right in front of her at the time, swung his horse around and glared at her. “I don’t know what your game is, my lady, but if this is another one of your breaks, you’re going to have to wait.”
Despite the fact that he was glowering at her again, and she was just as angry at him, something caught in her chest when she looked at him. He might have tried to blame it on her, but invitation or not, he’d been about to kiss her last night, and every time their eyes had met since, she couldn’t forget it. There wasn’t a pretty bone in him, but he was gorgeous enough to make her stomach drop. His masculine appeal was undeniable. Looking at him made her heart flutter just as frantically as it had when she was sixteen. Apparently, she
was
still attracted to oversized barbarians.
Usually she preferred clean-shaven men, but rough and stubbly was beginning to grow on her. There was something about the shadow of whiskers darkening his already formidable jaw that made her feel shivery and a little wicked.
Realizing he was waiting for her to respond, she had to shake off the daze. “I don’t have to stop again. It’s just that I saw smoke.” She pointed. “Over there.”
He didn’t even glance over. “I saw it.”
“And you are not going to investigate?” she said incredulously. “It looks like a building could be burning.”
His expression darkened. “Probably more than one. There is no need to investigate. Given the proximity to the garrison at Thirlestane, I’d say it was more English looking to fatten their stores by raiding the local villagers.”