He stared at her hand, as if no one had ever touched him with compassion like that before and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Eventually, he shrugged it off. “It was a long time ago, Rosalin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
She jumped up. “Wait!” She couldn’t let him go without trying. “I have something to ask you. A rebellion of my own, so to speak.”
He looked at her blankly.
She bit her lip. “Is there…might I be permitted…” She drew a deep, exasperated breath and just blurted it out. “I’m dying of boredom in here with nothing to do. Might I be allowed some freedom to move about? You’ve made the danger of attempting to escape perfectly clear.”
He gave her a long look. “You will give me your word you will not try to escape?”
Was he recalling the similar condition she’d made once?
She repeated the words he’d said to her from the pit prison. “My word is good enough for you?”
“It is.”
She smiled. “Then you have it. I swear I will not attempt to escape while I am here.”
He nodded. “Do not stray from camp without me or one of my men. It can be dangerous. And do not expect much from those at camp—as I’ve said, your brother is not a popular man in these parts. You’ll not find many friendly faces.”
Rosalin was so excited by the prospect of fresh air, she didn’t care. “You will remove your watchdogs? I’ve had quite enough of the dour Douglas brothers. I don’t like the way they look at me.”
He took a step toward her, the muscles in his shoulders flaring. “Have they done something to offend you? If they’ve hurt—”
“No, no. Nothing like that. They’ve attended to their duty admirably under the circumstances. You can’t blame them for frowning all the time—given who my brother is.”
He relaxed, no longer looking like the God of War bent on destruction. “Good. I would kill any man who tried to hurt you.”
The vehemence of his words startled her—as did the instinct. The primitive instinct of a man to protect a woman. Nay, not just a woman,
his
woman.
“I know,” she said. And she did. Robbie Boyd would protect her with his life. She was safe with him.
But was she safe
from
him? Could he protect her from himself? For the longer she stayed here, and the more she came to know and understand him, the harder it was going to be to leave.
He considered her for a moment. “Very well. I will remove the guards.”
She brightened at the unexpected concession. “Thank you.”
Their eyes held for one brief instant, but it was enough to fill her chest with a strange warmth.
He gave her a curt nod and left.
Robbie winced when the blade nicked his neck. “Bloody hell, Malcolm, watch what you are doing. I’ve need of a shave, not a gulleting.”
The lad grimaced as he carefully scraped the half-moon-shaped blade along Robbie’s jaw. “Sorry, Captain. My brother is the barber.”
Robbie drew his hand over the shaved area, a few fingers coming back with blood. “Aye, well, ’tis a good thing it’s only a shave and not an arrow in my arm.”
The lad frowned. “You could have waited for Angus to return with the Douglas. I don’t know why you are in such a rush—they should be back any day. You’ve had a beard before.”
“As I told you, it itches,” Robbie said, too defensively even to his own ears.
What in Hades was he doing? The lad was right. He was used to being stubbled. He
liked
stubbled.
But not unkempt, and every time he looked at Rosalin, he felt like the damned barbarian she thought him.
She didn’t belong here. He knew it, and everyone around him did as well. Each time she stepped out of the tent, it was as if a hush descended on the camp. Everyone stopped and turned toward her, watching her as if she were some kind of ethereal creature from another world.
With her fine—even if slightly stained—clothes, her refined English manners, and her pristine ice-blond coloring, she looked like she should be dancing under the candelabra of Whitehall Palace, not tidying his tent in the middle of Ettrick Forest. And after months of living with the “rustic” amenities of their headquarters in the heather, Robbie and his men looked like they should be thrown into the Tower of London for just daring to look at her.
His men might view her with varying degrees of animosity, but there was no denying her beauty, nobility, and innocence. Well, perhaps she was not so innocent, but he sure as hell shouldn’t think about that.
Yet it seemed all he could do was think about that.
Robbie
…
Ah hell
.
He must have sworn aloud.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay, just hurry it up, lad.”
He should be telling himself the same thing. Robbie knew he was playing with fire. The sooner the “Fair Rosalin” was gone, the better. She had him all twisted up in knots. He was afraid to sleep in his own tent, he was irritable and ill-tempered from lack of sleep, he was shaving in the middle of the day, he’d found himself bellowing at Iain and Archie Douglas for frowning, and he’d agreed to let a hostage—his means of bringing Clifford to heel—have free roam of the camp.
He’d also agreed to try to be nice—
friendly
. Christ, what the hell had he gotten himself into? He liked her too damned much already.
If their conversation earlier in the tent was any indication, she would know his life story before she left here. His schooling? Wallace? A farmer? For a moment he’d actually pictured himself with a wife and bairns running all around him. Pretty soon he’d be confiding in her how he’d come to join the Guard.
But it was her reaction that was the problem. Compassion, understanding, and a deep sense of justice were the last things he expected to find from an Englishwoman, let alone the paragon of
injustice’s
sister. But Rosalin was still the same sweet girl who six years ago risked everything to right a perceived wrong. Wrapped up in a more sophisticated package, perhaps, but in all the ways that mattered, unchanged.
He wished he could say the same. But six years of war had hardened him. Focused him. Leaving no room for anything else.
For both their sakes, the sooner her brother agreed to the truce, the better.
Malcolm finished and handed Robbie a damp drying cloth to wipe away any stray hairs.
“That’s an unusual blade,” the lad said, handing it back to him. “Where did you get it?”
Robbie took it and slid it back into his sporran. “A friend of mine made it for me.”
Magnus MacKay, known by the war name of Saint in the Highland Guard, wasn’t just the toughest bastard Boyd knew, with more knowledge of the hazardous terrain of the Highlands than any other man, he was also skilled at forging unusual weapons, and on occasion, improving other everyday tools like the razor.
Ironically, he was also standing in front of him a few minutes later, along with Kenneth Sutherland, the newest member of the Guard, Ewen Lamont, Eoin MacLean, Arthur Campbell, and Gregor MacGregor. The six members of the Highland Guard had arrived with Douglas from Dundee. Douglas was one of the handful of the king’s closest advisors who knew of the secret band of warriors—and their identities.
Right away Robbie knew two things: Bruce had a mission for them, and it must be an important one if it required nearly all of his elite Guard. Only Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Lachlan MacRuairi were absent.
They stood on the edge of camp in the clearing that they used for practice, where Robbie had greeted them when he’d been informed by the scouts around camp of their arrival.
“What’s the occasion?” MacKay said with an eye to Robbie’s jaw, exchanging grasps of the forearm by way of greeting. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you clean-shaven.”
Robbie swore inwardly, cursing the impulse that would give his brethren even a whiff of a scent to follow. They were tenacious curs, every last one of them. If they connected his shaving with Rosalin’s presence, he would never hear the end of it.
“It was at your wedding, Saint,” MacGregor offered helpfully.
Robbie shot him a glare. “The only reason you know that was because you’re still angry about the lass. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but not all women prefer a pretty face.”
Even after seven years, MacGregor hated being reminded of his dubious distinction of being known as the most handsome man in Scotland. For a warrior as skilled with a bow as he was, it was particularly galling to be known for something so embarrassingly
un
-warriorly.
MacGregor shot him a glare. “Sod off, Raider.”
Seton looked as if he might say something, but reconsidered after Robbie gave him a look that promised retribution if he did.
Douglas wasn’t as circumspect. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with our hostages? The king was troubled by the taking of the lass. I told him it hadn’t been intentional and that you intended to let her go. But he’s made you personally responsible for them both.”
“Too bad, too,” MacGregor added. “I would have liked to see the Fair Rosalin. If even Douglas here conceded her beauty, the lass must be sensational.”
Why the hell did Robbie suddenly feel the urge to make that face of his not so pretty? Masking the annoyance he felt at MacGregor, he turned back to Douglas. “Aye, well, there’s been a change of plans.”
Douglas’s face darkened. “What kind of change of plans?”
“The lad got away.”
There was a moment of dead silence as the men stared at him. Robbie Boyd didn’t make mistakes like that.
“You let Clifford’s son escape?” Douglas spit out, giving voice to what all of them were thinking.
“I didn’t
let
him do anything. The lad shimmied down a forty-foot-long rope from the garret of Kirkton Manor in the middle of the night and made it to Peebles Castle before I realized he was gone.”
Douglas was furious. “Was no one standing guard? How the hell did you let this happen? He’s Clifford’s heir, for Christ’s sake!”
Robbie wasn’t used to being taken to task like a wet-behind-the-ears squire—even if in this case, it was deserved. “
I
was standing guard, and if you have a problem with my abilities we can put them to the test on the practice yard.”
Douglas didn’t take him up on the challenge and backed off. “But you still have the lass?” he said.
“Aye.”
Douglas was looking at him as if he knew there was more, but sensed that he’d pushed Robbie about as far as he could.
Excusing himself, Douglas left to see to his men, who had gone to the Great Hall to find food and drink after the long ride.
As soon as he’d gone, Robbie turned to MacKay. “I assume you are here for a reason?”
The big Highlander nodded. “Aye. You and Dragon need to gather your things. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible if we are to make it by nightfall.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lochmaben. We’ve received word of a shipment of silver from Carlisle heading north to pay the garrison at Stirling. The coin will be heavily guarded—the English aren’t taking any chances of it not getting through.”
“Your information is reliable?”
“Extremely,” Lamont interjected. Hunter’s new wife, the former Janet of Mar, had worked with a source inside Roxburgh Castle who had never been wrong, and Robbie assumed from Lamont’s confidence that was where the information had come from. They’d taken to calling their informant the Ghost.
“The English have taken a few of our lessons to heart,” Sutherland added, “and have set up a diversionary shipment going to Caerlaverloch. Chief, Hawk, and Viper are monitoring the coast, just in case, but we intend to intercept them before they reach Lochmaben for the night.”
“How many?” Seton asked.
“We’re not sure,” Lamont said.
“Possibly as many as fifty,” MacLean said with a shrug.
Robbie lifted a brow, anticipation for battle already surging through his veins. “What are the rest of you going to do?”
He even managed to get a chuckle out of Arthur Campbell at that. The famed scout was one of the quieter members of the Guard.
Robbie was just about to send his brethren to the Hall to get some food while he and Seton headed off to Douglas’s tent (where he’d removed from prying eyes the distinctive armor he wore on Highland Guard missions), when MacGregor let out a low whistle.
“Christ almighty, if that’s your hostage, I think I’m going to start joining you on your raids.”
Robbie followed the direction of his gaze, seeing Rosalin hurrying out of the Hall, looking as if the devil were on her heels. She must have seen Douglas. If the bastard had scared her—
He stopped, thinking of another bastard. “Stay the hell away from her, Arrow.”
He might have growled.
MacGregor wasn’t the only one to look at him. The other Guardsmen eyed him with varying degrees of lifted eyebrows and understanding.
“Is that the way of it?” MacGregor said slowly, considering him. “Clifford’s sister? Of all the women in the world to finally catch your eye! I can’t wait for Hawk to hear about this.”
Robbie silently swore every foul word he could think of. Since when had he become so transparent? He clenched his jaw. Since the moment Rosalin Clifford had ended up tossed over his lap.
“The lass is my hostage, nothing more. My temporary hostage. But yours is not a face most lasses forget. I think you’d probably rather not have her brother learn of your presence in camp.”
It was a good excuse, but not one any of them believed.
MacKay stayed back while the others strode off. He gave Robbie a pitying look. “I’ve been there,” he said. “And so have most of the others. I think only Chief and Hawk escaped the curse.”
“What curse?”
MacKay’s mouth hardened. “The curse of that damned face. Bloody hell, my wife threatened to have Arrow watch over her if I wouldn’t when she came on our missions.”
Robbie gave an involuntary shudder. No man would want his wife in that kind of proximity to MacGregor. “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill him.”
MacKay smiled. “I made him pay on the practice yard, and enjoyed every bloody minute of it.”
“You could have done something about the face.”