The Raider (23 page)

Recalling what he’d once said to her when she’d questioned him about his skill in sneaking up on her, she said, “Practice.” One side of his mouth lifted, but then fell when she added, “I’m also quite proficient at tending wounds and making poultices.”

He shot her a look. “It’s nothing, Rosalin. A scratch.”

She clamped her jaw. That was no scratch. Heaven’s gates, were all men so stubborn? Her brother was the same way when he was injured. “Even a ‘scratch’ can turn putrid and cause death if not tended.”

“I would not deprive Clifford of the pleasure so easily.”

They’d almost reached the tent, but she stopped in her tracks and spun to face him. “That is not funny.”

The thought of her brother killing him—or him killing her brother—made her ill.

“It was not meant to be. I simply point out that my death would be one of Clifford’s—your countryman’s—great pleasures.”

She knew what he was trying to do, remind them both of the circumstances by forcing a wedge between them, but she wasn’t going to let him. “It would not be mine.”

She held his gaze challengingly, daring him to deny the connection that ran between them. A connection that neither war nor her brother could sever.

He sighed and shook his head. “It’s been tended.”

“By whom?”

He gave her a look that made her wish she hadn’t asked. “Oh,” she said, her mouth snapping closed. Deirdre.

He held the flap back while she entered the tent and climbed in after her. Putting the stack of linens on Sir Alex’s trunk, he then went to his own and removed a drying cloth and soap. Obviously, he, too, meant to wash before the midday meal. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?”

“Have you ever struck a woman?”

“Bloody hell, of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?” He looked distinctly offended.

“It’s not uncommon.”

He frowned. “Perhaps not, but only weak men hurt those who are unable to defend themselves. I am not weak.”

She would not argue that. “What of those under your command?”

His eyes narrowed, a dark cast coming over his handsome features—not unlike the one she’d seen the night he battled Uilleam. “Where is this coming from, Rosalin? Did someone hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not me.”

His anger dissipated and comprehension dawned. “One of the other women?”

She nodded, all of her frustration bursting out. “It isn’t right. Drunkenness isn’t an excuse for brutishness. I was taught that men are supposed to protect ladies, not hurt them.”

He held her gaze steadily. “You do realize why these women are in camp, Rosalin? They are not ladies.”

She jutted out her chin. Did he think her that innocent? “Yes, but one sin does not justify another. What the women do doesn’t make it acceptable to beat them. Or do you think a woman you take to your bed for pleasure is not worthy of consideration?”

He held up his hand as if to fend off her attack. “I do not think that way; it’s just that I am surprised you do. Whores are usually beneath the regard of most noblewomen.”

“Well, not mine.”

He studied her appraisingly, making her wish she knew what he was thinking. “I can see that.”

“So do you condone men under your command who beat women?”

“I do not. Who was it?”

She bit her lip. “I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“The woman will be harmed if he is punished.” He looked so confused that she added, “Her place here is…tenuous.”

“Ah, the Englishman’s whor—” He stopped, seeing her expression.

“Don’t call her that! It’s not her fault that she fell in love with the wrong man. The heart does not see battle lines.”

He held her gaze for only a moment, almost as if he, too, wanted to avoid thinking about the subject too carefully. “Perhaps not, but neither can you fault the men for not wanting to bed with her. Should I order them to do so?”

She frowned. “Of course not.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t right. She lost her child—is that not punishment enough? And now she is forced to subject herself to a drunken brute’s temper and cannot raise her voice to complain at all for fear of losing her place in camp?”

“The sword of justice does not always fall fairly, Rosalin. Take it from someone who knows.”

She looked up at him, her big, luminous green eyes bright with outrage and frustration, and Robbie felt something in his chest turn over and then tug. Hard, and with too much persistence to ignore.

He was in trouble, and every day that passed it was getting worse. He wanted her so intensely, all he had to do was catch the barest hint of her scent and he stiffened up like a lad about to tup his first maid.

Her proximity was driving him mad. Everything about her was driving him mad. He didn’t dare look at her hands, for if he did he would remember those soft white fingers wrapped around his…

Bloody hell, a few minutes of pleasure had resulted in days of torture.

Not that he would regret it. How could he regret what had been one of the most erotic, sensual, and intimate moments of his life?

She seemed to be the only one in camp unaware of his torment. Douglas looked at him as if he were mad, Fraser with amusement, Deirdre with accusation, and Seton with warning. He’d threatened to slip his dagger between Robbie’s ribs if he touched her.

His partner meant it, too, and though Robbie didn’t usually get intimidated (having to catch ten spears aimed at his head during MacLeod’s aptly named “Perdition” training came to mind as an exception), he’d seen Seton’s skill with a dagger enough times to not summarily dismiss the threat.

At first Seton’s place on the team might have been a gratuitous gesture due to Bruce’s friendship with Alex’s brother Christopher, but Boyd had to admit his partner’s skill would have earned him a spot today. He could wield a dagger with deadly accuracy and quickness that was unrivaled among any of the Guard. Hell, among any warriors Robbie had ever seen.

He frowned, thinking of their contest earlier. Seton had also become far more adept at the hand-to-hand combat than Robbie would have believed possible. He wasn’t as strong as Robbie, but he was quicker. And younger. If he ever learned to control his patience, he might actually give Robbie a real challenge.

But it wasn’t Seton’s threat that worried him now. It was this other feeling. This bigger feeling that seemed to be growing in his chest and overtaking everything else. The feeling that made him want to slay every dragon for her so he wouldn’t have to see this look on her face again.

Rosalin Clifford felt too keenly. That was her problem. And it would only bring her disappointment and frustration. He should know. One day she would learn the hard truth that she could not right every wrong in the world. He was almost glad he wouldn’t be around to see it. Almost.

But that didn’t mean he was untouched by her outrage on behalf of the lass. And he couldn’t help but think of his sister. If someone like Rosalin had been there to stand up for Marian, maybe she wouldn’t have felt that there was no other road but the one that led off a cliff.

“I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. He forced himself not to look at it. “I did not mean to raise bitter memories. Of course you know of what I speak.”

Her head was tipped back to look at him. The soft scent of lavender permeated his senses. She was standing so close, all he had to do was bend his head down and his lips would be touching hers.

Fire roared in his blood in anticipation. His eyes flickered over the too-beautiful features, the wide green eyes, the dark, long lashes, the red lips and velvety-soft skin, and all he could think about was watching those lips part, those lashes flutter over half-lidded eyes, those creamy cheeks flush as he brought her to the peak of pleasure with his hands—and his mouth.

God, he wanted to taste her. He wanted to slide his tongue between her legs and ravish her until she bucked and arched. Until she broke apart and came into his mouth with a hot rush. He could almost taste her on his lips. Feel the warm silk of her honey sliding against his tongue.

He almost groaned. Desire coursed through every vein in his body, reverberating like a drum. And she heard it. Sensed it. Her eyes grew hazy. Her mouth opened in a soft gasp of anticipation.

He leaned into her, feeling the soft shudder that rippled through her as if it were his own.

His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. His fists clenched against the temptation. The temptation he had to resist.

With a muttered curse, he stepped back. “I need to bathe before the meal.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before stalking out of the tent.

He wasn’t running away, damn it. It was self-preservation.

But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. It couldn’t be much longer, he told himself. The envoy to Clifford would return at any time, Clifford would agree to the truce—what else could he do?—Rosalin would leave, and Robbie would be one step closer to achieving the only thing that mattered: winning the war and freedom from English rule.

Freedom from men like her brother.

His jaw hardened. A few more cold dips in the burn would get him through this. If only the memories were as easy to wash away from his body as the lust.

Robbie entered the Hall a short while later—clean, if not more relaxed—and was surprised to see Rosalin seated at one end of the trestle table next to Seton. Douglas,
not
surprisingly, was at the opposite end.

He knew she was still uneasy around Douglas, even though his friend had stopped looking at her as if she were Satan’s spawn (or in this case, his sister). He took a seat on the other side of Seton to act as another barrier. It wasn’t because he didn’t think he could take sitting next to her for a couple of hours. He couldn’t be that weak.

Bloody hell
.

He spent most of the meal conversing with Fraser and trying to ignore the easy conversation between his partner and the woman who was driving him to distraction. What in the hell were they talking about? Why were they whispering? Why was she laughing so much? And why did he care?

Because Seton was right. Robbie was jealous. Deeply and irrationally jealous. He might not be able to have her, but he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else having her—and sure as hell not the partner who’d been a thorn in his side.

He was saved from doing something embarrassing—like bellowing at them to stop making so much noise—by the appearance before him of one of the serving women. As the lass leaned over to refill his tankard of ale, he caught sight of her cheek.

A reflexive surge of rage rushed through him at the sight of the large, angry-looking bruise. Instantly he understood Rosalin’s outrage.

The lass had spilled a couple of drops that ran over the edge of the table into his lap, and glancing at his expression, misunderstood the source of his anger. She looked terrified. “I’m sorry, my lord. I will fetch a cloth to clean it up.”

He snagged hold of her wrist before she could move away. She was fine-boned like Rosalin, and the fragility only made him more furious. But feeling her tremble with fear forced a gentleness into his tone. “The ale is nothing. My concern is for your injury. Who did this to you, lass?”

Though he was not speaking loudly, quite a few of the occupants of the room had taken notice of the conversation, including the man he suspected of striking her. Fergal Halliday was a minor laird from nearby, and good with a sword, but he also had a vicious temper when drunk.

His suspicions were confirmed when her gaze darted nervously and unconsciously to the man in question at the far side of the Hall. “No one, my lord. It was me. I…” She seemed to try to be thinking of something that would explain the bruise that was clearly caused by a hand. “It’s so silly,” she said with a forced laugh. “I tripped a few nights ago on my way back to my pallet and hit the edge of the table.”

He caught Rosalin’s eye. It was a poor excuse. And were it not for Rosalin’s warning and the lass’s own pleading look, he would have said so and demanded the truth from her. But Rosalin was right—she had been punished enough. He would not take her livelihood from her. Fergal would be dealt with as well. As Captain Robbie could make his life hell for the next week or so.

He released her arm. “An unfortunate accident indeed,” he said slowly. “I hope that it will not happen again. You will come to me if it does.” He held her gaze so there could be no doubt of what he spoke. “No woman should suffer such abuse, and you can be assured it will not be tolerated. You are welcome here, lass, and I hope no one makes you think otherwise.”

Her eyes widened with shock. It was clear she was so unused to kindness that she didn’t know how to react. Slowly the edges of her mouth started to curve, and by the time the smile reached her eyes they were shining with gratitude.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

She hurried away, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

Robbie glanced toward Rosalin. It was a mistake. He’d had many admiring stares from women—his reputation and popularity at the Games had earned him more than his share—but none had ever felt like this. None had ever made the air in his lungs expand and his chest swell. None had ever made him feel like the most important man in the room. And none sure as hell had ever made him want to keep that look shining in her eyes forever.

A man could get used to that look.

A man could learn to crave that look.

A man could do something stupid for that look.

But damn it, Bruce needed Clifford’s agreement, and Robbie couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. And what he wanted from Rosalin Clifford would sure as hell jeopardize it.

Right now they had momentum, and Clifford’s resistance could easily change that. Not only might it encourage others to follow, but it would stop the progress Bruce was making in retaking his castles.

Robbie forced his gaze away. God’s blood, where was that messenger? He should have been here by now.

Gulping down the remaining ale in his cup, he got to his feet. He had to get out of here.

Before he could start down the aisle to the door, it was thrown back and the very man he’d wanted to see came striding toward him. The man he
thought
he’d wanted to see. But the stone of dread that sank in his chest when he recognized the envoy told him otherwise.

Clifford’s agreement to the truce had arrived. Robbie’s gaze slid to Rosalin, and the weight in his chest started to burn. He was going to have to give her back.

The Hall had been cleared while Robbie, Sir Alex, the Black Douglas, and a handful of other men talked to the envoy. Rosalin paced nervously outside the door to learn her fate.

She had no doubt her brother would do whatever it took to free her, but how soon would she be forced to leave?

She stopped in her tracks. Blood drained from her face.
Forced?
Was that what it had become? Did she actually want to
stay
with the rebels, living in a tent in the godforsaken wilds of the most inhospitable countryside she’d ever seen, with one of the most hated men in England? A man whose very name conjured up whispers of demons? The man whose head her brother longed to see on a pike over the gates of his castle?

It was so inconceivable, so impossible, it couldn’t be true. Of course she wanted to go back to England. To her pretty, clean dresses, her luxurious castles, her comfortable life with the family who loved her.

Her brother’s family. Not hers. Though she loved them with all her heart, they would never be hers. She would have a life with…

The realization hit her with such force it nearly knocked her down. Sir Henry. God in heaven, how could she have forgotten about the man she was supposed to marry?

But forgotten him she had. Utterly and completely. Her stomach started to toss so violently, she had to sit down on one of the stairs. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she tried to calm the sudden maelstrom raging inside her. What was she going to do?

The door behind her slammed open and the men started to pour out. She glanced up and saw Robbie in the doorway. From his clenched jaw, tight mouth, and dark gaze, she knew something was wrong.

She came to her feet anxiously. “What is it?”

“Your brother is a bloody bastard!”

Her heart started to pound, and her teeth caught her lower lip nervously. “What did the message say?”

Ice-cold blue eyes bit into hers, as if it were somehow her fault. “He’s playing games. Games I’ve been on the other side of before. I just never thought he’d play them with his precious sister.” His eyes narrowed. “Or is there something you aren’t telling me? Perhaps you are not as close as I have been led to believe?”

Her brow furrowed. “We are very close. What do you mean by games? And what has he done before?”

His jaw clamped even tighter. It was clear he wanted to tell her, but something was holding him back.

The urge to tell her apparently won out. “When we were taken at Kildrummy it was under a truce. Your brother had given his word that we would be negotiating a surrender. I didn’t want to agree, but Nigel Bruce and Seton insisted your brother could be trusted. As soon as we lifted the gate and walked outside to meet them, the English attacked. We were arrested, Nigel Bruce was taken to Berwick and executed, and the rest of us were cast in irons. You know the rest.”

“You must be mistaken. My brother would never do something so dishonorable.”

“Are you really so sure of that? It is war, and I’m sure he justified his perfidy with that. Our mistake was in trusting the word of an Englishman—any Englishman.”

The look in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. It was a warning. Whatever Cliff’s reply, it had reminded him of who she was and all that lay between them.

She straightened her spine and lifted her chin to him. “If what you say is true, my brother didn’t know anything about it.”

“He said the same—swore to it up and down. So much so that I refrained from killing his men when I had the chance, believing him when he said we would be treated fairly. You saw the results of that. Your brother does not deserve your stalwart defense.”

“You don’t know him the way I do.”

His gaze held hers steadily. “I could say the same to you.”

Rosalin had to look away, the turbulence in her stomach returning. He was right. She didn’t know Cliff as an enemy, but she refused to believe he would have been involved in something so dishonorable. Her brother was a knight, and he took great pride in the chivalric code. There had to be an explanation.

She glanced back to him. The sun had gone down, passing behind the Hall and casting his features in angular shadows. He looked hard and unyielding, every inch the formidable Enforcer. “What else did the messenger say? Did my brother agree to the truce?”

Boyd’s mouth tightened. “Yes and no. He will agree, but only if I parley with him in person.”

Rosalin paled. For the second time in that short afternoon, her heartbeat took an anxious leap. “No! You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.”

“I thought you trusted your brother. Surely such a renowned knight would not do something as treacherous as setting a trap for me?”

Her cheeks flushed angrily at his taunting challenge. “It’s not my brother I worry about. There will be other men around. They could capture you when you leave. Or follow you.”

He lifted a brow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.”

She felt the strangest urge to tap her finger against that steely chest and maybe give it a good shove. “Of course I’m worried about you, although right now I’m wondering why. You make it difficult for someone to—” She stopped suddenly.

He tipped her chin back to look into her eyes. “To what, Rosalin?” His voice held an odd huskiness.

She scanned the depths of his gaze, looking for something. “To care about you.”

She felt him stiffen. He stared at her so intently for a moment that she thought she was drowning in him, spinning in a whirlpool of emotions.

She thought he would pull her into his arms.

Instead, he dropped his hand from her face. “You would be foolish to do so.”

Disappointment cut through her like a sliver of jagged glass. What had she expected? A return declaration? Some kind of indication that she was not alone in her feelings?

All he cared about was the war and defeating the English. There wasn’t a place for anything—or anyone—else in his life. He was consumed by one thing and one thing only: seeing the English pay for what they’d taken from him.

And she’d listened to him—at first. But something had changed. Something had made her think that there might be room for something else in his heart. Room for her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“When will you leave?” she asked, her throat squeezing.

“Immediately. I want this over as soon as possible.”

She flinched, the words sinking between her ribs like a dagger. It took everything she had not to let him see how much pain he’d caused. A healthy dose of that Clifford pride held her upright. “God’s speed, then. I will anxiously await your return.”

“Rosalin, hell, that’s not what I meant.”

He tried to reach for her, but she turned away from him, holding her spine stiffly to hide the trembling in her shoulders, and walked away as regally as the princess he’d once accused her of being.