The Raider (5 page)

Rosalin glanced down the street and not forty feet away, her brother’s men were exchanging blows of their swords with the attackers. She heaved a sigh of relief, seeing that the Scots were outnumbered by about two to one. And thankfully, Roger, at the rear, was nowhere near the fighting.

But her relief didn’t last long. Within an instant, two of her brother’s household knights fell beneath the enemies’ swords. She cried out in horror. Some of her brother’s fiercest champions had just been cut down like butter.

She forced her gaze away. Though she desperately wanted to watch and make sure Roger was all right, she had to get Meg to safety.

Rosalin tried to forge through the crowd that had slowed as people turned to watch—as she had—the unfolding battle happening just a short distance away. A few voices rang out around her, offering encouraging words, if a bit colorfully, to the English soldiers. She forced herself not to look as she concentrated on getting Meg to safety.

Meg, however, was still watching. They’d just reached the place where the road funneled into the village and headed up the hill to the castle when she let out a cry and tried to pull away.

Rosalin turned around. “What is it, Meg? What’s wrong?”

The little girl pointed toward the village. “The brigand has Roger.”

Rosalin’s heart dropped like a stone. Through the swarm of people still trying to fight their way out of the village, through the dust of battle, through the black smoke and flames now engulfing the village, she could see that Meg spoke true. Roger had been unhorsed, and he was being held up by the scruff of his neck like a pup by one of the rebels.

An eye for an eye
. Clifford was going to lose his mind.

Robbie smiled from behind the cold steel of his darkened helm as he watched one of Northern England’s most important villages go up in flames. He felt nothing but satisfaction for a job well done. Pity had been burned out of him a long time ago.

Maybe it had been his sister’s rape, or his brother’s execution, or the miles and miles of Scottish scorched earth he’d seen left in the wake of an English army, the bodies of people who’d dared to disagree with their English overlords, torn apart by horses, the heads of his friends on gates, or any of the other countless atrocities he’d witnessed since the first, when he’d seen his father’s burned body hanging from the rafters. But somewhere in the past fifteen years, his hatred for all things English was complete.

And no one epitomized England for him more than Robert Clifford.
Sir
Robert Clifford, he amended. Clifford was just one more English bastard in a long line who wore his knighthood like a cloak of hypocrisy, as if he could hide the injustice of tyranny behind a shimmering shield of chivalry.

It wasn’t just the opportunistic attempt to conquer their land and usurp the throne of a sovereign nation—although that was enough. Never far from Robbie’s mind was the friend who’d lost his life under Clifford’s command. Thomas Keith, his kinsman and boyhood companion, had escaped from Kildrummy prison only to die two days later. For Thomas, their rescue had come too late. The beating that he’d suffered at the hand of Clifford’s soldier had proved too much.

Robbie frowned as another memory struck. He supposed there was one exception to his hatred of all things English. He could still remember his shock at looking up from that hellish pit where he’d thought to spend his last night and realizing that not only was his savior a woman, she was also
English
. He had assumed their guardian angel (what his men had taken to calling the person bringing them food) was one of the Scottish serving lasses who’d remained at the castle when it was taken.

Another memory followed. This one of the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Lips that had been completely
wrong
for him to taste in the first place. Thanks to the cloak and the darkness he’d seen her face only in shadows, but if the lass had been eighteen, he’d drink the swill the English called brandy for a week.

Even after six years, he still couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe because she was so young and innocent, and he’d been living in hell for so long. Maybe because he’d realized why she’d helped him and had been unexpectedly touched. It wasn’t the first time a young lass had thought herself enamored, but it sure as hell had been the most opportune. He’d wanted to thank her. He still did. But after all these years of trying to find out who she was, he almost wondered whether he’d imagined her.

Strange that he still thought of her at all, especially when the memory invoked thoughts of what had been some of the darkest days of his life.

Thanks to Clifford.

But Robbie would bring the English baron to heel in the end, of that he was damned sure. The arrogant bastard wasn’t going to be able to ignore this. Such a bold attack right in the heart of his “realm” was a direct affront to Clifford’s authority and would prove to him there was nothing they wouldn’t dare. It would bring him to the table. He’d sign the damned truce and pay the two thousand pounds just like all the others.

Carrying off an attack of such magnitude in the shadow of one of the largest English garrisons in the Borders was a daring proposition even for one of the elite members of the Highland Guard. But Robbie had planned everything down to the smallest detail. He always did. It was part of why Bruce’s war had been so successful. They’d learned from Wallace’s successes and not only built on them but improved them. The terrifying, wild “pirate” raids of which the English accused them had become extremely disciplined and well-organized professionally waged attacks.

And so far everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. Well, except for the soldiers. But his men were dealing with the unexpected resistance. Quite quickly, it appeared—even though they were out-manned by at least two to one.

He smiled again. This might not be a mission dangerous enough for the Highland Guard, but the men Robbie had brought with him were his own, and he’d taught them well.

Though tempted to join the fun himself, he was in charge and had to stand back and make sure nothing went wrong.

With one eye on the battle taking place down the street, he watched while two of his men loaded the grain, goods, and coin that would fund the king’s army for the next few months onto the sumpter horses they’d brought for that purpose. With the exception of a few chickens, they didn’t bother with the livestock. It would only slow them down, and unlike their typical raids conducted well away from any castle, for this they were going to need to disappear fast.

He stiffened as Seton, who’d been overseeing the men setting the fires, approached. From his angry stride, Robbie guessed what he was going to say.

“I thought you said no one would be hurt.”

Robbie clenched his jaw. “I gave the same orders as the king: no one is to be hurt unless they resist. It’s a mercy, I’ll point out, not often returned by your English countrymen. But as you can see,” he pointed to the soldiers, “they are resisting.”

Seton’s face was hidden behind his helm, but Robbie saw his eyes narrow at the word
countrymen
. Though raised in Scotland, Seton had been born in England, where most of his family’s lands were, and Robbie never let him forget it.

But they’d been partners for too long for Seton to be so easily baited. “I told you this was a bad idea. It’s too dangerous. But Clifford tweaked your pride, so now you have to tweak his. Even if we all end up swinging from the gibbet.”

Robbie’s jaw clenched even harder. He was well aware of Seton’s feelings on the matter. What had started out as an ill-fated partnership between them in the Highland Guard had never materialized into anything else, despite their leader Tor “Chief” MacLeod’s intent. They’d learned to tolerate each other, work together, and rely on each other when they had to, but they would never see eye to eye.

If anything, the tension between them had gotten worse since their unfortunate pairing in the early days of the war. Seton’s dissatisfaction with how they were winning this war had been growing for some time. But if they’d played knights the way Seton wanted, they’d still be outlaws “lost” in the damned Isles.

“This isn’t about pride,” Robbie said, annoyed in spite of his vow not to let Seton get to him. “I’m doing my job. Bruce needs the food and the truce. If you have a problem, take it up with the king.”

“I intend to.”

The two men faced off against each other, as had happened too many damned times to count. Finally, Seton stepped back—as had also happened too many times to count. Seton might have been born in England, but being raised in Scotland had given him some sense. He knew better than to challenge Robbie. His reputation had been well earned.

Seton shook his head, gazing at all the destruction around him. “Where the hell is the justice in this?”

The question hadn’t been directed at him, but he answered anyway. “An eye for an eye—that’s the only justice the English understand. Looking for anything else only makes you naive.”

“Better naive than dead.” Seton held Robbie’s gaze. “Or as good as dead.”

Robbie’s eyes narrowed.
What the hell did he mean by that?

Before he could ask, Seton said, “We have what we need. We should go in case any more of Clifford’s men are about.”

It took Robbie a moment to realize what Seton meant, but when he looked back down the street at the soldiers his men were battling, he recognized what he hadn’t noticed before: the arms of some of Clifford’s household knights.

God’s bones, this was even better than he could have hoped for! A raid right in the heart of Clifford’s dominion
and
defeating a force of his men?

He smiled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be leaving soon enough. The men are almost done.”

He instructed the two men loading the horses to finish up, helping to fasten the last sacks himself.

Seton had left to gather the rest of the men, when one of Robbie’s men came racing toward him. Despite the helm, Robbie recognized him instantly from his slight build. Malcolm Stewart, a distant kinsmen of his, might be only seventeen, and half the size of most of the men around him, but he fought with the heart of a lion.

“Captain,” he said anxiously. “We have a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“Sir Alexander has Clifford’s son.”

Robbie stilled. In the din of the battle taking place all around him, he thought he hadn’t heard him right. “What did you say?”

“Lord Fraser has Clifford’s son.”

Robbie muttered a curse as if it were a prayer. He couldn’t believe it. Was it possible? Could fortune have shined on him so brightly? “What the hell is the problem? Take him!”

Having Clifford’s son as a hostage would leave the English commander no choice. Clifford would have to accede to their demands.

Robbie couldn’t have planned for anything more perfect.

“That’s not the problem. The problem is the lady, Captain. She won’t let go of the boy and Sir Alexander doesn’t want to hurt her.”

As much as he liked MacLeod’s young brother by marriage, Alexander Fraser was a knight and like his English counterparts, chivalrous to a fault.

Robbie scanned the battle. Not seeing them, he realized that they must be away from the main part of the army. “Take me to them.”

But they’d taken only a few steps before Robbie heard a sound that told him their fortune had just changed.

“The gate!” Seton shouted in warning.

Robbie swore. “I see it.”

The English garrison had apparently decided to leave the comfort and protection of their stone walls and come to their countrymen’s aid, probably because of the lad.

Robbie and his men had overstayed their welcome. But he had no intention of leaving the boy behind. He could see him now—and the plaid-cloaked problem. The woman had her back to him, but she was clutching the boy, trying to pull him away from an obviously uncomfortable Fraser, who was doing his best to try to detach her from the boy without being too rough and equally obviously having a difficult time of it.

The woman was tenacious; Robbie would give her that. She wouldn’t let go. He’d recalled a few of the sort at the Highland Games.

He swore again, glancing at the hill. The soldiers from the castle were closing in quickly.

His mouth fell in a hard line. They didn’t have time for this. He would take care of the problem himself.

Rosalin had to do something, as clearly no one else could. The one knight who was close enough to come to Roger’s aid was deep in a fight for his own life. Her brother’s men—battle-hardened knights and men-at-arms—were being cut down as if they were wet-behind-the-ears squires. Roger
was
a wet-behind-the-ears squire. He wouldn’t last longer than it took the warrior to swing his massive two-handed sword.

She knelt down and took Meg by the shoulders. “I’m going to get Roger.”

“I want to go—”

Anticipating the little girl’s instincts—probably because they were her own—Rosalin cut her off. “I need your help. I need you to run as fast as you can up that hill and tell them that they must send soldiers. Tell them that Lord Clifford’s son is in danger. Can you do that?”

Meg nodded uncertainly.

Not willing to rely on the child to keep her promise, Rosalin saw her safely entrusted to the arms of the sturdier of the two attendants, with a stern warning to not let her go until they’d reached the safety of the closed gate.

Rosalin didn’t think she’d ever run so fast. She prayed every second it took her to wind her way through the crowd and cross the distance to her nephew.
Don’t let me be too late
…

“My father will kill you for this! He will see all of your rebel heads on spikes!”

She nearly sighed with relief, hearing Roger’s voice—even if she wished that indelible Clifford pride would show more discretion in issuing threats to large, menacing-looking barbarians with sharp swords. Her too confident, thirteen-year-old intent-on-being-a-fearsome-knight nephew was going to get himself killed.

Pushing her way past the last few fleeing villagers, she was at last able to see him. The Scot was still holding him by the neck, with Roger’s sword at his feet, having disarmed the youth rather than kill him.
Thank God!

“Let me go, damn it!” Roger thrashed around, pulling on the hand of the man holding him.

“Let him go!” Rosalin shouted, echoing her nephew’s demands. Racing forward, she threw herself between them.

She didn’t know which one of them looked more surprised. Beneath the steel helms she could see both sets of blue eyes widen.

The rebel recovered first. “Get back, my lady,” he said, in the same surprisingly refined Norman French that she’d instinctively used. Although she was fluent in the English more typically used by people in the North and Borders, French was the language of nobles and the court. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”

“Then let go of him!” she said fiercely, latching on to her nephew and trying to free him from the warrior’s hold.

Her appearance incited a renewed frenzy in her nephew’s effort to free himself. Together they fought against the much larger warrior and struggled to free Roger from his vise-like grip.

They almost succeeded. Roger saw just as she did that the warrior wasn’t going to draw his weapon, not with her there (apparently there was some vestige of chivalry even in barbarians), and they used it to their advantage.

A fierce Viking game of tug-of-war ensued, with Rosalin trying to insert herself between Roger and the warrior. If his frustrated swearing was any indication—at least she assumed it was swearing from his tone, as it was spoken in Gaelic—their efforts were taking a toll.

Finally, she freed Roger’s habergeon from the warrior’s grip (he’d been holding the mail shirt and not Roger’s neck as she’d thought) and was about to pull him free, when she heard a horse galloping up behind her.

She turned and caught the heart-stopping, blood-chilling flash of an enormous shadow looming over her right before darkness smothered her. Instinctively she cried out and raised her hands to claw at the thing covering her head. It was coarse and scratchy and smelled of grass. Nay, grain, she realized. Barley.

The vile beast had put a sack over her head!

She fought to rip it off, realizing her mistake too late. She’d let go of Roger. Only for an instant, but it was enough. The terrifying shadow barked some kind of order in Gaelic, presumably to the warrior who’d been holding Roger, and an arm circled around her waist. At least she thought it was an arm, though it felt more like a steel hook. With her as the fish!

She gasped, too shocked to scream, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her off the ground and none-too-gently slung her over his lap.

Her ribs and stomach met the rock-hard muscles of his thighs with enough force to jar the air from her lungs in a hard whoosh.

All at once the reality hit her. She was being abducted. Fear raced through her veins, setting off every primitive instinct inside her. To fight. To flee. To live.

She screamed and thrashed about wildly in his lap, trying to get free, not caring that they were riding faster than she’d ever ridden in her life. She’d take her chances with the ground. It would be more forgiving.

Her captor swore, the crude oath recognizable in any language, and one big hand covered her bottom to hold her more firmly against him.

The shock of a man’s hand on such an intimate part of her body made every muscle in her body still.

She forgot to breathe.

She could feel the size of his palm, feel the length of every finger, as his gauntleted hand held the soft flesh. His grip was firm, not rough or threatening in any way, but still her blood went cold with terror.

“Don’t move,” he warned in a low voice, the gravelly lilt of the Gael lending a shiver-inducing edge to his English. “You won’t be of much use to the boy if your head is splattered on the rocks.”

Roger!
Oh God, he was right. As desperately as she wanted to get away, she could not do so without Roger.

But it wasn’t just the barbarian’s words that sucked the fight right out of her. It was also her sudden awareness of the part of him wedged against her stomach. The very big, very hard part of him that reminded her that for a woman, there were fates far worse than abduction.

Every scary story she’d ever heard about the Scots picked that moment—the very worst moment—to come back to her. Rape, torture, and God knew whatever other hideous manners of death they might devise filled her head with ghastly images and made her do as he bade. For now.

What the hell was wrong with him? Obviously, Robbie had neglected certain areas of late if the frantic wiggling of a woman—and an
English
woman at that—was enough to get a rise out of him.

It was bloody embarrassing. Shameful even. He shuddered to think of the shite he’d hear from MacSorley if he ever found out. Erik “Hawk” MacSorley could always be counted on to lighten the mood during the tense, dangerous missions of the Highland Guard, but Robbie preferred when it wasn’t at his expense. And Robbie, who hated all things English, stiffening like a lad with an Englishwoman would be sure to qualify.

With so many willing Scottish women throwing themselves in his path, he had never considered looking south of the border. His reputation as the strongest man in Scotland fostered at the Highland Games over the years was not without its benefits. With the exception of Gregor MacGregor, whose war name of “Arrow” attested to his skill with a bow rather than his reputation as the most handsome man in Scotland, Robbie had more female admirers than anyone. Besides, if he’d ever seen an attractive Englishwoman (and right now he couldn’t recall one), as soon as she opened her mouth any spark of lust would surely die a cold, quick death.

Hell, the woman strewn over his lap was probably old enough to be his mother if, as he initially suspected from the simple plaid, she was one of Clifford’s servants.

His gaze fell to the hand that still gripped the surprisingly curvaceous and firm, plaid-covered bottom, peeking out from beneath the edge of the burlap sack he’d requisitioned from some of their spoils to drop over her head. He frowned, reconsidering. Perhaps not so old after all.

Guessing what it was that had stopped her wriggling, he removed his hand. He was tempted to tell her that her fears were unfounded. He did not abide the rape of women, and God help the man in his command who thought otherwise. But he doubted she would believe him. And as he’d learned from fighting this war, fear could be a powerful weapon. If it kept her still until he could be rid of her, it would be worth it.

And he planned to do exactly that—be rid of her—as soon as it was safe. Chancing a glance behind him, he saw that the English soldiers giving chase from the burning village were not too far behind. But that wouldn’t last.

With the woman secure, he urged his mount faster across the flat fertile valley of the Tweed River. It wasn’t long before the ground started to rise and they entered the altogether different terrain of the Lammermuir Hills. The hills and forests of the Borders—like those of the Highlands—were Bruce territory. The English might control the castles, but the Scots controlled the countryside. The light, agile, and sturdy hobby horses Robbie and his men used had been bred for this type of terrain, and it wasn’t long before their English pursuers faded into the distance behind them.

He slowed, but it wasn’t until another hour had passed, and they were deep in the forested hills, that he finally signaled his men that it was safe to stop.

They needed to water the horses, and despite the fact that she hadn’t moved an inch since his warning, he was damned uncomfortable and eager to rid himself of the lad’s fierce protector. Fraser could take the woman for a while, as it was he who’d neglected to deal with her properly in the first place. Not that Robbie had fared much better, he had to admit. As much as he disdained all the chivalry shite, he had never struck a woman before. He supposed he could have left her standing there when she’d finally detached herself from the lad, but it had seemed more expedient just to take her. Hell, if she was that attached to the boy, she might even be of some use.

If Robbie’s eye had strayed a few too many times to that surprisingly taut bottom, he told himself it was only deprivation. Deprivation that would be dealt with as soon as he returned to camp. He’d neglected Deirdre of late, but would make it up to her. God knew he had reason to celebrate.

Clifford’s son
…Nay, not just his son. From his size and age, the boy had to be his
heir
.

He still couldn’t believe the means of bringing Clifford to his knees had fallen right into his lap.

His gaze fell to that bottom again. Well, at least
something
had fallen into his lap.

Dismounting, Robbie would have pulled her off after him, but Seton grabbed him by the arm and swung him around to face him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re making war on women and children now?”

Robbie shot him a warning glare, not just for the hand on his arm (which was quickly dropped), but also for speaking in English.

“Not here,” he replied in Gaelic. He motioned to Malcolm, who had ridden up beside them. “See to the woman and the boy.”

He headed toward the loch, his fists clenching tightly. He should have known his partner would object. But if Seton wanted a fight, Robbie would be damned happy to give him one.

After being bounced around on a horse for what seemed like hours, while simultaneously trying to keep her body from slamming against her captor’s (which was about as forgiving as a stone wall), Rosalin could have wept with relief when the brute finally called what she assumed was “halt” in Gaelic.

Every bone in her body ached—even her teeth, which were still rattling from the constant jarring. Her ribs had taken the brunt of the abuse, and if they weren’t broken they certainly felt like it. And her poor stomach seemed to have been turned permanently upside down. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything at the fair, or the sack over her head could have been much worse. It was smothering enough without sharing it with the contents of her stomach.

Rolling her forward off his lap with all the consideration of a sack of flour, her captor dismounted.

Rosalin wanted to offer some kind of protest. She’d never been treated so ignobly in her life. But she was brutally aware that far worse could be yet to come. So she kept her protests to herself and lay still, waiting.