The Raider (6 page)

What would he do with her—with them?

Fear and apprehension tensed her already bruised and battered limbs. But instead of more manhandling, she heard the angry voice of a man who spoke in clean, clear, crisp English and seemed to be challenging her captor’s decision to take them.

She didn’t need to understand the harsh reply to know that the challenge was not a welcome one.

Something prickled at the back of her neck—and it wasn’t a scratchy thread of hemp from the sack. Without the buffering sound of the wind and pounding of hooves, she was able to hear her captor’s voice clearly for the first time. There was something about the deep, rough tones that made her ears prick and her spine tingle. Something that made a tiny warning bell ring inside her head. Something that tickled the fringes of a memory.

But then it was gone, and she realized it was probably just an innate sense of self-preservation. The primitive instinct of a hare who hears the flap of the falcon’s wing for the first time and senses danger. And there was no doubt that a man with a voice like that was dangerous.

She stiffened when hands grabbed her again. But it was clear they were not the hands of the same man who’d taken her. The grip was far less firm and confident, and the man seemed to struggle with her weight as he half lifted, half slid her off the horse.

The sack must have caught on part of the saddle, because it did not come with her. No sooner had her feet touched the blessed solidness of
terra firma
than she felt the welcome rush of fresh air into her lungs. She blinked as the darkness of the sack gave way to the light of day, or at least what remained of it. The short days of winter were not helped by the heavy gray mist, and though it was probably only a few hours past midday, the light had dimmed to an eerie twilight.

Still facing the horse, Rosalin’s legs nearly gave out when the man released her.

“Sorry, my lady,” he said, catching her arm to steady her.

She turned at the surprising sound of his voice and found herself gazing into the ruddy, freckle-faced countenance of a youth of no more than eight and ten. Compared to the terrifying-looking brutes she’d seen before, his friendly, boyishly handsome face and thin, nonthreatening build allayed some of her immediate fears of rape, death, and dismemberment.

From beneath his steel cap, his eyes widened in shock, and he took a step back.

It took her a moment for her to realize why. Rosalin had never cursed her face, but she did so now. Hastily, she drew on the hood that must have slipped off in the struggle with the sack and sank back into its dark woolen folds.

But the boy was still staring at her shadowed face, slack-jawed.

“Malcolm, what the hell’s the matter with you, lad? The captain told you to take care of the hostages.”

From beneath the safety of her hood, Rosalin glanced at the newcomer. But she had barely taken in the fierce-looking warrior before he thrust her nephew forward and all her attention shifted to the boy.

“Roger!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to catch him in her arms. “Thank God! Are you all right?”

After a relieved squeeze, she held him out to look at him, having to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Though only three and ten, he was already taller than she. She drank in ever inch of his dirty face and rumpled golden hair. He’d lost his helm and his surcoat was torn and heavy with mud, but he appeared unharmed.

“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Are you?”

She nodded, tears of relief squeezing her throat with emotion.

Thankfully, the warrior had moved off during their reunion, but she was conscious of the youth watching them. His mouth was now closed, but he was still staring at her with a slightly dazed expression on his face.

In other circumstances it might have been rather sweet, but right now all she could think about was if this was the boy’s reaction, what would the men do when they saw her? Ruffians. Outlaws. Men who lived beyond the law would not hesitate to…

She shivered. Dear God in heaven, she had to do something!

Glancing around, she saw that they were standing in a small clearing near a stream a few dozen yards from any of the other warriors. To her profound but grateful shock, none of the ruffians were paying them any mind while they tended their horses. Obviously, no one thought them a threat. She was sure Roger would be greatly offended, but she was thrilled with their good fortune.

Knowing they might not get another opportunity like this, and that the sooner they escaped the better (her brother’s men couldn’t be that far behind), she didn’t waste any time.

“Catch me,” she muttered under her breath to her nephew. She started swaying dramatically. “Oh!” she gasped. “I don’t feel…”

She let her words fall off and promptly swooned, crumpling like a poppet of rags.

Her startled nephew barely caught her before she hit the ground.

The young warrior rushed forward. “What’s wrong with her?” he said anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Roger answered. “I think she fainted.”

Rosalin moaned dramatically and fluttered her eyes open wide. “Water,” she croaked pitifully, looking right into the young warrior’s concerned gaze. “Please.”

“Here, have some whisky,” he said, holding out the skin he’d ripped off from around his shoulders.

The shudder she gave was not feigned. It smelled horrible, like bitter peat. She shook her head and clutched his arm. “Please.”

Feeling ridiculous, she batted her lashes a few times.

It worked.

“I’ll be right back,” the young warrior said, running toward the edge of the stream just visible through the trees.

Rosalin took her nephew by the hand and quickly got to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Without a backward glance, they plunged through the trees in the opposite direction and ran as if the devil were on their heels. He was.

Robbie moved far enough away to ensure they were not overheard, before stopping by the edge of the burn to deal with his irate partner. Seton had removed his helm, and Robbie did the same, tossing it down on the ground to run his hands through the itchy, damp waves that were plastered to his head in sweat and grime.

Not caring that his red-faced partner looked like he was hanging on to the last shreds of his control by a very thin string, and that it would only likely add to his irritation, Robbie knelt by the stream. With both hands, he cupped the icy water, splashing it on his face and over his head a few times. Damn, that felt good. He hated the suffocating full-faced helms he wore on regular missions, much preferring the nasal helms he wore with the Highland Guard. But the style had become associated with “Bruce’s phantoms,” and he wasn’t going to push his luck.

Shaking the water from his hair, he stood and faced Seton, whose expression had only grown darker at Robbie’s apparent nonchalance.

Crossing his arms, he eyed Seton intently. “You had something to say?”

Seton’s gaze narrowed and his mouth tightened white. Seven years of
Highland
warfare may have toughened up the young knight, but he still had a difficult time keeping a rein on his temper—or at least not showing it. “Damned right, I have something to say. I sure as hell didn’t sign up to make war on women and children.”

Robbie refrained from asking him why he
had
signed up—other than the fact that his dead hero brother had been Bruce’s closest companion.

“That ‘boy’ is Clifford’s heir, and a squire old enough to wield a blade at Fraser. The woman got in the way and will be released as soon as it is feasible. As to why, I should think that would be fairly obvious. The taking of hostages is common enough on both sides.” He paused, unable to resist adding, “Even for English knights.”

It was the truth. Hostage taking, particularly of an heir to serve as surety, had been an established practice undertaken throughout Christendom for centuries. Both sides did it. Not even Seton could argue with that.

“Hostages are given, not taken,” Seton said stubbornly.

“As I did not feel like waiting around to ask someone, I’d say the distinction is meaningless. But feel free to return to Norham and wait for Clifford so you can negotiate. Although I would think from previous experience that you might not like the way those negotiations turn out.”

Seton knew better than to wade into that cesspit. The manner of their capture at Kildrummy was still a sore point even after all these years. His teeth clenched until the muscle in his jaw ticced. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Boyd replied bluntly. “The king wants Clifford’s truce, and the boy will ensure that this time Clifford negotiates in good faith.”

His partner didn’t say anything, although it was clear he wanted to.

Suddenly, Robbie understood what it was, and in spite of the current tension between them, it packed a surprising sting. “Hell, Dragon, after all that we’ve been through, you can’t think I’d hurt the lad?”

Seton pinned his gaze to his, his mouth pursed in a hard line. “I don’t want to think so, but I know how much you hate his sire.”

Robbie’s fists squeezed at his side. “Aye, I want vengeance, but against Clifford, not a green squire. Despite my reputation to the contrary, I do not slaughter innocents or make war on those weaker than me.”

His partner should know that.

Perhaps Seton realized it as well. “Everyone’s weaker than you,” he said dryly.

Robbie managed a small smile at the jest, and what he suspected was meant as an apology. “You know what I meant.” He couldn’t abide bullies. Perhaps because of his strength, he was even more conscious of fighting worthy opponents.

Seton bent down, picking up his helm and handing it to him. “You intend to let the woman go?”

Robbie tucked the helm under his arm. “I wouldn’t have taken her in the first place, but she’d latched on to the boy and Fraser was having a difficult time separating them. I figured the boy would put up less of a fight if I took her.”

“Who is she?”

Robbie shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably a servant—a nursemaid, perhaps.”

“She isn’t a nursemaid,” Fraser said, approaching them from the trees where they’d left the horses. MacLeod’s young brother by marriage, Sir Alexander Fraser had become one of their regular companions in the war along the Borders.

Robbie frowned. “How do you know?”

“One look at her face.” He shook his head. “If I had a nursemaid who looked like that, I would never have left the nursery.”

So the nicely shaped bottom wasn’t an aberration. Still, Robbie was sure Fraser exaggerated.

“I wasn’t aware that beauty precluded servitude, but I’ll take a Scottish serving maid over an English Rose any day,” Robbie said.

“My partner here is convinced nothing of any worth grows below the Roman wall,” Seton added.

“Aye, well, be prepared to change your mind,” Fraser said.

Suddenly curious, Robbie glanced through the trees to where he’d left the hostages. The dense trees and thickening mist prevented him from seeing anything. He scanned the area around him, frowning when he saw Malcolm kneeling by the stream, apparently filling up his skin with water. The young warrior stood and started back up the hill.

“Who is watching the boy and the woman?” he asked Fraser.

“I thought you told Malcolm to. I left Clifford’s whelp with him before I came to find you.”

Robbie swore.

“What’s wrong?” Seton asked.

But Robbie was already striding toward the horses. He reached the clearing only moments after Malcolm, who was standing there stunned, looking around.

“Where are they?” Robbie demanded.

Malcolm’s face paled. “The lady fainted. I went to fetch her some water. I was only gone for a few minutes.”

Robbie swore again. He was really beginning to regret not being the type of man who would knock a lass out of the way.

The young warrior shirked back in the face of his anger. Robbie didn’t need to tell him that he’d made an enormous mistake. And he would be reprimanded—but later. Right now, all Robbie was focused on was getting the hostages back.

He quickly organized his men into a search party. In a low voice that contemplated no other result, he ordered, “Find them.”

“Hurry!” Rosalin grabbed Roger’s hand, pulling him into the river behind her. “They’re coming.”

The icy water splashed at her knees as they raced toward the felled tree. She was almost too scared to notice how cold it was—almost. Heart pounding, every few feet she glanced around behind her, expecting to see the beasts snapping at their heels.

Knowing they wouldn’t be able to outrun a dozen warriors on horseback, Rosalin had ignored the instinct to run and instead used the precious few minutes of lead time they had to search for a place to hide. Not an easy task in the barren wintry countryside, but as opportune hiding places went, the felled tree was better than she would have dared hope.

Propped up on one end by a rock, the tree must have been there for some time, as the inside was partially hollowed out. Moss and ferns had grown over the log almost like a blanket, creating a space underneath that was just large enough for her to crawl under.

Roger didn’t need to be told what to do. He practically dove into the hollowed-out tree as she did the same underneath the mossy curtain.

It was just in time. No sooner had they scampered into position than she heard the sound of voices.

“They couldn’t have gotten far.”

Her heart stopped, recognizing the deep voice of her captor. Shivering, and not just from the cold, she waited for them to approach.

“Damn, I wish we had Hunter with us,” another man said. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought it might be the man who’d objected to their abduction.

“The ground is too hard, and there are too many tracks,” the deeper voice said. “I can’t tell which are theirs.”

That voice…a chill ran down her spine. There
was
something familiar about it.

She quickly pushed the thought away. It couldn’t be. Her captor’s voice was deep, but hard and humorless, with a clipped, authoritative cadence. The prisoner’s—Boyd’s—had been softer. Kinder. He’d sounded like a man who knew how to smile, not a harsh, unforgiving brute.

“Do you think they crossed the river?” the second man asked.

“I don’t think so,” her captor replied. “We would see some dampness on the ground where they came out.”

“Unless they decided to swim farther downstream.”

“If they did, they won’t have gotten far—not if they don’t want to freeze to death. You take some men and go on the other side of the river. I’ll try down this way.”

“Captain, here!” she heard a shout, possibly from the young warrior whom she’d tricked. “Tracks!”

“Go,” her captor said. “I’ll see what Malcolm has found.”

He moved out of hearing distance for a while, and all Rosalin could hear was her heart pounding and the chattering of Roger’s teeth.

“Do you think they’re gone?” he whispered.

“Not yet,” she replied. She sensed her captor with the hard, uncompromising voice wouldn’t have given up that quickly.

A few minutes later, she heard footsteps and froze. Well, as she was actually already frozen, she just stopped breathing.

“Do you see anything?”

Now her heart stopped. It was the young warrior, and by the sound of it, he was standing right by the felled tree.

“Keep looking,” her captor shouted from farther away. “They’re here, damn it. I can feel it.”

The anger and frustration in his voice gave her an unexpected burst of hope.
Sweet heaven, this might actually work!

From her place scrunched up under the log, Rosalin watched through the blanket of moss as one of the barbarians walked right by the tree on the opposite side of the hollow. Fortunately, he didn’t stop, probably assuming that no one could hide inside. “I don’t see anything. They must still be running.”

It
was
the young warrior. Malcolm, her captor had called him.

Her captor swore, and although it was a word rarely uttered in her presence, she was thrilled to hear it, as it only buoyed her hopes further.

“Let’s get back on the horses,” her captor replied from closer than before. “We’ll backtrack and see if we can find another set of tracks. They can’t have just disappeared.”

They’d done it! She couldn’t believe they’d actually done it.

A frantic scurrying sound from above, followed by a sharp “ouch” from Roger, put an end to her celebration. A moment later, Roger shot out of the tree and was quickly followed by a brown creature about the size of a cat with a bushy tail. Apparently, their log was already occupied—by a pine marten!

She rolled out from under the log after Roger, praying that the men chasing them hadn’t heard. But one peek over the log quashed that particular fantasy.

“There!” The young warrior shouted from about forty yards away. “There they are.”

Panic shot through her. Grabbing Roger’s hand, she started toward the woodland ahead. “Run!”

Racing over the uneven terrain, she had to release her nephew’s hand so she wouldn’t take him down the hillside with her if she slipped. It was also clear that she was slowing him down.

The footsteps behind them were closing in. Whatever chance they’d had of escape had disappeared with one angry pine marten, but she had to at least try. “The rocks,” she gasped, already breathing heavily. “Hurry.”

Roger shot off. Rather than follow after him, she stopped, hoping to slow their pursuers enough to give her nephew time to hide. She hadn’t anticipated the man right on her heels. He lunged for her, catapulting them both back into the dirt and mud.

She cried out from the force of the ground slamming against her back, and then, an instant later, from the big, solid leather-clad slab of granite that landed on top of her—the
very
big and very solid slab of granite.

The air was knocked out of her lungs with a hard jolt. She couldn’t breathe. But in that stunned moment her gaze locked on that of her captor’s, and she felt an altogether different kind of jolt. One of recognition.