Ten
That should never have happened, Robbie repeated to himself more than once over the long night. The harder question, and one he didn’t want to ask himself, was how it had. He didn’t lose himself in lovemaking like that. Ever. He was always in control. Always aware. Hell, he could be sucked deep in a lass’s mouth, coming hard, and still be thinking about his next mission. But one minute he’d been kissing Rosalin Clifford, and the next he was almost inside her. He hadn’t been thinking about anything else.
Robbie…
He forced himself to shut out the memory. But he’d never forget the sound of his name on her lips as she broke apart. That soft, sensual plea would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Bloody hell, what was wrong with him? How could he have forgotten who she was? She was his hostage, under his protection, and “Despoiler of Innocents” wasn’t a title he was eager to add to his long list of sins. Even if she was Clifford’s sister.
After waking Seton and instructing him to stand guard outside her door, Robbie sought the cold embrace of a winter’s night, as much to chill his blood as to clear his thoughts. He passed the two men he’d left to guard the main gate and headed into the forest.
Robbie’s expression didn’t invite conversation, and they didn’t ask him where he was going. He didn’t know. But the dense, bone-chilling mist that had descended among the trees offered a strange comfort. The sharp brace of the cold air seeped in, penetrated, and eventually eased some of the tension coiling in his body.
Lust he knew how to remedy. A warrior spent too much time away from women to bother being shy about taking the edge off himself when the need arose, so to speak. It was the other emotions coursing through him, the equally fierce and intense emotions, that wouldn’t be sated by a few hard pumps of his fist.
His desire for this woman went beyond lust. It had been strong enough to make him forget who she was—hell, he probably would have forgotten his own damned name, if she hadn’t yelled it—and completely lose control. It had penetrated the haze of detachment that usually surrounded him when he was with a lass and made him feel things he’d never felt before.
But that wasn’t what really concerned him.
He might be ruthless and merciless on the battlefield, but he’d always been a considerate bedmate. Yet even in his most youthful dalliances, before Wallace had raised his sword and Robbie had dedicated his life to the fight for Scotland’s freedom, he couldn’t recall ever being so gentle or tender with a lass. The reverence, care, and protective feeling that had come over him when he kissed her—that scared the hell out of him.
He didn’t want anyone he took to bed to be different or special. And sure as hell not an Englishwoman—especially that particular Englishwoman. He had no intention of playing a part in some romantic tragedy, and that’s all it could ever be between them.
With no particular destination in mind and still too restless to return to the manor and attempt to sleep, Robbie started to climb the Manor Hills toward Dollar Law. Though the dark shadow of the mountain was lost in the mist, it loomed over the valley like a vigilant watchdog.
By Highland standards the gentle, rolling hills of the Southern Upland range that dominated much of the Borders were relatively easy climbs. Dollar Law was one of the highest peaks in the area, probably coming within five hundred feet or so of the Cuillins, where the Highland Guard “trained” (more aptly, suffered), though well short of the great Ben Nevis. Still, by the time he reached the top, he was winded and feeling a burn in his legs.
As the summit was free of mist, he took a seat on the stones of the summit cairn and watched the darkness of night give way to the breaking of dawn.
By the time the first glimpse of sunlight appeared to his left, casting a soft orange glow across the valley below him, Robbie knew what he had to do. Rosalin Clifford could not stay. She might wish to not leave her nephew, but after what had happened—or nearly happened—her wishes no longer mattered. He had to do what was best for his mission, and right now, getting her far away from him was what was best.
He glanced toward the castle just visible beyond the trees in front of him. He would take her to Peebles as soon as she woke, and—
He stopped, squinting into the distance. Peebles Castle was less than ten miles away, and with the low mist it was difficult to see, but he’d glimpsed some kind of movement. A short while later he saw it again, only this time he’d seen the banners and unmistakable glint of silver that told him what it was.
He raced back down the hill and through the woods to the manor. Seeing the same men he’d left a few hours before, he shouted orders for them to ready the rest of the men.
Climbing the stairs to the chamber where he’d left the lass and the lad, he saw Seton perched in the same spot Robbie had been before he’d heard the noise that had taken him into the room.
His partner immediately got to his feet. “What’s wrong?”
“English soldiers are heading in this direction from the castle. We need to go.”
Seton swore. “You’re certain it is us they are after?”
“Nay, but I’m sure as hell not sticking around to find out.”
He knocked on the door, surprised when she immediately bid him to enter. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who hadn’t slept much last night. Pushing open the door, he saw her sitting on a small stool by the brazier, her hands folded in her lap. She glanced up at him, and their eyes caught. He saw the question, saw the hurt, the confusion, and felt an unwelcome seizing in his chest.
Her skin was pale, her expression serene, her golden hair shimmering in the morning light. She looked so achingly beautiful, he knew he would remember her like this forever. Because this was where they would say goodbye. He wouldn’t need to take her to Peebles Castle with the English heading this way.
“Wake your nephew,” he said. “We need to leave.”
She stayed perfectly still, barely reacting to his pronouncement. “I can’t do that.”
He crossed the room, took her by the elbow, and lifted her to her feet. “It wasn’t a request, my lady. There is a party of English soldiers headed this way, and although I don’t object to killing Englishmen, I’d rather not have you and Roger in the middle of a battle.”
She wasn’t looking at him and wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was so unlike her, it made him uneasy.
He released her, dragging his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry for what happened last night. I should never have—” He stopped. Christ, he felt like he was Roger’s age, apologizing for stealing a kiss with his first lass. Except it hadn’t been just a kiss he’d nearly stolen. “It won’t happen again.”
“I can’t wake Roger because Roger isn’t here.”
It took him a moment to realize what she’d said. “What do you mean he isn’t here?”
She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze full on. “I made a rope out of the bed linens, and he climbed out the window.”
Robbie went completely still. His eyes searched her face. Surely, she couldn’t be serious. That climb was at least a forty-foot sheer drop into a rocky ravine. The idea that the boy would take such a risk was so ridiculous, so preposterous, he didn’t want to believe it.
But it was true. He could see it in the cool, unflinching repose of her face.
“Are you mad?” He exploded. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was? The boy could have fallen to his death.” It wasn’t until the next thought struck that he realized he was shaking her. “You could have fallen to your death.” Bloody hell. “That’s it, isn’t it? That was the noise I heard. You were on your way out that window as well?”
Even as she gave him a short little nod, the other truth was hitting him. Rage crashed down on him like a hot, black hammer with a crushing blow. His fingers tightened around her arm. “You did it on purpose,” he snarled from between clenched teeth. “You deceitful English bitch, you threw yourself at me so I wouldn’t discover the lad was gone.”
She flinched, taken aback by his venom. “Nay, that’s not how it happened. I was trying to stop you, but I didn’t intend for that to happen.”
“Didn’t you? What else do you think would happen when you let a man kiss you like that? When you rub your body up against him like a practiced whore?”
Her eyes widened. “How dare you say something like that to me! You know I’m not—”
“I know you spread your legs eagerly enough, and that I was a hairsbreadth from taking you up on your offer. A mistake on my part that I intend to rectify.”
Her face paled, the delicate pulse below her neck fluttering. “You wouldn’t! You swore you wouldn’t ravish me.”
A dark, wicked smile turned his mouth. “Who said anything about ravishing? With as hot as you were for it, I doubt I’ll need to do much persuading.”
He pushed her away so he wouldn’t be tempted to prove it right now.
A flush stained her pale cheeks at the crude boast. “You weren’t the only one who made a mistake. But I assure you it was never my intention to give myself to you to prevent you from learning of my nephew’s escape.”
He stood there seething, trying to control the anger racing through his veins. He couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to be deceived by a beautiful face and siren’s body. This was what he got for trying to be considerate and not pressing on to the camp. For not keeping them separated.
He should have anticipated treachery—she was English, wasn’t she? And now, because of her, his weapon—his surety—against Clifford had slipped right through his fingers.
His gaze hardened. He might not have Clifford’s heir, but he still had his sister. There was no longer any question of letting her go. Rosalin Clifford was coming with him, and after what she’d just done, her brother would be lucky if Robbie ever gave her back.
As horrible as her confrontation with Boyd had been, and as uncomfortable as the next few hours were while racing over the brutal countryside to escape their pursuers, Rosalin couldn’t regret what she’d done. Roger must have reached Peebles Castle and been able to rally the soldiers to come after her. Maybe even Cliff. Whatever else happened, her nephew was safe. She would be grateful for that even as she feared for her own safety.
But if Boyd was trying to scare her, it was working. She’d never seen him so angry. That was why he was being so mean and had said all those hateful things, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t really force her to be his whore. And that’s what it would be: force. In spite of his claim to the contrary, she wouldn’t give herself to him like that again. Not after what he’d said to her and knowing what he intended. She wasn’t that much of a fool.
She hoped.
She didn’t know what was worse, how quickly she’d surrendered to him or how mistakenly he’d ascribed her motives. She had been trying to stop him from checking on Roger, but she hadn’t planned to offer herself up as a distraction. It had just happened that way. She’d been just as caught up in the moment and surprised by how quickly things had spun out of control as he.
Did he honestly think she’d had any idea that a kiss could descend into that so quickly? She hadn’t even known what that was. She’d had no idea a man’s touch could rouse such incredible feelings in her. No idea she could become so swept away by passion that she would forget about everything else: her virtue, her position…good gracious, the fact that she was betrothed to another man!
Rosalin was ashamed by how quickly she’d succumbed and could only be thankful that he’d stopped before doing something that could not be undone. She still had her virtue, if not her innocence. She’d been naive and foolish, but now that she knew how easy it was to get caught up in the riptide, she wouldn’t go near the water again.
No matter how “hot” she might be. His crude words still stung. How could a man who’d touched her so tenderly one moment treat her so coldly the next? She’d almost convinced herself that he might care for her a little. That maybe he felt the same strange connection that she did. That maybe her sixteen-year-old heart hadn’t been wrong.
But his harshly spoken words had cured her of those illusions. She was an “English bitch.” The enemy. His hostage. And if she let herself forget it, she could very well end up his whore.
Still, she couldn’t stand the idea of him thinking the worst of her, and she had every intention of reiterating her innocence as soon as his anger had cooled.
But even half a day later, after hours of the most perilous riding she’d ever endured, up the steepest, narrowest mountainsides and through the densest, darkest, most impenetrable forest, his jaw was just as hard, his mouth just as tight, and his eyes just as narrowed as they had been when he’d stormed out of the room.
Not that his black visage had ever been turned in her direction. Nay, she didn’t think he’d looked at her once since they’d left.
None of the men had. Even Malcolm, Callum, and Alex avoided her gaze. Whatever goodwill she’d earned after the fire in the village was gone. The Scots took their cue from their captain, and Boyd’s anger toward her could not be more clear. However it had happened, she’d bested their hero in allowing her nephew to escape, and that could not be forgiven. She was an English hostage. A female English hostage. The lowest of the low. The fierce male Scot pride could not withstand such a blow.
But the silence was oppressive. She’d never felt so alone. By the time the first signs of the camp came into view, she was so miserable—not to mention filthy and exhausted—she would have welcomed a hovel, if it meant she could get off this horse and escape their forbidding indifference.
Rosalin didn’t know what she’d expected of the rebel encampment—perhaps foxholes and scattered plaids over the heather?—but it certainly wasn’t the neat row of Roman legionary-style tents leading up to a large sturdily constructed wooden Viking-style longhouse that sprang out of the thick forest along a rocky riverbed like a picturesque faerie tale–looking village nestled in the tree-covered hillside. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was far from the image she had of the outlaw “hood” from which Robert the Bruce had earned his moniker of King Hood.
The forest itself, however, lived up to its frightening reputation. From the moment they’d entered the shadowy canopy of trees, she’d been waiting for one of Bruce’s phantoms to jump out from behind a tree and shout “boo.” It was easy to see why the English had ceded the forest first to Wallace and later to Bruce’s men. The rebels could sit in ambuscade from virtually anywhere, and the narrow paths that wound through the forest would force the English soldiers to ride single file, leaving them even more vulnerable. The men of Ettrick Forest, like the legends of the outlaw Hood, were also known for their skill with a bow, a particularly deadly skill in this kind of environment with so many trees to hide behind.
She assumed they must have had scouts watching out because a handful of men—and a few women—were already standing outside to greet the returning warriors. From the cheers and lighthearted tone of their shouted greetings, she realized they were cheering the successful mission.
Rosalin hadn’t expected women. But no sooner had they stopped and the men dismounted than she understood their purpose at camp, when the women ran forward to greet some of the men in a particularly friendly manner.
As no one seemed inclined to help her dismount, Rosalin was about to attempt to do so on her own, when she glanced at Boyd. One of the women had launched herself into his arms and was plastered to his chest. Her long, wavy pitch-black hair hung loose down her back as her head tilted back invitingly.
Rosalin must have made some kind of sound, because Boyd’s eyes found hers right before he accepted the woman’s welcoming kiss. Her quite thorough welcoming kiss.
Rosalin felt as if a horse had kicked her in the chest. No! she wanted to shout. Don’t. You can’t.
But he could. She held no claim on him, a fact he was making perfectly clear.
His arm was wrapped around the woman’s waist loosely, as if it had been there many times before. The kiss also had a lazy familiarity that spoke of…
Oh God! The bottom dropped from Rosalin’s stomach. She knew. They were lovers.
She turned away, fighting the suffocating stabs of pain through her heart that made her want to do something ridiculous like cry. A hot ball pressed its way up her throat and to the back of her eyes. But she blinked back the tears as she slid her foot into the stirrup and attempted to get down without her skirts tangling around her feet.
She would have fallen had someone not caught her around the waist from behind. Nay, not someone. She stiffened at his touch, knowing exactly who it was. His big hands nearly spanned her waist, closing around her like a warm vise, as he lifted her down effortlessly. Even without their bodies touching, she could feel the broad shield of his chest behind her and smell the warm scent of leather and spice that had become so familiar.
“Thank you,” she said, not daring to look at him for fear that he might see how much his display with the woman had affected her. “I’m surprised you did not let me fall.”
“As you are our only hostage now, that wasn’t an option.”
Her eyes narrowed, meeting the ice-blue gaze that riveted them. “Aye, my brother will not pay your blackmail if I am harmed—you might remember that.”
His mouth tightened at the not-so-subtle reference to his earlier threat. “I think he’ll pay to get you back whatever state you are in. You might remember that, my lady.” He slurred the last word with obvious sarcasm.
She bristled. “You are wrong about what happened. For all your knowledge of experienced women, you should know the difference between practiced and not.”
He smiled, and Rosalin immediately regretted her churlish words. By remarking upon the woman who’d just kissed him, she’d let him know that it had bothered her.
“This way, Princess,” he said with a mock flourish. “Your palace awaits.”
He started away, and with no choice but to follow, Rosalin ignored the curious stares cast in her direction and hurried after him.
At first she thought he meant to take her to the big longhouse, which she assumed served as their hall, but then he led her past the building to where there were a few more tents set up. Slightly larger than the others, she realized these most likely housed the king’s lieutenants—perhaps even the king himself when he was present.
He stopped at the first tent. It was perhaps twelve feet square, with the middle of the pitched roof at least that high. Although the original natural wool would have been a brownish off-white, a protective coating of oil or wax to keep out the water had stained it yellow, and in places a dark-brownish black. Over a dozen hemp ropes supported the canopy from the outside, driven into the ground with large wooden pegs. Passing through the flaps that had been tied back, she saw the numerous wooden tent poles that gave the tent its structure.
Despite the afternoon light, it was fairly dark inside. But after Boyd lit the tall torches that flanked the entrance, she could better make out the interior.
Caesar was reputed to have traveled with his own mosaic tile floor in sections, and English kings had been known to outfit their tents as if they were a room in a palace with woven rugs, fine furniture, and silver and gold household plate. This tent was not so fine, but neither was it a crude hovel.
Her first impression was of well-tended orderliness. It might have been split down the middle with the two sides mirroring one another. They held box beds with some kind of mattress, probably made from straw, numerous wool blankets and a few furs, two wooden trunks for storage and extra seating, two tables, two stools, and two small braziers for warmth. The floor was covered in woven rushes. Other than a stray shield with a blue background and a band of red and white checks across it, a few candles, a pitcher, and a bowl for washing, there did not appear to be any personal items lying about that might give a hint about its occupants.
But she knew.
It was a warrior’s tent, and the spartan, no-frills, nothing-to-distract-from-war interior fit Boyd perfectly.
“You can sleep there,” he said, pointing to the bed on the left.
Since he threw down his plaid and helm on the other bed, she assumed it was his. Good God, he couldn’t mean to sleep in the same room with her?
“Is there not somewhere else I might stay?”
“There is not. As you might have noticed, we are in the middle of the forest. I’m afraid accommodation is limited.”
That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. He just enjoyed making her feel like a spoiled, cosseted princess. That was what he’d called her. She lifted her chin, glaring at him defiantly. “I just do not wish to displace anyone from their bed.”
“If you are that worried, you can always share mine.”
She stilled, staring at his face as if the granite facade might give her a clue as to whether he was serious.
His smile was cold and devoid of humor. “I thought not. Have no fear, my lady—Seton doesn’t mind. He lives for that kind of gallant shite. Now, if there is nothing else, I have more enjoyable pastimes to seek out.” His face hardened. “But I would caution you against another attempt to escape. Although you deserve to be in a pit prison for what you’ve done, I can find far less luxurious accommodations for you. There are no forty-foot walls, but even were you to get past the two men who will be guarding you—two of Douglas’s kinsmen, by the way, so don’t bother trying to wield your feminine wiles in that direction—the forest is not a place you will want to find yourself alone. Unless you like boars.” His eyes found hers. “And phantoms.”
A chill swept over her skin. His warning was well heeded. She was trapped and knew it. Douglas’s men…She shivered. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to go. Even angry and cruel, she trusted him. At least more than she did Douglases.
“Wait!” She stopped him before he pulled back the flaps. “Where are you going?”
“To celebrate a successful raid. Unlike you, I didn’t get to take my release last night. So unless you want to suck my cock as Deirdre has offered to do, I will bid you good night.”
Rosalin drew in her breath, shock permeating every fiber of her being. Even knowing that was what he had intended couldn’t stop her from gaping at him. Was such a thing done?
The knowing challenge in his eyes answered her question.
Shock turned to a stabbing throb. She wanted to object. To tell him not to go. To tell him that if he let that woman touch him like that it would be over between them forever.
But how could something be over that had never begun?
Instead, she dropped her gaze and turned away from him. The handsome, noble warrior she’d watched from her window was gone, and she found she no longer wanted to look at the man who stood in his place.