Fourteen
Rosalin had her freedom, but she was too scared to use it. After coming face-to-face with the Black Douglas, she’d scurried back to her tent like a frightened mouse. Three hours of waiting later—with no Robbie appearing to reassure her—she decided that she was being ridiculous. Robbie had told her Douglas wouldn’t harm her; she would believe him. She was also hungry. The removal of her guards meant she would have to fetch her own food.
Mustering her courage, she wrapped her plaid around her shoulders and headed out of the tent into the cool evening mist. From her experience so far in Scotland there seemed to be little else: morning mist, midday mist, and evening mist. Today, the gloom was heavier than usual, almost seamlessly switching back and forth between a drizzling, dreary rain.
Remembering the reaction her arrival in the Hall had caused earlier—and the discomfort of being stared at by so many—Rosalin decided to seek out a smaller number of curious-wary-angry gazes and headed toward the camp kitchens, which had been set up against the back wall of the Hall. A wooden roof protected the pots and fires from the rain and snow, but the walls that enclosed the area were only on three sides and didn’t go all the way up, offering little insulation from the cold and wind.
It was a crude but efficient setup. In addition to the pots hanging in fires, there were a few tables to prepare the meals and a large bread oven constructed of stone.
Apparently, the women at camp weren’t here just to be companions for the men. They were also serving maids for the meals. One woman looked up as she approached and whispered something to the dark-haired woman standing beside her.
Rosalin’s foot seemed to stutter mid-step, and she nearly stumbled. It was the woman who’d kissed Robbie. Deirdre.
A pit of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach, and her courage faltered. The last thing she wanted to do was be confronted by an angry mistress. After years at court, Rosalin was under no illusions about women. They could be every bit as cruel and ruthless as men. Perhaps more so.
But she forced her feet forward and her chin up. She was Lady Rosalin Clifford, sister of one of the most important barons in England. She did not cower and run.
Usually. But she was painfully aware that none of that mattered here. Her rank would afford her little protection with these women. They didn’t care who she was, they only knew what she was: English, a hostage, and the sister of the man who was probably the most hated in Scotland.
A third woman had joined the first two by the time Rosalin drew close enough to hear them. Of course they were speaking in Gaelic, so she couldn’t understand a word. From the way the two other women deferred to Deirdre, however, Rosalin guessed that she must be in charge.
She was older than she’d appeared at first glance. At least a good handful of years beyond Rosalin and the other two girls, who appeared closer to her own two and twenty. She was prettier, too, than she’d realized, possessing the kind of bold sensuality that Rosalin could never hope to emulate. With her dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and wide mouth, Deirdre’s features were sharp—almost exotic-looking—making Rosalin suddenly feel drab and uninteresting by comparison.
And then there was her figure. Rosalin wrapped her plaid around her chest self-consciously. She could never hope to compare in that arena. Buxom and curvaceous were putting it mildly.
The two younger women were also brown-haired, albeit lighter in complexion and eye color, but not as fair of face. There was a sullen, downtrodden look to them that spoke of hardship. Deirdre had it as well, but hers was better hidden behind the sharp edge of maturity. There was little this woman hadn’t seen, and Rosalin didn’t know whether to pity or envy her for it.
The three women must have been clearing the dishes, as a stack of used trays, trenchers, goblets, and pitchers had been deposited on one of the worktables. Two large tubs of water set out next to it suggested that they were about to start washing.
Rosalin came to a stop in front of the table opposite them. She looked down at the dirty dishes, a wry smile turning her mouth. “It seems I’ve missed the meal.”
She assumed they would speak English, but the blank expressions and awkward silence that followed made her wonder.
Finally, Deirdre responded. “Fetch the lady something to eat, Mor,” she said to one of the girls at her side. Then to Rosalin, she said, “The cook has just taken in a few more trays. If you like, I will have Mor bring it to you there.”
Her tone was more matter-of-fact than friendly or deferential, but free of the malice or resentment Rosalin had feared.
Rosalin shook her head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I will take it back to my tent.” A loud roar emitted from the Hall behind them. “I should not wish to disturb their celebration.”
“They are not celebrating—no more than any other night when ale and whisky are plentiful.” She studied Rosalin’s face with a scrutiny that made her wish she could read minds. “But you are probably right. They are not the most reasonable in this state.” Rosalin took that to mean her Englishness would not be appreciated—or rather, would be even less appreciated than normal. Deirdre eyed her askance. “Iain is not fetching your meals?”
Rosalin shook her head. “Robb—” She blushed, and quickly corrected, “The captain has given me permission to move around the camp.”
Deirdre lifted a brow at that. “He has? Hmm.”
Rosalin didn’t know what that “hmm” meant, but it didn’t seem as if she agreed with Robbie’s decision.
Rosalin tried to explain. “I threatened to die of boredom, which would make me quite useless as a hostage.”
The faint hint of a smile lifted one corner of the other woman’s mouth. “You do not need to defend him to me, my lady; the captain makes his own decisions. I would not think to question them.”
Rosalin was aware of a subtle undercurrent and realized Deirdre was probably referring to other decisions as well—such as the one that had taken him from her bed.
Feeling a tightening in her heart, Rosalin was suddenly anxious to leave. In spite of the woman’s unexpected equanimity, she was painfully aware of the man who was between them. The man Deirdre had had, but Rosalin…never would.
The truth hit her with a blow. She understood what Deirdre must have known from the first. Deirdre didn’t resent her because she didn’t fear her. I’m not a threat to her. Rosalin might have distracted him temporarily, but eventually she would go, and when she did…
Rosalin saw her thoughts mirrored in the woman’s eyes. When she did, he would go back to Deirdre’s bed.
Her stomach turned, and it took everything she had to hold back the hard press of tears that sprang to her eyes. It had taken Robbie’s mistress to make her see what was so obvious. There could never be anything meaningful between them. She was temporary. A means to an end. When he’d exacted what payment he could from her brother, she would be sent back and undoubtedly never see him again.
Fortunately, the girl—Mor—chose that moment to return with a small tray of food. Rosalin took it from her and recovered her composure enough to thank her. “I will return the tray when I am finished.”
“The morning will be soon enough,” Deirdre said absently, already turning her attention back to the stack of dishes in front of her.
Rosalin started to walk away with her tray, but then turned back. “I should like to help while I am here. If you think of anything I can do.”
The girl who had been silent while Rosalin spoke with Deirdre said something to the other women in Gaelic. By her tone, Rosalin guessed that it wasn’t very nice. Mor covered her smile with her hand, but Deirdre said something sharply back that sobered both girls quickly.
Again, Rosalin was aware of being scrutinized and assessed.
“I presume you are good with a needle.”
Rosalin nodded. Most noble ladies could be counted on to have the skill.
“Well, it isn’t tabards or tapestries, but there is always a stack of linens to be mended.”
Rosalin smiled for the first time since she’d left her tent. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”
Whether it was her smile or her gratitude, something seemed to make Deirdre uncomfortable. She brushed off her thanks. “Aye, well, the captain will have to agree to it when he gets back.”
The smile fell from Rosalin’s face; she stilled. “The captain is gone?”
Her distress was so obvious even Deirdre must have felt sorry for her, as there was pity in her eyes. “Aye, he rode out a few hours ago.”
“When will he be back? Where did he go?”
The other woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I should think a day or two.”
“Is Sir Alex here?”
“Nay, he left as well.”
Panic started to crawl up inside her. The goblet on the tray started to rattle. He wouldn’t have left her alone with…
“Then who is in charge?” she asked, her stomach twisting as she anticipated the answer.
“The Douglas.”
Blood was no longer dripping down Robbie’s arm, but each hard fall of his horse’s hooves jarred his ribs and sent a blast of pain through his side, serving as a visceral reminder of the dangers of distraction. For nothing else could explain the uncharacteristic mistakes he’d made that had enabled the enemy to get in two clean blows: the first, a blade across the shoulder that had struck with enough force to slice through his steel-studded leather cotun to the skin below, and the second, the crushing blow of a mace across his side that had broken more than one rib.
He would like to say that it was because the mission had been more difficult than any of them expected—the fifty men they’d faced had been a highly skilled combination of English soldiers and hardened mercenaries who hadn’t given up their silver easily—but he knew that wasn’t the reason.
It was Rosalin. She was the distraction. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about. He’d left Douglas in charge and made it damn clear that if any harm should befall her, if she even complained of a quiver of fear, he would hold him accountable. He was fairly sure he’d threatened Douglas with enough bodily damage to deny his new wife any pleasures in the marital bed by removing certain necessary parts with a dull spoon, but Robbie couldn’t remember his exact words.
Rosalin would be fine, he told himself. He’d been gone only half a day.
Which didn’t explain why he and Seton were currently galloping through the forest in the middle of the night, and not celebrating their successful mission with the rest of the Guard by sleeping and tending their injuries in a cave not far from where they’d won their hard-fought victory.
I should have told her I was leaving. He didn’t know why he hadn’t, except that he’d been trying to convince himself after the uncomfortable conversation with his brethren that she didn’t meant anything to him. That he wasn’t beholden to her.
Seton swore behind him. Robbie heard the sound of a branch snapping as he turned with the torch.
“Christ, that almost took my head off,” Seton said. “Either slow down or hand me the bloody torch.”
“Or you could try to keep up.”
Seton threw him a black glare. “It’s pitch-black out here, thick with mist, and well past midnight. After nearly twelve hours of riding, with only a few hours’ break to fight a damned battle, my horse is a little tired. Hell, I’m a little tired. Are you going to tell me why we are killing ourselves to get back to camp tonight rather than enjoying a much deserved rest with the others?”
Robbie set his mouth in a hard line. “I want to get back.”
“That’s bloody obvious; the question is why. Are you worried about the lass?”
“Douglas won’t let anything happen to her.” He said it almost as much to himself as he did to Seton. Robbie trusted Douglas with his life—and had done so more than once. But it was Robbie’s responsibility to see to Rosalin’s safety, and he didn’t like delegating it to anyone else. Even a trusted friend.
“But?”
Seton knew him too damned well. “But hell if I know. Something just doesn’t feel right.”
It was a testament to their long partnership that the explanation not only satisfied him, it also seemed to make Seton nearly as anxious to return as he.
Robbie wasn’t like Campbell. He didn’t get feelings about things. The implicit trust of Seton’s reaction surprised him. It probably shouldn’t have, but it did.
The closer they drew to camp, the worse the feeling grew. By the time they passed the first sentry it was probably two or three in the morning, and Robbie was stretched to the breaking point. Every rustle of leaves, every gust of wind, every hoot of an owl or sound of nightlife grated against nerves that were already frazzled and on edge.
“Everything looks all right,” Seton said in a low voice.
It did. The sentries were at their posts. The camp was dark and quiet. The faint scent of peat from the fires wafted through the air.
Then why the hell did he feel like he was about to jump out of his damned skin? Why did he have to fight the urge to race through camp like a madman and tear open the flaps of the tent to assure himself that she was all right?
When they turned the corner around the Great Hall and the second row of tents came into view, he was about to heave a sigh of relief when he caught the flicker of something in the trees.
“What’s that?” Seton said.
Robbie didn’t take the time to answer. He snapped the reins and kicked his mount forward, plunging into the darkness toward the light. A moment later he heard the sound of a soft cry that sent a torrent of ice rushing through his veins.
The man came out of nowhere.
After hours of tossing and turning, telling herself there was no reason to be scared, and certainly no reason to hold her breath like a terrified child every time someone walked past the tent, Rosalin finally found sleep only to wake up a few hours later with a pressing need that could not be ignored.
Everyone is abed. There is no reason to worry. No one will harm you. But just knowing that Robbie wasn’t here lent a new vulnerability to her situation. She hadn’t realized how much his presence reassured her. How instinctively she knew that he would protect her. Without him, she felt like she was sitting in a den of hungry lions without a sword and shield.
After attending to her business in a matter of a couple of very relieved minutes, she was making her way back to the tent when a man stepped out from behind a tree to block her path.
Her heart jumped, and she let out a startled cry that strangled in her throat. The candle dropped to her feet.
He loomed over her, a dark, forbidding shadow. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was thick and heavily built. The pungent scent of drink accosted her as he bent down and picked up the candle.
“What do we ’ave ’ere,” he slurred, holding it up to her face, “a new whore?” The burr of his accent was so deep, it took her a moment to realize he was speaking English—the Northern English common at the Borders.
Her blood turned to ice. She opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already slid his arm around her waist and jerked her up against him.
“Let me go,” she said, trying to push away.
“What the ’ell?” He pushed her up against a tree and lodged his forearm against her throat. “You’re fucking English.”
Holding the candle close to her face, he gave her the first clear look at him and the cold, black eyes that looked at her murderously. It was the face of nightmares. A thick scar sliced through his heavy brow across a squashed nose and disappeared beneath the edge of a thick beard. The legacy of a sword or battle-axe blade, it gave a menacing edge to an already brutish appearance. When he opened his mouth and sneered, his big, yellow teeth reminded her of a boar’s tusks. That was what he looked like—a big, ugly boar, with thick, wiry black hair and a flat squashed nose.
But it was his heavily lidded eyes and the way he was looking at her that sent chills racing through every corner of her body. She struggled to free herself, but it only made him lean in harder, pressing the forearm laid across her neck and cutting off her breath.
His face was so close, she could smell the sour scent of whisky on his breath. “Who the ’ell are you?”
“Hostage,” she managed to get out in a soft breath. “Boyd.”
She wasn’t sure whether her words had penetrated the drunken haze.
They had, but not in the way she’d hoped. His mouth curled in an ugly sneer. “An English bitch as a hostage? A whore, more like.” His hand covered her breast and she tried to cry out as fear stiffened every inch of her body. “I hope the cap’n taught you something. Let’s see ’ow much yer worth.”
She could see the intent in his eyes and renewed her struggles. She clawed at the arm across her neck. “He’ll kill you,” she managed.
He caught her hands and pinned them up over her head, the soft skin of her wrists digging into the bark. But it was nothing compared to the pain and horror of having his body pressed against hers. She twisted against him, trying to break free, wanting to retch nearly as much as she wanted to breathe.
“Boyd?” he laughed. “He hates the English as much as I—”
A noise behind him made him turn. A dark figure plunged out of the shadows on a horse. As he leaped down, his cloak flying like the wings of a demon behind him, Rosalin caught a glimpse of his face and nearly fainted. Beneath the darkened nasal helm there seemed to be only emptiness.
Her scream was strangled even though the man’s arm was no longer at her throat. He’d turned to defend himself, but he could barely get his hands up before the battering ram of a steel-gauntleted fist came crashing into his jaw with enough force to send him flying through the air a few feet before landing with a thud on his back.
The dark, cloaked figure was standing over him a moment later, pounding him into the ground with powerful blow after powerful blow.
She’d seen something like it once before. “Robbie!”
The word escaped from between her lips as if in answer to a prayer.
He paused long enough to glance at her. Beneath the shadow of the terrifying mask she could just make out his familiar features. But his expression was one she’d never seen before. It was fierce and menacing, without a hint of mercy. It was the face of a warrior in the heat of battle, the face of one of the most feared men in Scotland.
He turned back to finish what he’d started. He’s going to kill him! Despite what the man had been about to do, Rosalin didn’t want the brute’s death on her soul—or on Robbie’s.
She knew she should try to stop him, but someone else did it for her. Another cloaked figure emerged from the darkness on horseback. As he wasn’t wearing a helm, however, the blond hair identified him.
Sir Alex jumped down and swore. Crossing the distance toward the men, he pulled Robbie off. “Christ, Raider, you’ll kill him. He’s one of ours.”
Sir Alex had Robbie’s arms pinned back. Robbie twisted, attempting to break free with a quick movement of his arm that might have had Sir Alex on his back, too, if he hadn’t managed to block it.
Robbie said something to Sir Alex in Gaelic, but Rosalin didn’t need to translate that particular curse. “He deserves it,” he said, breathing hard. “He was going to hurt her.”
Sir Alex looked at her and when their eyes met, she knew he didn’t need to ask how the man was going to hurt her. The graveness of Sir Alex’s expression made her think he also knew about Robbie’s sister.
The commotion had alerted the occupants of the next tent, and Rosalin didn’t need to see his face to know that the Black Douglas was one of them.
“What is going on out here?” Douglas said, two of his men coming up behind him with a torch.
If Sir Alex hadn’t still been holding him back, Rosalin knew that Robbie would have launched himself at his friend. “This is how you watch over her? You fucking bastard, I should kill you for letting this happen.”
The man with the blackest heart in Scotland seemed taken aback by the vehemence of Robbie’s anger. His gaze shifted to her—still crouched up against the tree and undoubtedly pale and terror-struck—and then to the man lying still on the ground behind Robbie. His expression changed to one of grim understanding.
The Black Douglas swore, repeating one of the words Robbie had just used, and dragged his hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “Uilleam just arrived with a missive from my wife. I didn’t think to tell him about the lass. He didn’t know who she was.” He turned to address her. “I’m sorry, my lady. That should never have happened. If you were hurt it’s my fault, and I shall take full responsibility for the mistake.”
She was so stunned that the Black Douglas was apologizing to her that it took her a moment to respond. She shook her head. “He didn’t hurt me.” Her voice came out scratchy, and she rubbed her bruised throat unconsciously.
Robbie growled like a ferocious wolf and surged forward with such power and force that Sir Alex couldn’t hope to hold him back.
Instinctively the Black Douglas squared to meet the attack, but by this time Rosalin had collected herself enough to intervene. She rushed forward to intercept Robbie, putting a gentling hand on his arm.
She swallowed hard through the pain to clear her throat. “Really, I’m fine.” He looked down at her, and the deep emotion burning in his gaze made her heart flip high in her chest. “Please,” she whispered. “It was a mistake.”
Though her brother would undoubtedly like nothing more than for these two men to beat each other to a pulp, Rosalin just wanted it over. She wanted to curl up against the black leather-clad chest, bury her head against his shoulder, and feel safe again.
She didn’t know who moved first, but one minute she was leaning against him and the next, he’d swooped her up into his arms and started to carry her back to the tent.
“You and I are going to talk tomorrow,” he said to Douglas as they passed.
The big man nodded grimly. “I’ll see to Uilleam—and your horse.”
The conversation sounded far away. Rosalin had already burrowed her head against him, closed her eyes, and let the relief of being safe in his arms overtake her.
Robbie didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Cradling her in his arms, her soft body warm against his chest, was unlike anything he’d ever imagined. The wave of emotion that rose inside him, crashed over him, and threatened to drag him under resembled tenderness, but it was bigger and far more powerful.
This was his fault. He never should have brought her here. It was his job to protect her, and if she’d been hurt, he never would have forgiven himself.
God, when he thought of what could have happened, it made his stomach turn. Bile climbed up the back of his throat. His sister’s face passed before his eyes.
He squeezed Rosalin closer, the pain of his broken ribs nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest. God, she smelled good. He pressed his mouth against the silky softness of her hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender.
Not ready to relinquish her yet, he entered the tent and carried her toward his bed. Sitting with his back against the wall, he held her so that her head was resting against his chest like a pillow. He pulled off his helm and tossed it at the foot of the bed.
The movement caused her eyes to open. He watched her brow furrow as she took in his face. “You’ve been fighting,” she said, reaching out to brush a cut on his cheek. His body reacted to the soft touch, tensing. She tried to wipe the smudges from his face. “How did you get all this soot on your face? When I first saw you, I thought you were a ghost.” She glanced at the helm and shuddered. “Or a demon.”
Knowing she was treading close to dangerous waters, he took her icy fingers in his hand and brought them to his mouth. “Go to sleep, Rosalin. It’s been a long day. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Her eyes met his with a look that cut right through his chest. “You won’t leave me?”
He shook his head. The word “never” rose to his lips, but he pushed it back. That was a promise he could not make. “Not tonight. Now sleep, sweetheart.”
She did as he bade, falling asleep with a contented smile on her face that made him feel like not the strongest but the luckiest man in Scotland. Slowly, it warmed the coldness that had been burning inside him since the moment he’d seen her pressed up against that tree, until he, too, slept.