Fifteen
Rosalin drew the needle through the linen for the final time, made her knot, and used the scissors she’d borrowed from Deirdre to cut the thread. Holding the tunic up to the sunlight (that she’d begun to lose hope of ever seeing again) streaming through the Hall window, she admired her handiwork. Although not quite as good as new, there was no longer a large, gaping tear across the upper sleeve. From the rust-colored staining around the tear that remained even after washing, she suspected it had come from a sword blade.
“’Tis a fine job,” the woman sitting beside her said.
Rosalin smiled, pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, Jean. The light in here is a vast improvement to the tent.”
Ironically, despite the closeness she’d shared with Robbie a few nights ago when she’d fallen asleep in his arms, she’d made greater inroads with the women of camp than she had with its leader. Robbie had already gone when she woke that next morning, and their conversations since had been brief and mostly in passing. The women, however, were slowly starting to include her in their conversations.
The mending had helped. The first bundle of clothing that had arrived from Deirdre she’d attempted to mend in the tent. But after a long day by candlelight, she’d sought out natural light the next day—and company.
Rosalin had walked into the Hall three days ago, pulled up a bench in a corner near a window, and quietly went to work on the basket of mending. The women ignored her for the first day, but by the second, curiosity got the better of a few of them. By the third day, she’d begun to learn something of them as well. Though she wouldn’t exactly call them friendly, they were for the most part polite, and one or two of them had even taken to sitting beside her while she worked—like Jean.
The girl couldn’t be much older than eight and ten, but her natural dark-blond prettiness had already begun to dull under the ravaging weight of struggle and strife. Like Rosalin, most of these women had lost their parents at a young age. Unlike her, however, they hadn’t had the fortune of a generous guardian to take care of them. With the men in their life either off to war or killed by the destruction around it, they’d been left to fend on their own.
As fallen women weren’t exactly a subject of polite conversation, Rosalin had never given much thought to how or why someone would choose a life of sin. It was deeply distressing to learn that for many of them, choice was not a part of it. When the men in your family had been killed, your village had been razed, and there was little work to be found (and even less if you were a woman), you did what you must to survive. Worse were the girls like Jean, who’d been forced into the life by rape.
In truth their stories were heartbreaking. As was the matter-of-fact way they were told, as if the unfairness wasn’t only expected, but accepted. No matter what the church might say, Rosalin couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn them. Indeed, she couldn’t help but feel grateful that fate had not forced her to have to make a similar “choice.” Birth, rank, and a caring brother had afforded her the protection these women did not have. It was humbling to think how easily their fate could have been hers.
It was a hard life. From what Rosalin could see, the women worked all day keeping the camp running smoothly and stayed up most of the night pleasing the men. Different men. A few fortunate ones like Deirdre and Mor had been “claimed” by one of the leaders, but the other women like Jean moved from bed to bed each night.
“I don’t know what we will do when you go, my lady,” Jean said with a shy smile. “You have saved us about two weeks’ worth of mending in a few days.”
Rosalin felt a strange pang in her chest at the thought of leaving, but she knew it could be any day. It had been over a week since they’d arrived in the forest, and the envoy that had been sent to her brother to negotiate for her release could return at any time. “I have been happy to do it,” Rosalin said. “It has given me a way to pass the time.”
“Aye, well I suspect when word gets out of your fine work, you will have plenty to keep you busy while you are here.”
Suddenly, the smile fell from the girl’s face and a troubled look crossed it. Rosalin turned to see what had caused the reaction and noticed that two of the other women had come into the Hall to start preparing for the midday meal.
Agnes was one of the older and more experienced of the women, and from what Rosalin could tell, closest in rank to Deirdre. The second woman, Mary, had a sad, empty-eyed look to her and drank enough ale and whisky to put a man of Robbie’s size on his back, but she never appeared drunk. Except for Agnes, the other women at camp seemed to avoid her. If there was a rank among the women, Rosalin would put Mary at the bottom of the heap.
It was only when she turned in their direction that Rosalin realized what had caused Jean’s reaction. A large, angry-looking bruise covered Mary’s right cheekbone.
Suspecting what might have been the cause of the injury, Rosalin felt outrage spark inside her. She turned to Jean. “Who did that to her? Did one of the men strike her?”
Jean shook her head and put her finger up to her mouth to quiet her. “Please, my lady, do not say anything. You will only make more trouble for her. It’s Mary’s own fault. We tried to warn her. Fergal gets a little rough when he’s drunk, but she wouldn’t listen and went with him anyway. He’s the only one who will take her now.”
“What do you mean?”
Jean’s mouth hardened with distaste. “Last time we went to the village at Corehead for supplies, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers in the nearby garrison. Fancied herself in love with the Englishman, she did. Until she got herself with child and he kicked her out of his bed.”
Rosalin gasped, her eyes widening with alarm. “She’s pregnant?”
Jean shook her head. “Nay, she lost the child not long afterward. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her now, but she used to be quite a favorite among the men.” She shrugged. “But no one wants an English whore.” She blushed. “Meaning no disrespect, m’lady.”
Rosalin didn’t care about that. “That is no excuse for someone to hit her.”
Jean looked at her as if she were either the most naive person in the world or the stupidest. “Fergal isn’t so bad, my lady. Not when he’s sober, at least. I’m sure he’ll make it up to her—which is why she’ll not thank you for interfering.”
Reluctantly, Rosalin took Jean’s advice and returned to her mending. She understood the precariousness of Mary’s position and didn’t want to do anything to make it worse for her, but the unfairness of it ate at her. The woman had lost a child. Must she now endure a beating in silence? How long must she serve penance for the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man?
If the question resonated a little too loudly, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it.
Rosalin was still fuming an hour later when she carried the stack of linens back to her tent to prepare for the midday meal. It was wrong to hit a woman—any woman—and Mary needed someone to stand up for her, even if she would not herself.
The brute should be punished, and it went against Rosalin’s nature to stand aside and do nothing—say nothing—when she saw someone treated so unfairly.
Not paying attention to her surroundings, she startled at the sound of a loud roar coming from the other side of the building where the men practiced. Curious, she backtracked a little, following the sound of the cheers and yells. Once she’d turned the corner, she saw a large gathering of men—what appeared to be nearly all the forty or so men in camp—in a small clearing. They were standing in a loose circle watching something.
She scanned the area for Robbie but didn’t see him. Suddenly second-guessing the wisdom of her current pursuit, she started to turn around when she caught a glimpse between two of the men of what had them so riveted.
She froze. Everything froze—her heart, her breath, her step. Indeed she was rooted to the ground with…shock? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the display in front of her. It wasn’t just that Robbie was naked to the waist—although that alone would probably have been enough—he was also being attacked by a half-dozen men wielding swords, coming at him from different directions. And he was winning without a weapon or even a shield to defend himself—only his hands.
She must have walked forward, because she found herself edging between two of the men to get a closer view.
Sweet heaven, she’d never seen anything like it! Highland wrestling she’d heard of, but this was different. She didn’t know how to describe it except that he was tossing grown men—seasoned warriors all of them—around as if they were pesky gnats. They couldn’t get close to him. As soon as they made their move, he’d evade them with a twist of his body, a block of his hand, a jab of his knee, even a kick of his foot. They ended up keeled over in pain or on their backs.
It wasn’t until the men chanted for “Seton” that anyone gave him a contest. Sir Alex had obviously been trained in the same fighting style, because he matched the strange moves with nearly equal precision. It was brutal, but strangely fascinating to watch—almost like a vicious, violent dance.
Rosalin felt as if her heart was in her throat, as if she were a hairsbreadth from raising her voice to tell them to stop as they exchanged blows and blocks, jabs and twists, kicks and flips. It seemed as if it could go on forever, even though both men were obviously tiring. Finally, Sir Alex made a quick move toward Robbie, trying to land a jab of his elbow in Robbie’s ribs. She gasped when she realized why: a large part of Robbie’s left side was black and mottled with bruising.
But Robbie had anticipated the move. He twisted, taking the blow with his right side, jabbed Sir Alex hard under the chin with his elbow, and cut behind his feet to land him on his back.
The crowd erupted in a roar.
Robbie grinned and reached his hand down to help his friend up.
Sir Alex stared at it for a minute, cursed prodigiously, but eventually took it.
Their interaction was so much like that of brothers that she almost laughed.
“You’re too impatient,” Robbie said in a way that made Rosalin think it hadn’t been for the first time. “And predictable. I knew the ribs would be too much for you to resist.”
“It’s your only damned weak spot,” Sir Alex muttered in frustration.
Robbie just grinned. But looking at that broad, chiseled chest, Rosalin had to disagree. Even with the bruising, there wasn’t a weak spot on him.
Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he turned and saw her standing there. It seemed that everyone else saw her standing there as well, because the raucous laughter suddenly stopped with all the sublety of a clap of thunder.
A blush rose to her cheeks. Robbie frowned but walked over to her. “Did you need something?”
Being confronted by well over six feet of half-naked man seemed to tie her tongue. After a flustered moment of staring at his chest, which seemed to cover most of her field of vision, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. But not before noticing the cut on his arm. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing.”
Suddenly aware that everyone was watching them—and listening—she said, “I need to speak with you.”
He frowned. “Did something happen?”
She looked around self-consciously, shifting the stack of linens in her arms. “Please, it’s important.”
He held her gaze for a moment before turning to his men. “We will resume after the midday meal.” He glanced at a few of the men, who wore proof of their time on the ground in the layer of mud covering their backsides. “Some of you look as if you need time to wash.”
The men laughed and started to hurl insults at one another as they dispersed.
Plucking his shirt and cotun from a nearby rock, Robbie donned the first and tossed the latter over his arm.
As much as Rosalin was reluctant to see that spectacular, gleaming chest all covered up, it did clear her head.
He offered to carry her bundle as well. She thought about it before handing it over. “You might as well. I believe the top one belongs to you anyway.”
He ignored the pointed reference to the injury he had not told her about and took a quick glance at her work. A brow lifted as he examined the stitches. “Christ, how did you do that? It looks as if the cloth was rewoven on the loom. I can barely see the stitches, they are so tiny.”
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.