Seventeen
Robbie had been waiting for this moment for six years. But the long aisle of Melrose Abbey was not the battlefield he’d had in mind in which to face his enemy.
Clifford was waiting with three of his men near the carved wooden screen and altar, beyond which only monks were permitted. Robbie started down the south aisle with three of his own men flanking him. He’d brought a dozen men, but only Fraser, Barclay, and Keith had accompanied him inside the abbey. A few more waited outside, while the rest were spread out around the village keeping an eye out for any sign of a trap, and readying for their escape should it be necessary.
Robbie didn’t expect anything, but with the English he’d learned to be cautious.
By agreement, both parties had left their weapons at the door. Though drawing swords in the holy place would be sacrilege, Clifford had insisted, with a not-so-subtle reference to Bruce’s killing of the Red Comyn six years before in a church. The “barbarous” act had begun Bruce’s bid for the throne and had also served to get him excommunicated.
Robbie didn’t object. He wasn’t the one who would need a weapon if their parley took a bad turn.
Besides, as long as Robbie held Rosalin, he had everything he needed to win this particular battle.
The tables had been turned. Robbie was no longer a prisoner under the yoke of his jailor’s bidding or a rebel supporting a king on the run. This time Robbie held all the power, and they both knew it.
He had dreamed of the day he would have the pompous bastard under his heel. The English and their bloody superiority! For too many years they’d treated the Scots like serfs in their own kingdom, like recalcitrant subjects and scurrilous rebels. Seeing a little humility on any English lord’s face—especially Clifford’s—was something Robbie had been looking forward to for a long time.
One day soon the English king would be forced to recognize Scotland as an independent nation, but for now Clifford’s acquiescence would satisfy.
The fall of their footsteps on the tile floor echoed in the cavernous nave of one of Scotland’s greatest abbeys. Built in the shape of St. John’s cross, the abbey’s thick stone pillars and walls rose more than forty feet above him, limned and decorated with brightly colored paintings they complemented the thousands of small pieces of glass stained and meticulously cut and fitted into lead to fill the enormous arched windows, of which there must be fifty.
It was impressive. Awe-inspiring. A modern marvel of architecture. The kind of place you wanted to crank your neck back and look around, picking out the different saints and scenes from the Bible.
But Robbie’s gaze was fixed right in front of him. On one man.
Lord Robert Clifford looked much the same as the last time they’d met face-to-face. His blond hair had darkened, there were a few more scars on his face, and he was a few pounds heavier with muscle, but the patrician features, cold eyes, and shimmering chain mail and spotless tabard with the red stripe and blue-and-yellow checks of the Clifford arms were all the same.
One thing was different. This time Robbie noticed the resemblance to his sister.
When their eyes met, Robbie felt as if someone had landed a fist in his gut. Christ, they were the same color. He might have been looking into Rosalin’s eyes.
Shite. He had to look away. Mouth clenched tight, he came to a stop a few feet away.
The two men faced off in silence. This moment had been a long time in coming. Much had changed, and they had six years of fighting between them, but they were both keenly aware of what had happened the last time they’d met. Robbie could still hear the condemning words. “Take him to the pit.”
He’d been so damned surprised. Maybe that was what had angered him the most. He’d actually let himself believe Clifford. He could have killed Clifford’s men while defending his friend, but he hadn’t. He’d expected justice—or at least the pretense of it.
Blood rushed through him at the memories, and the heat of anger flared through his veins. Anger, but not the hatred that usually roared through him at the mention of Clifford. Hatred that had become as much a companion to Robbie as the armor he wore.
By all that was holy, he should want to smash his fist through that perfectly straight set of teeth and wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat until the breath strangled from his lungs. Clifford’s treachery had led to the death of many of Robbie’s comrades, including Thomas, and he’d been only hours away from taking the rest of them. Clifford had been a thorn in Robbie’s side, a symbol of his hatred of the English, for a long time.
But he felt no such urge. What the hell was wrong with him?
Still, they did not shake hands, and the tension in the air was palpable.
Boyd realized he was being subject to just as much scrutiny, but the cold eyes—the cold green eyes, damn it—gave no hint to Clifford’s thoughts. It was one thing he didn’t share with his sister, although in this case, Robbie wished he did. Rosalin’s expressive eyes gave her thoughts away—
Damn it, he had to stop thinking about her. But it seemed all he could do. “…care about you.” Christ, why the hell had she said that? He didn’t want her to care about him, and hearing the words had forced him to acknowledge something he wanted to ignore.
He’d reacted badly and regretted his harsh words. But she’d caught him off guard. What the hell was he supposed to do? She knew the circumstances as well as he did. There were few things less insurmountable than the sister of an English baron—an English overlord, no less—and a Scot “rebel,” fighting for Bruce. Hell, climbing the highest peak of the mighty Cuillins in the winter with his hands tied behind his back might be easier.
The best thing for them both would be getting this over as quickly as possible.
To that end, he broke the standoff. “Clifford,” he said with a sharp nod. “As you insisted on this meeting, I assume you have something to say.”
Clifford’s icy demeanor cracked. “Damn right I have something to say. As if burning people out of their homes and stealing their goods aren’t enough, you abduct my son and my sister? What the hell kind of barbarian are you?”
Robbie felt a flicker of the familiar rage. “The kind that holds your sister, so if I were you I’d give caution to my words. Need I remind you of the cages where the Countess of Buchan and a fourteen-year-old girl spent a couple of years of their lives thanks to your king? If you want to talk barbarians, perhaps you should look closer to home.” The knight’s flush told him his barb had been well aimed. “Your sister and son were my hostages—and have been treated with every consideration. Too much consideration, it seems, as it enabled your son to escape. As for the raids, you have only yourself to blame. My envoy came to you with terms, which you refused.”
“I hardly call two thousand pounds terms. I call it bloody robbery.”
“Call it whatever the hell you want, but it’s the cost of peace—and of getting your sister back. Two thousand pounds is a pittance compared to the wealth the English have plundered, looted, and pillaged from my country.”
Clifford’s mouth fell in a hard line. Robbie could see the anger he was forcing himself to contain, see the frustration, and finally see the acknowledgment that Robbie had been waiting to see for a long time. He had no choice but to submit.
“You will have your truce,” Clifford said, every word pulled through clenched teeth.
Although the result had been a foregone conclusion, hearing the words felt good. At least it should, but for some reason Robbie didn’t feel the satisfaction or the sense of victory he wanted. Because beneath Clifford’s anger, beneath his frustration, beneath his acknowledgment, Robbie also saw something else: his helplessness. Helplessness born of the love he had for his sister and the fear he couldn’t quite hide. It made Robbie uncomfortable. Uneasy. Unsatisfied.
He also knew what it meant, and that thought—the knowledge that he had to give her back—made him feel something that he feared was dangerously close to what Clifford was feeling.
The gaze that met his wasn’t cool at all, but pained. “Rosalin is safe? She has not been harmed?”
Robbie should torture the bastard and let him think the worst. God knew, he deserved it. But he found himself telling him the truth. “She will be returned to you exactly as I found her—without even a bruise. I give you my word.”
“Roger said as much, but damn it, she’s a gently reared lady, unused to such harsh conditions.” Robbie didn’t like thinking about it any more than Clifford did. “When?”
“As soon as—”
But Robbie’s words were cut off when another man—a knight, by the look of him—pushed his way forward. “Your word? What kind of assurance is that?” He looked down his nose at Robbie with an expression so dripping with condescension and disdain, it could have filled a slop bucket. “Why should we believe the word of a man who is no better than a brigand? How do we know he hasn’t had his vile hands all over her?”
Clifford looked more annoyed by the man’s interruption than Robbie. “I told you I will handle this.”
The knight persisted. “I must have assurances—”
“Sir Henry,” Clifford said. “Shut up.”
Robbie stared at the man Clifford had identified as Sir Henry with cold calculation. Though the knight’s words and attitude had angered him, Robbie had heard them too many times before to let it show. But there was something about this man that set his teeth on edge. He was nearly Robbie’s height and only slightly slimmer in build, though he was at least a handful of years younger. He reminded him of someone. But with his dark hair and light eyes, it could be half the members of the Highland Guard—including himself. The thought should have amused him, but for some reason it only made him frown.
“Have we met?” Robbie drawled with an indifference that he knew would grate.
It did. The knight flushed angrily. “If we had, you would not be standing here, but rotting in a grave somewhere.”
Robbie quirked a brow. “Bold words. Care to prove them?”
Sir Henry stepped toward him. “Aye, any time. Just as soon as you return my betrothed.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, no amount of training could have hid Robbie’s shock. He probably wore the look of a man who’d been shot in the back with an arrow. He might as well have been.
It gave the other man the advantage—the momentary advantage. He sneered knowingly. “I’m not surprised she did not tell you. Probably thought you’d try to exact your payments from me as well. We are to be married at the end of the month, and I will have assurances that you have not touched her.”
Robbie wasn’t containing his anger any longer. It was snapping through him dangerously, ready to explode. She’d lied to him—or as good as lied to him. Betrothed, damn it? While she’d been lying in his arms, letting him put his hands on her—putting her hands on him—she was going to marry another man. Care about you. God, he felt like a fool.
He was tempted to tell Sir Henry exactly what they’d done—and exactly where his hands had been.
“What if I’ve had my hands all over her?” Robbie couldn’t resist taunting. “What will you do then?”
The other man’s eyes flared with rage. “You bastard, I’ll kill you.”
He would have launched himself at Robbie, but Clifford wisely held him back. “These men are here under truce, de Spenser. You will not break it.”
“What’s the difference this time, Clifford?” Robbie said. “Age give you a sense of honor?”
The slight flush on the other man’s face was the only sign that the barb about what had happened at Kildrummy had found its mark. “I have agreed to your terms. Your word that Rosalin is unharmed will satisfy. Robert Bruce will have his truce and his two thousand pounds.”
“And as soon as he gets it, you will have your sister.”
Clifford’s face went white. “But that could take weeks. I will need time to get that coin together. You said as soon as I agreed—”
“That was before you insisted on this little meeting,” Robbie said. “Now I think I will need more surety to ensure that you keep the terms of our bargain.”
Clifford surged toward him, but held himself back by the thinnest of restraints. “I know why you are doing this, and if you hurt her, by God I’ll kill you!”
“You tried to do that once before. What makes you think you will be any more successful this time?”
Clifford’s face turned so red, Robbie thought he was going to explode. But the knight had more control than Robbie probably would have had under the circumstances and bit back whatever it was he wanted to say. “Go. You will have your truce and your money as soon as they can be arranged. You have given me your word my sister will not be harmed. I will hold you to it.”
“That isn’t good enough,” Sir Henry de Spenser sputtered. “I demand assurances that he has not forced himself on her.”
Clifford turned to the younger knight. “One more word and you won’t need assurances for anything.”
Whatever de Spenser saw in Clifford’s eyes caused him to sober—and curb his tongue.
Clifford turned to Robbie. “You will give your word?”
“I will.”
He would not force himself on Rosalin. That he could promise. But with the tumult of emotions raging inside him right now, that was about all he could.
Rosalin sat on a rock, savoring the simple pleasure of the warm sunshine on her hair and face. Birds chirped in the distances and the fresh scents of the garden floated past her nose with the gentle breeze. A faint—a very faint—hint of spring was in the air. For the first time since she’d come north, it was warm enough to be outside without two layers of wool, and she wore only her slightly less stained light-blue under-gown over her chemise.
She bent over to one of the plants at her feet—a hearty-looking kale—and cleared a few leaves from the meticulously tilled earth around it. In addition to coleworts, there were onions, parsnips, turnips, carrots, and a smattering of hearty herbs that had managed to withstand the cold winter.
The vegetable garden had been a surprise. She’d stumbled across it the day after Robbie left on her way to return the pile of clothing to Deirdre. It was a small patch of ground, no more than fifteen feet by ten, tucked away behind the last tent on the outskirts of camp. A surprisingly sophisticated wattle fence had been erected to prevent the hares, wild cats, boars, wolves, and other animals who inhabited the forest from disturbing it. Well tended, ordered, and peaceful, this place seemed a small oasis in the wild, unfriendly countryside around her. She loved just sitting here, surrounding herself with…him.
She knew right away to whom the place belonged. Robbie Boyd hadn’t forgotten as much of his past as he wanted to believe, and to Rosalin, this small garden carved out in the trenches seemed proof that there was still a battle to be won inside him.
A farmer? Who would have thought that the strongest man in Scotland and one of the most feared and violent warriors in Christendom was not only a scholar but also a would-be farmer. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. The physical, outdoor, get-your-hands-dirty work fit him.
Though he was a laird with a barony in Noddsdale and other lands in Renfrew and Ayr, managing lands and tenants wasn’t how she saw him. If the war hadn’t come, he would have done his duty as laird, of course, but she pictured him in less lordly pursuits, roaming the countryside on foot, shirtsleeves rolled up around those tanned, muscular forearms, lending a hand to his tenants, whether it be with a plow or a hammer. Perhaps with a son or two alongside him, he would bound up the hill to the fortified farmhouse after a long day’s work to greet his wife and the rest of his children with a smile and a hard kiss.
What if she were that wife?
The image caught her with a hard pang of longing. To someone who’d never had a home of her own and who’d marked the passage of time by the few opportunities she’d had to see her brother, the simple pleasure of such a life seemed a faerie tale.
It was a faerie tale. The war had come, and there was no going back. There were no “what ifs.” There was only the future. Yet this garden—like his kindness to Mary that day in the Hall—gave hope that some of it might come true.
She wanted to love him. She feared she already did. The question was whether he could ever love her back.
“I thought I might find you here.”
The voice caught her unaware, and she jumped. Recognition followed, and she turned with a laugh to see Sir Alex standing at the gate. “I’m afraid you caught me dreaming.”
He smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the midday meal by falling asleep out here again.” His smile fell, his mouth twisting slightly. “With the temper Boyd’s been in lately, I fear if you lose an ounce, he’ll probably accuse me of dereliction of duty and letting you starve.”
Rosalin rose from her rocky perch and crossed the garden to the now open gate. She wanted to make light of what he’d said, but there was a bitterness to Sir Alex’s tone that she could not ignore.
She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. He had been so kind to her, and she genuinely liked the handsome young knight turned rebel. In many ways, it would have been so much easier if he had been the one to catch her eye. They were much alike. “Is it really so bad between you?”
The question seemed to take him aback. He appeared to contemplate it for a minute, and then shrugged. “Not all the time. On a mission or in the heat of battle it doesn’t seem to matter as much. But once the battle is done our differences aren’t as easy to hide. He doesn’t respect me—as a warrior, as a compatriot, as a friend—and never will.”
He took her hand, gallantly tucking it in the bend of his elbow as if they were at court, and started to lead her back toward the Hall.
“That’s not the way I see it,” she said with a sidelong glance. “He trusts you—more than he realizes. I watched you two fight together at Kildrummy, and even then I saw it. Now it’s even more so. In truth you seem more like brothers. Is there not a way you could try to put your differences aside?”
Sir Alex appeared to give serious consideration to her words. Eventually, he shook his head. “It’s too late for that. It used to bother me, but now I realize that no matter what I do it will never change. He’s too far gone. The only thing he cares about is making the English pay for what they’ve done and to him. I’m standing in the way of that.”
“Because you were born in England?”
“It’s more than that. It’s because of what I stand for. I remind him of things he wants to forget.” A wry smile turned his mouth. “I’m a conscience at a time that it’s not convenient to have one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I won’t turn a blind eye to the raiding, the pillaging, and the war of terror being waged along the border by both sides. I guess what it comes down to is that we have a different line in the sand. He’s willing to do whatever it takes, and I’m not. Boyd will never respect someone who isn’t willing to give everything to the fight for independence. He thinks I’m naive and sees my ‘knightly’ ways as a relic of the past at best and as hypocrisy at worst. Perhaps it is to some, but it isn’t that way to me. I need to be able to look myself in the looking glass when this is all over. This used to be about what was right, but Boyd has lost sight of that. Now it’s just as much about punishing the enemy and exacting retribution for everything that they’ve taken from him.”
“I don’t believe that. I know he is driven—”
“Driven?” Sir Alex made a sharp sound of laughter. “That’s one way of putting it. It’s the only thing that matters to him. The only thing.”
If he was emphasizing it for her benefit, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it. “That’s not true. I think many things matter to him. You do, the people here, and I’d wager the other phantoms.” Me, if he would admit it to himself.
Sir Alex’s face went utterly still. He stopped and took her elbow. “What did you say?”
She bit her lip, looking up at him uncertainly. “Robbie is part of Bruce’s phantoms.”
His voice was very low and deliberate. “Did he tell you that?”
She shook her head and shrugged. It made perfect sense. If she were selecting men to form a band of extraordinary warriors, she would certainly include the man reputed to be the strongest. “It wasn’t very difficult to figure out after the night in the forest when he appeared out of the darkness with that ghastly helm and blackened face to save me from the Douglas soldier. I suspect you are one, too.” She looked at him for confirmation, but the stony countenance revealed nothing. “Is the Black Douglas as well?”
Sir Alex stared at her intently. “Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?”
“Of course not!”
“Then promise me you will not voice them again to anyone—even Boyd. Especially Boyd.”
His fingers had tightened and his face had grown so dark she almost didn’t recognize him. She nodded, a little fearfully. “Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
Rosalin’s eyes widened at that. They continued walking. She was more disturbed by Sir Alex’s comments than she wanted to let on. Not about the phantoms, but about Robbie’s determination to win at all costs. Sir Alex was right—it was hard to reconcile the Devil’s Enforcer with the noble warrior she remembered.
But maybe they weren’t so far apart after all. Though she loved her brother and understood he was doing his duty, she’d come to sympathize with Robbie’s cause—if not his methods. In the quest to win at all costs, he’d lost sight of what he was fighting for. But recently she thought she might have helped him remember.
He might not be the knight in shining armor riding in on a white steed that she’d created in her mind, but she refused to believe he was the empty black shell of vengeance that Sir Alex suggested, either.
Just as they were about to enter the Hall she turned to him. “You are wrong, Sir Alex. I think he is still greatly affected by right and wrong. I think that’s why he fights so hard. He might act ruthlessly and harshly when he has to, but he won’t do anything truly dishonorable.”
Alex held her gaze steadily. Her impassioned defense perhaps had revealed more than she wanted it to. “Don’t give yourself false hopes, my lady.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known Robbie Boyd a long time, and he will let nothing get in the way of winning this war. Nothing. When the time comes, he’ll send you back. He needs Clifford’s cooperation, and this is the only way he’ll get it. Do you think your brother would agree to a truce and to the payment of two thousand pounds if Boyd didn’t have you to hold over his head?”
He wouldn’t, although she hadn’t wanted to think about it. Her brother was just as stubborn and single-minded as Robbie. If it weren’t for her, he would never agree.
If she’d been harboring a secret hope that when the time came Robbie would not be able to send her back, that he would stop seeing her as a weapon to use against Cliff, that he’d want to hold on to her just as strongly as she wanted to hold on to him, she knew she’d been deluding herself.
He would send her back, and then what? Would he forget all about her? Fight for her? Or worse, do nothing?
Rosalin didn’t have long to ponder the question, for no sooner had they sat down to eat than the door slammed open, and Robbie and the men who’d gone to meet her brother stormed into the Hall.
She had to clutch the edge of the wooden trestle table to prevent herself from jumping up from her seat. But the moment of relief she felt upon seeing him safely returned died when their eyes met. His burned with an unholy rage that turned the blood racing in her veins to ice.
Unconsciously, she leaned toward Sir Alex, who was seated beside her. If anything, the movement only served to make Robbie’s eyes burn even darker. He crossed the distance of the room in a few strides.
“You’re back,” she said softly.
Her heart clenched as his eyes bit into hers. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “Come with me,” he demanded.
She’d never seen white lines around his mouth like that. Her pulse raced wildly. “I haven’t finished my meal.”
“What’s this about, Boyd?” Sir Alex said, getting up protectively at her side.
It was the wrong thing to do. Robbie looked like he might level his friend with his fist rather than just his gaze. Instead, he reached over the table and plucked Rosalin from her seat. She was so startled, all she could do was gape as he carried her out of the suddenly silent Hall.