Eighteen
She’d turned him into the bloody barbarian some accused him of being, but Robbie didn’t give a shite. He’d controlled his rage for the long journey back to the forest, but the moment he’d seen her there sitting with Seton—looking so damned beautiful it made his chest squeeze—the tethers had broken free.
His jaw clenched and blood roared through his veins as he stormed out of the Hall through the forest to his tent. He was careful not to look down at her. Her soft scent was torture enough. As was the way she wrapped her hands around his neck and seemed to burrow against his chest, tucking her cheek against his shoulder.
She didn’t say anything. Just went with him calmly. Bloody hell, didn’t she see how furious he was with her? Couldn’t she tell that he was at the end of his damned rope? Shouldn’t she be shaking with terror and begging to know what was wrong?
Obviously she trusted him too much. The foolish chit thought he wouldn’t hurt her.
Damn her for knowing me so well.
Cradling her against him, he ducked through the tent flaps and stood at the entry, letting his eyes adjust from the sunlight.
“Are you going to put me down and tell me what this is all about?” she asked gently.
He looked down for the first time, seeing that beautiful face staring up at him. The pang in his chest nearly cut off his breath. She looked so innocent—so guileless—but she’d been lying to him from the start.
Jaw locked, he put her down and set her firmly away from him. “What this is about? How about the fact that you lied to me?”
Her brow furrowed with confusion. “I have never lied to you. Does this have something to do with my brother? Did he refuse your truce?”
“Nay. Clifford agreed to everything.”
Her face fell. What was wrong with her? Why the hell did she look disappointed?
She turned away from him. “Then why are you angry? You have everything you wanted. You can send me back and get on with your war.”
That was exactly what he should do, damn it. But for the first time in a long while, he was thinking about something other than war. When he’d made his demand of Clifford to hold on to her until he received the money, he’d been thinking of one thing and one thing only. “Your brother agreed readily enough, but your betrothed,” he said as he took a step toward her, “your betrothed had need of some assurances.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of blood slide from her face. Guilt froze the no-longer guileless features. “S-sir Henry was th-there?”
He didn’t know whether it was wanting to make the trembling stop or anger that made him grab her elbow and bring her up hard against him. “Aye, he was,” he said in a voice not far from menacing. “And he didn’t seem all that happy to learn that his affianced might have been spending time in my bed.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. No protest. No “how could you tell him such a thing?” Nothing. “Why did you lie to me, Rosalin? Why didn’t you tell me you were to be married?”
Something cracked in his voice. Something that went beyond anger. Some kind of emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Whatever it was, she heard it. Her eyes softened, and her voice was soothing. The type of soothing voice his mother had used when he’d taken a tumble as a young boy. “I didn’t lie to you. Nor did I mean to hide it from you.” A pink blush stained her cheeks. “I simply did not think of it—or of Sir Henry.”
Robbie was no fool. He might not be an expert on such matters, but he’d wager Sir Henry would give MacGregor some competition—and not with the bow. “Sir Henry might be a hotheaded arse, but he is not the kind of man a lass is likely to forget.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “He’s quite handsome, yes, but in truth he is but a pale substitute for another.”
The spark of rage at the mention of “handsome” died as the truth hit him. Christ. No wonder the knight bothered him so much. He reminded him of someone, all right—himself. A younger, prettier version of himself, that is.
She stepped toward him. “Did you not see it?”
He didn’t say anything, but simply watched her as a deer watched the hunter’s bow. She was moving closer, wielding a weapon far more dangerous than an arrow: desire. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, and her closeness—her softness—was prodding every primitive instinct in his body.
“I’m ashamed to admit it,” she said, putting her palm flat on his chest and tipping her head back to look at him. It burned—the place under her hand, his chest, everything. “But I didn’t think of him at all.”
She was slipping in under his defenses, digging under his skin. Somehow he needed to find the strength to push her away. “Bloody hell, Rosalin, he is the man you are going to marry!”
A tiny furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows, and then shook her head. “I can no longer marry Sir Henry.”
Bitterness flooded him. “I told him nothing, Rosalin. Your knight will have no cause to break the betrothal. I made you come, but I did not take your maidenhead.”
She appeared not to notice his intentionally crude language. “It’s not because I think he will break the betrothal. I will not marry Sir Henry because I am in love with someone else.”
Robbie saw red. “Who?” he demanded, taking her by the arm to haul her up against him once more. “Damn it, who?”
But he didn’t need to ask. All he needed to do was look in her eyes and the answer stared right back at him. Me. She means me.
Longing rose inside him with a fierceness of which he wouldn’t have believed himself capable. He wanted to believe it, wanted to take what she offered, sweep her up in his arms and make love to her, whispering promises he could not keep.
But it was impossible, damn it! Why couldn’t she see that? Why did she have to make this so damned hard? She was wrong about what she felt, making a young girl’s mistake of confusing lust with emotion.
He backed her against the thick support beam with a slam that shook the tent, pinning her with his body. He wedged her legs between his, letting her feel the proof of his words. “This isn’t about love, Rosalin. It’s about lust.” He circled his hips, grinding himself against her crudely but bloody effectively. A bolt of lust surged to the heavy, throbbing tip.
She gasped, but not with shock—with something else that made every inch of his already hot and pulsing skin tighten and flame even hotter.
God, she wanted it. Wanted him.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stretched against him—into him—and lifted her mouth to his, even as he bent to take her lips in a ravenous kiss.
He groaned at the contact. Felt his body roar with pleasure as she opened her mouth to him. He sank in his tongue with no pretense, no caution, stroking her hard into his mouth, and pressing his body into hers as he let her feel the force of his desire pounding between them.
And she was kissing him back. Kissing him back in a way that made his head buzz and his blood pound. Kissing him back in a way that made him want to slow—linger—over every sweet caress. Take his time and show her…
Love, he heard her voice taunting him.
Damn it, no! He tore away with a growl. Lifting one of her legs to wrap it around his hip, he nudged himself into position. “Can you feel what I want to do to you, Rosalin?” He moved again, circling his hips hard and trying not to think about how good it felt. How the heavy tip of his erection was poised at her cleft. How the pressure was coiling at the base of his spine. How only a few layers of fabric separated him from making her his.
Not mine, damn it.
He stared into her eyes. “I want to fuck you so badly I can’t see straight, but that’s all I want. What we have is lust—do not confuse it with anything else.”
Rosalin knew what he was doing, but it didn’t lessen the sting. His crude words in the face of her declaration of love hurt—hurt a lot.
She almost believed him.
“Is that right?” She looked into his eyes and saw the heat—not just of lust but of something else. A slow-burning emotion that he would not name, but which she knew was there. She could feel it in every stroke of his body, in every sweep of his tongue, in every achingly tender touch and caress. He cared for her. “Then show me.” She tightened the leg wrapped around his waist and brought them closer, returning the intimate circling. “Show me that’s all you want. That this is only about…what did you call it, fu—?”
He cut her off with a hard squeeze, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t say it.”
She quirked a brow. “Why? Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Very slowly she enunciated the forbidden word.
His face darkened thunderously as he pressed into her harder. The fullness, the weight of him, made her stomach do a funny little flip and her pulse quicken. She remembered how he felt in her hand and wanted to feel him…inside her. Not just to prove a point. She wanted the connection. The closeness. The intimacy of joining her body with his.
“Damn you, you don’t know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. If all you want is my body, take it. I’m giving myself to you. Without conditions attached. Walk away when it’s all over.”
His eyes narrowed as if this were some kind of trick, but she could see the flames of desire snapping wildly. “You don’t know what the bloody hell you are talking about. Your brother would kill me.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. I feel this…lust, too. My brother has nothing to do with it. Besides, since when did the Devil’s Enforcer start worrying about an Englishman’s ire?”
Tension snapped between them like wildfire. She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart and the taut flex of barely restrained muscle as her hands skimmed the hard bulges of his chest and arms. She would never tire of touching him. Of feeling the hard, unyielding strength sizzling under her palms. For even beneath the leather and linen, the heat radiated.
“Show me, Robbie.” He was holding himself so still, Rosalin knew she had him at the breaking point. “Or perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy to walk away after all? You know what I think? I think you care about me. Your gentle touch doesn’t lie.”
Rosalin should have known that Robbie Boyd was not a man to back down from a challenge. He would fight to the bitter end. With his hands. And sweet heaven, what hands!
“Gentle?” he laughed mirthlessly. “What I feel for you is far from gentle. It’s rough and primitive and wicked—very, very wicked.”
Rosalin gasped as he reached for the edge of her skirt and lifted it. A moment later his hand was between her legs, cupping her possessively. Heat flooded her as one finger slipped inside. She cried out at the unexpected flood of pleasure, as warmth and dampness pooled to his touch.
Then he did something that did shock her. Something very wicked indeed. He spun her around, clasping her hands over her head to rest on the wooden pole. Flipping up her skirts, he wedged himself between her legs from behind and slid his right hand around to dip his fingers between her legs again.
A thought flashed in her head. Was it possible…
A hot blush flooded her cheeks. His hips were moving against hers in a way that left no doubt as to what was possible.
The pressure—the friction—was incredible. She strained against his hand, against the thick bulge sliding against her, and against the fierce sensation building inside her.
He leaned down, his tight, husky voice breathing close to her ear, as he continued his deft strokes. “What if I came into you like this from behind, my fair Rosalin. Would you like that?”
If the unevenness of her breathing and the frantic pulsing between her legs were any indication, she feared she would. Quite a lot.
He groaned as her pleasure communicated itself to him in a very warm and silky way.
“Is this gentle?” he said. She felt another blunt finger slip inside her, stretching her. Then another. “How about this?”
Releasing his hold on her hands pinned above her, his left hand started to explore her body. The feel of one of his big hands cupping her breast, squeezing her, pinching her nipple between his fingers, even as others plunged in and out of her body was too much.
She moaned, arching against him, pressing her hips back to meet his feigned thrusts. “Aye,” she whispered between bated breaths. Surprisingly it was. No matter how hard and rough he wanted to make it, there was an inherent tenderness to his touch that he could not hide.
He swore angrily, as if he, too, knew the truth. His movements slowed, his strokes becoming softer and more drawn out, as he, too, succumbed to the pleasure of the intimate touch. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned, rubbing some of her dampness with soft little circling motions of his thumb. “So warm and wet for me. But I’m going to make you even hotter—and wetter.”
Any embarrassment she might have felt was lost in the cacophony of other emotions swirling inside her. Her breath—her whimpering moans—quickened at a frantic pace in keeping with the plunging of his fingers. She felt her body lift in expectation as passion took hold. As her desire and love for this man entwined in the perfect whirlpool of sensation.
His hand took her higher and higher. A fever spread over her skin. “Oh God, Robbie,” she begged helplessly.
He held her there. Right at that perfect place, until she couldn’t take it anymore and broke apart. “That’s it, mo ghrá. Let me feel your pleasure.”
The spasms rocked her, pulsing through her body in sharp wave after wave. His hand was still holding her when the last ebbs had flowed from her body.
She glanced over her shoulder and lifted her hazy gaze to his. His blue eyes were hot and penetrating, his face a hard mask. “What does mo ghrá mean?”
He was holding her so closely, she swore she could feel his heart stop. For a moment she thought he actually looked ill, but then his features once more schooled into hard impassivity. “It means ‘my beautiful one.’”
To her surprise, he let her go. To her even greater surprise, she didn’t fall to the ground in a boneless pool. “What about…Are you not…?” Her cheeks flushed hot.
His face was drawn so tight, he almost looked to be in pain. “What you want is impossible, Rosalin. I’ll not take your virginity to prove it. You wanted pleasure; I gave it to you. Do not make anything more of it.”
Rosalin stared at him, stunned and more hurt than she would have thought possible. For a moment she felt a flicker of doubt. Was lust truly all this was to him? Was she imagining things that weren’t there? Or was he just being stubborn and intentionally cruel to push her away?
Perhaps she should let him. Heaven knew it would be easier. She did not delude herself. A future for them seemed unlikely, even if they both wanted it. But she wouldn’t let him go without a fight. Not this time.
“I see,” she said softly. “Thank you for clarifying it for me. Now I shall know the difference.”
His hands clenched. “What difference?”
“To compare. When I return home.”
The pulse below his cheek jumped. He was furious, but determined not to show it.
She smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed. “When am I to leave?”
“As soon as your brother delivers the silver. A week, maybe two.”
She feigned concern, a small frown gathering between her brow. “And should I feel this desire again before I go, what then?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘what then’?”
Rosalin knew she really shouldn’t take such pleasure in angering him, but then again, he’d hurt her. “Should I seek you out or someone else?”
He stiffened. His dark gaze rested on her for a long, angry pause before flickering to the bed. Rosalin suspected she was one nudge away from being tossed on that bed and very thoroughly ravished.
A proper, gently born lady really shouldn’t be feeling such a wicked thrill at the prospect.
But when his gaze landed on hers again, it was narrowed with understanding. “It won’t work, Rosalin. You will not goad me into changing my mind.”
He turned and ducked out of the tent before she could reply.
We’ll see about that, Rosalin thought smugly. She intended to goad him into quite a lot. It seemed she, too, could be quite merciless when fighting for the right cause.
Robbie walked away while he still could. Before he did something rash like toss her down on that bed and give her exactly what she’d asked for. The lass trusted in his honor more than she should. He wasn’t one of her damned knights.
Someone else. Bloody hell! The goading words still set primitive fires roaring through his blood.
He pushed a branch out of the way, snapping it, as he made his way through the forest to what was fast becoming his new favorite haunt: the ice-cold burn that ran behind the camp. He needed to cool off. One part of him in particular.
He was furious—not with her, but with himself. In his effort to prove that she meant nothing—that all he felt was lust—he’d only served to prove her point.
He couldn’t do it, damn it. He couldn’t even pretend. He’d tried to be crude and rough, but the moment he touched her something came over him. A powerful feeling that drugged his senses and dragged him into some kind of sensual haze, where all he could think about was bringing her pleasure.
Her responses hadn’t helped any. Damn it, she was an innocent, proper English lady. She was supposed to be shocked by his playacting from behind. Shocked as in horrified, not shocked as in awakened with far-from-maidenly curiosity.
She wasn’t supposed to dissolve against him, arching into his hand, pressing her sweet little bottom against his sorely abused cock and making soft, breathy whimpers of pleasure to egg him on. She wasn’t supposed to be so damned hot. He’d been one wiggle of those shapely buttocks away from unmanning himself and coming along with her.
Young, innocent, and English did not apparently mean meek and easy to maneuver. Nor did they seem to preclude enjoyment in the baser pleasures. Someone should have warned him.
The whole thing had left him in the unusual position of feeling distinctly overmatched. As if he’d shown up to battle with a pike to find out he was facing a siege engine.
He’d expected her to take his word for it—not to press. He sure as hell hadn’t expected a perfectly executed counterattack that would have made Striker proud. The lass had developed an uncanny ability to identify and take advantage of his weaknesses. All of which seemed to be related to her.
Wasn’t she supposed to be the one who was inexperienced? Yet he seemed to be the one left flailing in the dark, ill equipped to navigate the intricacies of a lady’s mind. Truth be told, he’d never gotten that far before. He’d had many relations with women, but never a relationship.
He stopped suddenly, as if he’d run into a wall. Was that what this was? How the hell had that happened?
He didn’t know, but it had. She’d insinuated herself into his tent, his thoughts, his life, and somehow along the way, she’d begun to matter.
Nay, he realized. She’d always mattered. He’d been doomed from the moment she’d opened the door to the pit prison. Not that it would change a damned thing.
As he was only a few feet away from the burn, he quickly divested himself of his armor and clothing and dove in.
He tried not to shriek like a five-year-old lass as the cold water closed in around him, driving icy needles into his skin. Robbie might be from the west coast of Scotland, but he didn’t seem to possess the inhuman ability to acclimate to the cold water that his brethren from the Isles did. MacSorley, MacRuairi, and MacLeod could swim in this shite for hours. Robbie did what was necessary and then got the hell out.
Having effectively chilled the unspent lust from his body, he washed quickly and climbed up the rocky banks.
With the roaring in his ears quieted, he could finally hear the other voice—the far quieter one—whispering in his ear. The one that told him he’d acted badly. That she hadn’t deserved to be treated like a whore. Nor had she deserved the harsh words uttered in an attempt to push her away.
She’d told him that she loved him, for Christ’s sake. He might not have wanted to hear it, but he should have shown some consideration for her feelings. Lasses were fragile, emotional creatures. Not cold, unfeeling bastards like him.
He owed her an apology.
He’d just finished strapping the baldric he wore across his shoulder for his sword when he heard a sound. He tensed, instantly primed for battle. But then, recognizing the footsteps, he moved his hand from the hilt of his sword.
“You’re supposed to whistle,” Robbie said with annoyance as his partner came into view. “I could have taken your damned head off.”
Seton shrugged. “You knew it was me. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were alone.” He gave him a pointed look. “What in the hell was that show in the Hall all about? Fraser said Clifford agreed to the truce.”
“He did.”
“Then why were you so angry with Lady Rosalin?” Robbie didn’t say anything. “Does it have to do with Sir Henry de Spenser by any chance?”
Robbie shot him a warning glare. “Leave it, Dragon.”
But the young knight had never heeded caution. That was part of the problem. “Not this time. I won’t let you hurt that poor girl. What you are doing to her isn’t right. She’s young and fancies herself in love with you, and you are confusing her with your…whatever the hell you want to call it. When you send her away you are going to break her heart. So leave her be.”
Robbie wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell Seton to bugger off, but he couldn’t. His partner wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. His chest was squeezing so tightly his lungs were burning. He could barely get the words out. “What if I care about her?”
Seton held his stare, and for once it felt like their positions were reversed. It wasn’t without sympathy that his partner gave him the cold, unflinching truth. “If you care about her, you’ll leave her be. Unless you are prepared to throw away your chance for a truce and the king’s two thousand pounds?”
Robbie’s mouth clenched in answer. Never.
“Even if you were, are you prepared for what would come after? If you think Clifford wants your head now, how do you think it will be if you try to take his beloved sister? He’ll never let you have her. Christ, Raider, you should know better than I that what you want is impossible.”
He did, which was why he’d never let himself consider it.
Even if he could put aside the fact that she was English and Clifford’s sister—which he wasn’t sure was possible—a connection with him would be too dangerous. Anyone close to him was a target. Hell, look what had happened to his sister. He wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger.
“If it means anything, I’m sorry,” Seton said.
Surprisingly, it did. Robbie nodded in acknowledgment.
“Are you sure it is wise to keep her here until Clifford arranges the payment?”
Wise? Nay, but he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “I don’t trust Clifford. What’s to prevent him from reneging on our deal as soon as we return her?” Robbie stopped his partner before he could speak. “And don’t say ‘honor’—we both know how far that goes with Clifford.”
Seton didn’t argue. He’d done all his arguing years before, and it had resulted in their being taken.
They started to walk back, and had just reached the farthest tent when they saw Malcolm running toward them. Immediately Robbie’s gaze went to his tent, but it appeared undisturbed.
“What is it, lad?” he asked.
“The Douglas said to come quickly. There’s something wrong with one of the horses.”
Not understanding the urgency, Robbie and Seton nonetheless made haste to the old bothy on the opposite side of camp that served as a barn for their few horses and livestock.
No sooner had they entered the old stone-and-turf building than Douglas turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground near Fraser’s horse, who appeared to be in distress. “Did you feed the horses oats when you were in Melrose?”
Robbie frowned. “Of course not,” he said. They barely had enough grain to feed their people, let alone the horses. Their mounts subsided on dried grasses for the most part.
“Well, someone did,” Douglas said, pointing to a pile of dung.
Robbie took a step closer and saw that he was right. Mixed into the normal manure he could see the telltale sprinkling of the light tan-colored groat about the size and shape of a maggot. There weren’t many—only a few—but enough to…
Ah hell. Enough to track.
Some horses—often older one’s like Fraser’s—had trouble digesting whole oats. In this case, they were fortunate or they might not have discovered the ruse.
He swore and met Douglas’s gaze. “Ready the men.”
“Where are you going?” Douglas yelled after him.
Robbie didn’t take the time to respond. A minute later, when he was standing in his empty tent, his heart, which had been somewhere near his throat, dropped soundly to the floor.
Rosalin was gone.