Nineteen
Rosalin barely stifled the scream that rose to her throat when the armed knight appeared in front of her.
Not long after Robbie left, she’d gone to the garden to think. There had to be some way to make this work, assuming that she could get Robbie to admit there was a “this.” Also assuming that he could accept her being English. And being the sister of his greatest enemy. And her being English. She knew she’d already said that, but it probably bore mentioning twice.
And then there was her brother and the king. Edward was fond of her, but he wouldn’t sanction a match between the butter girl and Robbie Boyd, let alone the sister of one of his leading barons. There was no hope for it. Robbie would just have to forcibly marry her. That would be the story at least.
But could she convince Cliff? Aye, it wouldn’t be easy, but she knew he loved her more than he hated Boyd.
She would just have to make sure Robbie didn’t give him cause otherwise. The raiding and personal war between them would have to stop. She would not make friends of enemies, but surely they could come to some sort of agreement with her serving as surety?
When the war ended something more might be possible, but right now a fragile peace was all she could hope for. Perhaps more than she could hope for.
It was in the midst of this planning—or probably more accurately, fantasizing—that the soldier appeared. He slipped silently from behind the foliage to stand before her, his mail glimmering in the fading sunlight behind him. Fortunately, he’d raised his helm, and his face (and a moment later the red-and-white check arms he bore on his tabard) identified him, preventing her from alerting the rest of the camp to the presence of Sir Henry de Spenser’s top household knight.
“Sir Stephen!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
It was a silly question. She could guess exactly what he was doing here, but the shock had not yet left her, and it was all she could manage under the circumstances.
“We’ve come to rescue you, my lady.”
“We?” She looked around.
“Sir Henry and the rest of the army are not far behind. I was sent ahead to scout, but when I saw you…” His voice dropped off as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I can’t believe the rebels left you alone like this!”
Her mouth went dry. Dear God, she couldn’t let this happen! Men would die. Men like Sir Stephen.
Sir Stephen de Vrain was one of Sir Henry’s closest friends, and her favorite among his men. He was a handful of years older than she—closer to Sir Henry’s age of six and twenty—and though not classically handsome, he had a pleasing countenance with sandy-brown hair, rich hazel eyes, and an easy smile. It was the smile that had charmed her.
Robbie would kill him if he found him here. She could not let that happen. “You must leave. If they find you here, they will kill you.”
He glanced around uncomfortably. “Aye, you are right. Let’s go.”
“But I…” Her voice fell off. She didn’t want to go. “I cannot leave yet.” He looked at her as if she were half as crazed as she felt. “I gave my word not to escape when they permitted me free roaming of the camp.”
He smiled then. “’Tis admirable of you, my lady. But there is no dishonor in breaking a promise to a rebel.”
Rosalin cringed. The statement was so in keeping with what Robbie had told her, she was ashamed for her countrymen.
The sound of raised voices put a swift end to their conversation. “Come, my lady,” he said, taking her by the arm. “We must away.”
She tried to pull her arm back. “Wait! I don’t want to go.”
But Sir Stephen wasn’t listening to her protests. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred him to action. He hauled her against him and started to drag her off through the trees.
Rosalin tried to dig in her heels and push away, but it was no use. He wasn’t as tall and muscular as Robbie—few men were—but he was strong. She put up as much of a struggle as she could without screaming, knowing that to do so would be a death knell for the knight. As soon as they were out of immediate danger, she was certain she could convince him to let her go.
She hadn’t counted on the horse waiting a few yards away.
She was leaving him.
Robbie wasn’t thinking about losing his hostage—and the means to bring Clifford to heel—or the fact that the English had managed to outwit him and discover their camp, or that God-knew-how-many men were probably trying to surround them right now. All he could think about was that the woman who told him she loved him not two hours ago was leaving him. Walking away—just as she’d taunted him—as if what had happened between them meant nothing.
It was what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected it to feel as if an iron claw were ripping a gaping hole across his chest. As if his insides were being torn out and twisted on a rack. As if the last flicker of light had just gone out inside him.
His jaw hardened with the sharp edge of bitterness. Of the betrayal that he had no right to feel.
But God’s blood, if she thought to escape him so easily, she would learn differently.
His men had already been alerted and were readying for battle. He called for a horse, and a minute later he plunged through the trees and shrubs after them.
The knight had a head start, but Robbie held the far greater advantage: he knew the terrain.
In his haste to get away, the Englishman had made a wrong turn that ended in a ravine and had to backtrack, enabling Robbie to catch up with him. He pulled up alongside them at a full gallop.
Fresh rage surged through him when he saw how hard Rosalin was fighting to hold on to her seat behind the knight. If she fell off at that speed…
Damn it.
The gaze that met his was full of terror, but also something else. A desperate plea that echoed the words she shouted to him above the din of thundering hooves. “Don’t…h-hurt…please!”
It was far too late for mercy, if he’d ever had any. He lifted his sword.
The knight was concentrating on trying to get away but must have caught the glint of the blade out of the corner of his eye. He turned. Beneath the helm, his eyes widened with fear. The knight reached for his own sword—almost knocking Rosalin off—but it was too late.
Robbie started to bring his hand down, and would have cleaved the bastard in two if Rosalin hadn’t done something that took ten years off his life. Minimum.
His blade had barely begun its descent when she screamed, “No!” and launched herself toward him.
He had to make a split-second decision: kill the knight or let her fall and be trampled underneath the pounding hooves.
He didn’t hesitate. His sword clattered to the ground as he caught her around the waist and pulled her to safety in front of him.
She sagged against him, looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his leather-clad chest. From the way her back was shaking, he knew she was crying. From terror or relief, he didn’t know. Probably both. Hell, he didn’t blame her.
His hand went to her back. He rubbed and muttered soothing words as he drew his horse to a stop, while the soldier galloped away. He was forced to let him go. For now. Crushing her to him, he inhaled her, taking her in and trying to assure his still-thundering heart that she was all right.
It wasn’t long, however, before the memory of her walking away intruded.
The hammering in his chest came to an abrupt stop. He unlatched her from his chest and pulled her back to look at her. Swollen, tear-stained eyes stared up at him, and he felt his lungs clench. Aye, his lungs, damn it. But he forced the sensation away, hardening his expression as well as whatever the hell else he’d been clenching.
“Were you so anxious to get away that you would kill yourself to do so?”
Her eyes widened a little at his tone. “I wasn’t trying to get away. I just didn’t want you to hurt him.”
His hold tightened on her, his anger going black. Who was she protecting? “God’s blood, was that de Spenser?”
She shook her head. “Nay, one of his household knights. Sir Stephen has always been kind to me—”
“Enough.” He cut her off, swinging the horse around to retrieve his sword. “You gave me your word, though why I should be surprised a Clifford did not keep it, I don’t know. I don’t have time for this. I’m sure Sir Stephen did not come alone.”
She bit her lip and nodded. “He said the others were not far behind.”
That put a swift end to the conversation. He raced back to camp at an only slightly slower speed than upon which he’d left.
The camp was in a state of organized upheaval. Douglas, Seton, and Fraser had already taken charge, gathering what supplies and belongings they could and seeing to the men and the handful of women.
Robbie immediately went to work alongside them, duty and experience temporarily quieting the tempest of divergent emotions storming inside him. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. He focused on the anger. It was easiest to understand.
Fraser would see to the women’s safety, while Douglas and Robbie led the attack against the Englishmen. Seton would have charge of Rosalin. Robbie gave his instructions in Gaelic to forestall any protests from Rosalin, who watched him anxiously with big, accusing eyes that made him feel as if he were the one to blame. Surprisingly his partner didn’t argue, but just gave a grim nod in response.
He left Rosalin under Seton’s watch, while he returned to his tent to retrieve what he could. The tents could not be saved—there wasn’t time enough—but he packed his books and as many garments as he could from his trunk in leather bags. They would be hidden nearby and retrieved later. Seton had already gathered anything that could connect him to the Highland Guard, including his armor.
No more than five minutes after they’d arrived, Robbie was ready to leave.
He could no longer avoid those hurt eyes. “Seton will see you safely away.”
The color faded from Rosalin’s face. “You are leaving me?”
“Ironic, isn’t it.”
She frowned. It took her a moment to understand. “I told you I wasn’t trying to leave—”
“Do not worry.” His mouth curved in a semblance of a smile. “I don’t imagine this will take long.”
She gazed up at him, apprehension making her face look pale and frightened. He forced himself to be immune. She’d made a fool of him enough already.
“What are you going to do?”
“Give them the battle they came for.”
Fear leapt to her eyes. “No! You mustn’t—”
“Take her,” he said to Seton, her pleas for her countrymen falling on deaf ears. Or maybe not so deaf. They had drawn the battle between them again. How could he have forgotten which side she stood on?
He didn’t look back as they rode off. All of his attention was once again focused where it should be: on the war and killing any Englishman who got in his way.
Rosalin was silent for most of the journey. The speed at which they were traveling didn’t leave much opportunity for questions. In addition to Sir Alex, Callum, Malcolm, and one of her former jailors, Archie (dour Douglas brother number two), made up the party of men who had been charged with the task of seeing their hostage to safety.
As best she could tell from the position of the setting sun, they rode east for the first few miles—crossing a deep corrie thick with trees and brush that looked impassable until a narrow path was revealed—and then headed north for hours in the darkness.
For once she welcomed the hair-raising speed, stomach-knotting terrain, and bone-deep exhaustion of the journey, as they kept her mind from dwelling all night on the grim countenance she’d left behind.
The way he’d looked at her, the change in his expression, the change in him had been dramatic. Cold, merciless, impenetrable. It was a glimpse of the ruthless enforcer, the heartless raider, the man who’d laid scourge across the Borders. The man she’d convinced herself no longer existed.
Her pleas, her attempts to reach him, had slid off him like water on steel. The connection and deepening emotions she’d put so much store in had been unable to penetrate the shield that had gone up around him.
He’d been furious. He’d refused to believe that she hadn’t left voluntarily. Given how it had looked, perhaps she could understand. She’d tried to explain, but clearly he wasn’t in any mood to listen to her.
What bothered her was how quickly he’d assumed her guilt and how incapable he thought her of honor. Shouldn’t he have trusted her a little? At least enough not to immediately discount her explanation?
Sir Alex’s warning that he would never trust an Englishman—or woman—came back to her. She’d hoped Robbie thought her different. She’d just told him she loved him—how could he think she would leave him so easily? Obviously he hadn’t believed that either. What more proof could she give him?
The tangle of hurt and disappointment was exacerbated by fear. She was terrified of what was happening, of the battle being waged by the men they’d left behind in Ettrick Forest.
No matter how he appeared, Robbie was not invincible. As hurt as she was by his coldness before she left, the thought of him being hurt or—God forbid—killed made it feel as if she were riding with an icy claw wrapped around her chest that every once in a while squeezed.
But as much as she feared for him, most of her fear was for the men who must fight against him. Though she intended to break the betrothal with Sir Henry when she returned, she did not want to see him or any of his men killed. And Robbie’s face as she’d ridden off had left no doubt of his intentions.
Her stomach twisted with fear and anxiety through the long night. It must have revealed itself on her face, for not long after dawn broke Sir Alex rode up next to her. “Try not to think about it, my lady. We will find out what happened soon enough.”
She nodded, a lump growing in her throat as the emotions she’d kept bottled inside all night threatened to erupt at his show of compassion. “I’m not sure I want to know. Whatever happens, I fear the result.”
His gaze held hers with understanding. “’Tis often how I feel. It is not easy having friends on both sides and constantly being caught between the two. With my lands so close to the border, it’s a position I’ve faced many times myself.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“I don’t. Not very well at least.”
“I can’t bear the thought of anyone being hurt. What do you think has happened?”
He gave her a sad look, as if he knew what she wanted to hear but wouldn’t lie to her. “If Boyd catches up to them, your brother’s men are dead.”
She paled, feeling ill, knowing he was right. And if Robbie did kill them, it would make it that much harder for her to convince Cliff to agree to a match between them.
But Sir Alex was wrong about one thing. “Those were not my brother’s men—they were Sir Henry’s.”
“I thought you only saw one. How can you be so sure Clifford did not have a part in it?”
She didn’t know, but she was. “Cliff wouldn’t do something so risky.” So rash. “Something that would put me in danger like that.”
Sir Alex studied her for a long pause. “I hope you are right, my lady. If Boyd believes your brother has broken the truce…” He let his voice fall off.
An ominous chill swept over her, making her skin prickle. She didn’t want to ask. “What?”
Sir Alex’s mouth fell in a hard line. For a moment, he looked just as grim and forbidding as Robbie had before she left. In that instant she saw not the Golden Knight, but the hard edge that had made Sir Alex part of the band of rebels.
“I don’t know. But he will use whatever weapon he has at his disposal to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”
Me. He means me.
Rosalin shook her head. “He won’t hurt me.”
“Nay, not physically, but I fear—” He stopped. “Have care, my lady. That is all I’m saying. If you put yourself in the middle of this battle, you cannot win.”
He spoke like a man who knew what he was talking about.
Rosalin was surprised that he’d guessed the direction of her thoughts so easily—were her hopes for the future so transparent? If the sympathetic look Sir Alex was giving her was any indication, they must be.
Embarrassed, and not a little discouraged, she was glad when one of the men riding ahead turned and said something to Sir Alex in Gaelic, pointing in the direction of a small village that had just appeared in the distance.
In the soft light of early morning, with the swirls of mist gently dissipating like smoke from a pipe, the village on the grassy strath below them looked almost enchanted—like something from a mystical bard’s tale.
Straddling both sides of a wide, winding river, the stone and thatched cottages appeared so quiet and peaceful. The slate roof of a sizable church with a turreted tower in the center of town rose high above everything else. She scanned the buildings again. For a village of this size, there should be a castle. She felt her first whisper of premonition when her gaze snagged on a large empty area not far from the church on the banks of the river. Except it wasn’t empty, she realized. From the distance, she could just make out large piles of stone scattered haphazardly about.
“What is it?” she asked.
Sir Alex turned to her, his expression strangely blank. “We’re almost there.”
“Where?”
He paused. “Douglas.”
Her eyes widened in horror, as her stomach took a sharp dive. He might as well have said hell. For a Clifford, the village of Douglas was tantamount to the same thing. Her brother had tried for years to hold this land—and its castle—making plenty of enemies along the way.
“Castle Dangerous” it had been called by the garrisons sent by Cliff to hold the Douglas stronghold, and for good reason. Three times the Black Douglas had attacked and burned his own castle, including the infamous episode of the “Douglas Larder” that she knew Robbie had been involved in. The last had occurred about a year ago, and the castle had been destroyed—by Douglas himself. How could Robbie send her here, into the very heart and dominion of her family’s greatest enemy?
“You have nothing to fear, my lady,” Sir Alex said, trying to ease her rising panic. “You will be safe here.”
“Safe? Surrounded by people who would probably like nothing more than to sink a dagger into my back?” She gave a harsh, bordering on hysterical, laugh. “I did not try to escape, but it seems Robbie is making sure of it. Am I to be thrown into a pit prison after all?”
“You will be treated with every consideration. I know it seems hard to believe, but trust me, you have nothing to fear. Joanna Douglas is not like her husband.”
A short while later, when Rosalin was welcomed to Park Castle like a long-lost relative (replete with gasps of horror at what she’d been through and concerned pats of her hands) by a woman who was as beautiful and sweet-looking as her husband was dark and frightening, Rosalin was forced to concede Sir Alex was right: Joanna Douglas was nothing like her husband. In truth, she seemed more like the cherub she resembled than the devil’s consort. Perhaps he’d abducted her?
When she accidentally blurted out her suspicions, however, Joanna had laughed and patted the round swell of her pregnant stomach, assuring her that although their courtship had been a difficult one, it hadn’t come to that. James wasn’t really so terrifying, she’d insisted. When Rosalin grew to know him better, she’d see that.
Rosalin couldn’t think of what to say that wasn’t rude, so she did not respond.
Like a baby chick, Rosalin was scooted under the caring wing of her hostess, given a bath, fresh clothes, a hot meal, and a warm bedchamber in which to rest. Indeed, were it not for the placement of that room in the highest part of the tower and the guard stationed at the bottom of the stairwell, Rosalin might have been a treasured guest.
Despite her exhaustion, however, she found she could not rest. She had to see Robbie. Leaving a message with Lady Joanna that it was important that she see him as soon as possible, Rosalin watched for his arrival from the window of her tower chamber.