The Raider (17 page)

Still, she couldn’t stand the idea of him thinking the worst of her, and she had every intention of reiterating her innocence as soon as his anger had cooled.

But even half a day later, after hours of the most perilous riding she’d ever endured, up the steepest, narrowest mountainsides and through the densest, darkest, most impenetrable forest, his jaw was just as hard, his mouth just as tight, and his eyes just as narrowed as they had been when he’d stormed out of the room.

Not that his black visage had ever been turned in her direction. Nay, she didn’t think he’d looked at her once since they’d left.

None of the men had. Even Malcolm, Callum, and Alex avoided her gaze. Whatever goodwill she’d earned after the fire in the village was gone. The Scots took their cue from their captain, and Boyd’s anger toward her could not be more clear. However it had happened, she’d bested their hero in allowing her nephew to escape, and that could not be forgiven. She was an English hostage. A
female
English hostage. The lowest of the low. The fierce male Scot pride could not withstand such a blow.

But the silence was oppressive. She’d never felt so alone. By the time the first signs of the camp came into view, she was so miserable—not to mention filthy and exhausted—she would have welcomed a hovel, if it meant she could get off this horse and escape their forbidding indifference.

Rosalin didn’t know what she’d expected of the rebel encampment—perhaps foxholes and scattered plaids over the heather?—but it certainly wasn’t the neat row of Roman legionary-style tents leading up to a large sturdily constructed wooden Viking-style longhouse that sprang out of the thick forest along a rocky riverbed like a picturesque faerie tale–looking village nestled in the tree-covered hillside. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was far from the image she had of the outlaw “hood” from which Robert the Bruce had earned his moniker of King Hood.

The forest itself, however, lived up to its frightening reputation. From the moment they’d entered the shadowy canopy of trees, she’d been waiting for one of Bruce’s phantoms to jump out from behind a tree and shout “boo.” It was easy to see why the English had ceded the forest first to Wallace and later to Bruce’s men. The rebels could sit in ambuscade from virtually anywhere, and the narrow paths that wound through the forest would force the English soldiers to ride single file, leaving them even more vulnerable. The men of Ettrick Forest, like the legends of the outlaw Hood, were also known for their skill with a bow, a particularly deadly skill in this kind of environment with so many trees to hide behind.

She assumed they must have had scouts watching out because a handful of men—and a few women—were already standing outside to greet the returning warriors. From the cheers and lighthearted tone of their shouted greetings, she realized they were cheering the successful mission.

Rosalin hadn’t expected women. But no sooner had they stopped and the men dismounted than she understood their purpose at camp, when the women ran forward to greet some of the men in a particularly friendly manner.

As no one seemed inclined to help her dismount, Rosalin was about to attempt to do so on her own, when she glanced at Boyd. One of the women had launched herself into his arms and was plastered to his chest. Her long, wavy pitch-black hair hung loose down her back as her head tilted back invitingly.

Rosalin must have made some kind of sound, because Boyd’s eyes found hers right before he accepted the woman’s welcoming kiss. Her quite thorough welcoming kiss.

Rosalin felt as if a horse had kicked her in the chest.
No!
she wanted to shout.
Don’t
.
You can’t
.

But he could. She held no claim on him, a fact he was making perfectly clear.

His arm was wrapped around the woman’s waist loosely, as if it had been there many times before. The kiss also had a lazy familiarity that spoke of…

Oh God!
The bottom dropped from Rosalin’s stomach. She knew. They were lovers.

She turned away, fighting the suffocating stabs of pain through her heart that made her want to do something ridiculous like cry. A hot ball pressed its way up her throat and to the back of her eyes. But she blinked back the tears as she slid her foot into the stirrup and attempted to get down without her skirts tangling around her feet.

She would have fallen had someone not caught her around the waist from behind. Nay, not someone. She stiffened at his touch, knowing exactly who it was. His big hands nearly spanned her waist, closing around her like a warm vise, as he lifted her down effortlessly. Even without their bodies touching, she could feel the broad shield of his chest behind her and smell the warm scent of leather and spice that had become so familiar.

“Thank you,” she said, not daring to look at him for fear that he might see how much his display with the woman had affected her. “I’m surprised you did not let me fall.”

“As you are our only hostage now, that wasn’t an option.”

Her eyes narrowed, meeting the ice-blue gaze that riveted them. “Aye, my brother will not pay your blackmail if I am harmed—you might remember that.”

His mouth tightened at the not-so-subtle reference to his earlier threat. “I think he’ll pay to get you back whatever state you are in. You might remember that, my
lady
.” He slurred the last word with obvious sarcasm.

She bristled. “You are wrong about what happened. For all your knowledge of
experienced
women, you should know the difference between practiced and not.”

He smiled, and Rosalin immediately regretted her churlish words. By remarking upon the woman who’d just kissed him, she’d let him know that it had bothered her.

“This way, Princess,” he said with a mock flourish. “Your palace awaits.”

He started away, and with no choice but to follow, Rosalin ignored the curious stares cast in her direction and hurried after him.

At first she thought he meant to take her to the big longhouse, which she assumed served as their hall, but then he led her past the building to where there were a few more tents set up. Slightly larger than the others, she realized these most likely housed the king’s lieutenants—perhaps even the king himself when he was present.

He stopped at the first tent. It was perhaps twelve feet square, with the middle of the pitched roof at least that high. Although the original natural wool would have been a brownish off-white, a protective coating of oil or wax to keep out the water had stained it yellow, and in places a dark-brownish black. Over a dozen hemp ropes supported the canopy from the outside, driven into the ground with large wooden pegs. Passing through the flaps that had been tied back, she saw the numerous wooden tent poles that gave the tent its structure.

Despite the afternoon light, it was fairly dark inside. But after Boyd lit the tall torches that flanked the entrance, she could better make out the interior.

Caesar was reputed to have traveled with his own mosaic tile floor in sections, and English kings had been known to outfit their tents as if they were a room in a palace with woven rugs, fine furniture, and silver and gold household plate. This tent was not so fine, but neither was it a crude hovel.

Her first impression was of well-tended orderliness. It might have been split down the middle with the two sides mirroring one another. They held box beds with some kind of mattress, probably made from straw, numerous wool blankets and a few furs, two wooden trunks for storage and extra seating, two tables, two stools, and two small braziers for warmth. The floor was covered in woven rushes. Other than a stray shield with a blue background and a band of red and white checks across it, a few candles, a pitcher, and a bowl for washing, there did not appear to be any personal items lying about that might give a hint about its occupants.

But she knew.

It was a warrior’s tent, and the spartan, no-frills, nothing-to-distract-from-war interior fit Boyd perfectly.

“You can sleep there,” he said, pointing to the bed on the left.

Since he threw down his plaid and helm on the other bed, she assumed it was his. Good God, he couldn’t mean to sleep in the same room with her?

“Is there not somewhere else I might stay?”

“There is not. As you might have noticed, we are in the middle of the forest. I’m afraid accommodation is limited.”

That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. He just enjoyed making her feel like a spoiled, cosseted princess. That was what he’d called her. She lifted her chin, glaring at him defiantly. “I just do not wish to displace anyone from their bed.”

“If you are that worried, you can always share mine.”

She stilled, staring at his face as if the granite facade might give her a clue as to whether he was serious.

His smile was cold and devoid of humor. “I thought not. Have no fear, my lady—Seton doesn’t mind. He lives for that kind of gallant shite. Now, if there is nothing else, I have more enjoyable pastimes to seek out.” His face hardened. “But I would caution you against another attempt to escape. Although you deserve to be in a pit prison for what you’ve done, I can find far less luxurious accommodations for you. There are no forty-foot walls, but even were you to get past the two men who will be guarding you—two of Douglas’s kinsmen, by the way, so don’t bother trying to wield your feminine wiles in that direction—the forest is not a place you will want to find yourself alone. Unless you like boars.” His eyes found hers. “And phantoms.”

A chill swept over her skin. His warning was well heeded. She was trapped and knew it. Douglas’s men…She shivered. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to go. Even angry and cruel, she trusted him. At least more than she did Douglases.

“Wait!” She stopped him before he pulled back the flaps. “Where are you going?”

“To celebrate a successful raid. Unlike you, I didn’t get to take my release last night. So unless you want to suck my cock as Deirdre has offered to do, I will bid you good night.”

Rosalin drew in her breath, shock permeating every fiber of her being. Even knowing that was what he had intended couldn’t stop her from gaping at him. Was such a thing done?

The knowing challenge in his eyes answered her question.

Shock turned to a stabbing throb. She wanted to object. To tell him not to go. To tell him that if he let that woman touch him like that it would be over between them forever.

But how could something be over that had never begun?

Instead, she dropped her gaze and turned away from him. The handsome, noble warrior she’d watched from her window was gone, and she found she no longer wanted to look at the man who stood in his place.

The sounds of the revelry continued well into the night. What were they doing? What was
he
doing? Was the woman really…

The black hole in Rosalin’s chest seemed to grow larger and larger. Why did she care?

The taunting sounds filled her imagination and kept her awake until exhaustion—both physical and emotional—finally dragged her to sleep.

Boyd never returned.

Rosalin woke resigned if not refreshed. She would make do the best she could until her brother paid whatever ransom they demanded of him. What else could she do? Soon this would all be a distant memory. A distant, unpleasant, hurtful memory.

She nibbled on the remainder of bread, cheese, and dried mutton that had been brought to her not long after Boyd left—apparently, he hadn’t completely forgotten about her—and started to explore her surroundings. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any water in the ewer, so she could not wash. The comb and bar of soap resting nearby, however, taunted her.

Grime was a powerful motivator, and she’d just about bolstered her courage enough to face her Douglas jailers, when one of the men entered with another plate of food. This one containing, to her delight, what looked to be an apple.

Spine as stiff as a poleaxe, he marched into the room and set the trencher down on Sir Alex’s wooden chest. He was probably only a few years older than Malcolm, but his dark visage and beard reminded her well enough of his “black” relative.

“Is there anything else you need?”

He spoke to the wall behind her in the most grudging voice she’d ever heard.

Her cheeks burned, but some needs could not be ignored. The idea of using the chamber pot in such a small, decidedly un-private area did not appeal to her. “I don’t suppose you have a garderobe nearby?”

He still avoided her eyes, but she could see her question had discomfited him as much as it had her. “I’m to escort you around back for privacy when you need it.”

She needed it. Her feet were dancing. The morning was cold and misty, but the breath of fresh air was welcome as he led her out and waited a short distance away while she tended her needs.

The rest of the occupants of the camp must have still been sleeping off their celebration, as it was very quiet and peaceful. She looked about, seeing some things that she hadn’t noticed before. A few small outer buildings, what appeared to be a garden near one of them, the cluck of hens, a few sheep on the hillside, farm tools and a cart propped against the longhouse. She wanted to linger, but he led her back inside. Before he could leave, however, she asked, “I would like some water to wash—and a bath if one can be found.”

His mouth tightened as if he wanted to refuse. “I will see what can be arranged.”

A short while later, Rosalin was in heaven. A large wooden tub lined with linen had been brought in by two young warriors whose job it must be to tend the more menial labor. It was filled with cold water, but she didn’t care. As soon as the men left, she tore off her clothes, reached for the soap and comb, and luxuriated in the sensation of being clean again.

For modesty’s sake she’d left on her chemise, and after scrubbing like she’d seen the maids do, she emerged from the water feeling refreshed. But cold. Shivering and dripping wet, she realized too late that she’d neglected to ask for a drying cloth. Reaching for Boyd’s trunk, which was the closest, she opened it to find a stack of neatly folded linens. She took one that was obviously meant for the purpose and wrapped it around her shivering body.

But with the soaking-wet chemise and nothing to change into, the cloth provided little in the way of relief. She had two choices. She could remove her chemise and don her smoky, travel-stained gowns again or she could borrow one of the freshly washed tunics she’d noticed in his chest. It wasn’t a difficult decision.

A short while later, she’d hung her gowns and wet chemise from a few pegs in the poles that looked to be for that purpose and was sitting on Sir Alex’s trunk, combing out her wet hair, clean and comfortably bundled in not only one of Boyd’s tunics, but also a plaid she’d found tucked underneath. At first she’d thought it black, but it was actually shades of dark blues and grays. She wrapped it around her in a Roman fashion, knotting it on one shoulder and keeping it in place with one of the silver girdles she wore around her waist.

When Sir Alex entered the tent a few minutes later, however, he looked so shocked to see her in it, she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

Once his shock passed, he smiled. “I see you found some fresh clothing.”

She blushed. “When I asked for the bath, I forgot that I didn’t have anything clean to change into.” She’d also removed her own clothes for the first time in years without a serving-maid, but she didn’t want to mention that. “Do you think he’ll mind?”

Sir Alex gave her a long, steady look. “If he does, tell him I said you could use mine.”

For some reason, the prospect of her doing so seemed to amuse him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you—I just came in to get a few things.” He grinned. “But you are sitting on them.”

She gasped, jumping off his trunk. “It is I who should apologize to you for displacing you from your…um…room.”

He pretended not to notice her embarrassment over sleeping in his bed. “It’s a place to sleep, nothing more. As long as Douglas doesn’t snore too loudly when he returns, I won’t know the difference.” His expression changed to one of concern. “You are all right?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“He did not…” His voice let off, as if he were searching for the right words. “Hurt you?”

Heat crawled up her cheeks, guessing what he suspected. Was that what they all suspected? Did everyone think she’d given herself to him to let her nephew escape? No, they couldn’t. But Sir Alex must have sensed something and guessed.

“I am fine,” she said firmly. “Your friend is angry that my nephew was able to get away, but he has not hurt me. In any way,” she added meaningfully. “I am exactly as I was when I arrived.” Although perhaps a bit wiser.

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Your inventiveness took us all by surprise. I’m not sure I would have gone out that window.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen Boyd so angry.” He smiled. “Even with me. And other than your brother, I doubt there’s anyone who angers him more.”

“But you are friends. Why would he be angry with you?”

“I’ve committed the unpardonable sin, the one thing that can never be forgiven.”

“What’s that?”

“I was born in England,” he said dryly.

“But aren’t your lands in Scotland?”

“Most of them are now, although my brother held some lands in Cumberland and Northumberland. I’ve been raised in Scotland and fought on the Scottish side for every battle of the war, but it doesn’t matter. In Boyd’s eyes, I will always be English. I don’t think even Wallace hated your countrymen as much as he does. Not without cause, perhaps, but it blinds him. He will never completely trust an Englishman.”

He held her gaze, and she knew he was warning her. She nodded, telling him she understood. She’d sensed as much herself.

He must have seen something in her expression. “Don’t worry, lass, it won’t be much longer. A messenger has been dispatched to your brother. In a few days, this will all be behind you.”

It was with considerable effort that Robbie dragged himself off the rush-strewn floor of the Hall, where he’d finally found sleep in the wee hours of the night, and ventured into the morning (or mid-morning) daylight. The sunlight cleaved his skull like a battle-axe. His stomach, which could weather even the worst of storms on Hawk’s
birlinn
, tossed dangerously, threatening to remind him that the last goblet of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Actually, the last
five
goblets of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Like any Scotsman worth his salt, Robbie enjoyed his
uisge beatha
. But he couldn’t recall ever enjoying it quite so much. Or with such purpose. If he were a weaker man, he might even think he’d been trying to drown his guilt in drink.

But he had no reason to feel guilty. Rosalin Clifford deserved his anger. She deserved a hell of a lot more after what she’d done.

So he’d threatened to make her his whore? So he’d shocked the proper English lady with the crude suggestion that she suck his cock? So what?

Robbie rarely struck the first blow, but if someone hit him, he was sure as hell going to strike back. He didn’t turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—that was his religion. He was doing the only thing he knew how to do: fight back ruthlessly when wronged. The English had learned that the hard way. As he couldn’t use his fists or his sword with her, he was using the one weapon he had left: his words.

He still couldn’t believe he’d let a woman trick him like that. He didn’t fall prey to feminine ploys or wiles. He’d thought himself immune to such pedestrian weaknesses. Undistractible.

Damn it, he’d even sensed something was wrong, but all she’d had to do was touch him and look up at him with that ravish-me mouth, and he lost his bloody mind.

Of course she’d known what she was doing…

But what if she hadn’t? What if he was just being an arse?

She’d stung his pride, and he wondered how much of his anger was really because she’d managed to help her nephew escape under his watch.

He swore and raked his fingers through his hair, his nose wrinkling as the stench of last night’s festivities and days of hard riding leached out of his skin.

He needed a good dunking in the burn. Perhaps it would clear some of the fogginess from his head. The foulness of his temper, he suspected, would not be so easily washed away.

With slightly more vigor, he rounded the corner of the Hall on the way to his tent and came to a sudden stop.

Bloody hell!
His fists squeezed at his sides. He’d told Seton to stay away from her. But there was his partner, ducking out from beneath the flaps of the tent with a broad smile on his face. Whistling, unless Robbie was mistaken, as he rambled over to the next tent.

Black clouds darkened Robbie’s already foul mood. Black
thunder
clouds. He stormed toward his tent. He would deal with Seton later, after he found out what was going on. But if she thought she was going to trick his partner like she had him—

He stopped. God’s bones, was that what she was doing? Was that why Seton looked so happy and relaxed?

Robbie couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. His heart was hammering in his head, causing his mind to spin out of control.

Iain Douglas started to say something but slammed his mouth shut, obviously thinking better of it.

Robbie strode past the two warriors, pushed between the flaps, and steeled himself for what he might find.

His stomach knifed when he saw her. There was nothing in her appearance to contradict his suspicions. In fact, it was the opposite. She was seated on Seton’s bed combing her long, damp hair, her cheeks still flushed from her bath—or lovemaking—wearing…

Christ, she was wearing the plaid he wore on Highland Guard missions and, unless he was mistaken, one of his tunics!

As he entered, she glanced up with a gasp of surprise. Her eyes found his warily.

He ignored the stab of conscience. “What was Seton doing in here?”

His voice came out louder and angrier than he’d intended—and more accusing.

Her eyes widened and then narrowed with a glint of mischief. “What do you think he was doing?” she asked with a flip of her head. “I needed help with my bath.”

He crossed the tent in two strides and hauled her up against him. “Do you think this is a jest, my lady? I assure you it is not. What did you do, take your ‘offer’ to Seton? Was he more amenable than I?”

She turned away in disgust. “You are a fool.” He felt like it. A jealous one. “If you must know, he was in here to fetch a few items, presumably to bathe as I did.” She wrinkled her nose. “You might consider doing the same. You carry the stench of your
celebrating
.”

Her icy composure grated against his already flared nerves like sand on an open wound.