The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 9

  Perhaps she wasn’t completely without sympathy. The blond-haired warrior glanced in her direction, but he was careful not to meet her gaze. From their tense conversation, she wondered if it might be about her. Whatever the two men were talking about, it was clear they weren’t in agreement.

  She was so cold, she was about to break down and ask the recalcitrant old warrior for something warm to wrap around her feet, when Boyd swung his mount around and glowered in their direction. Ripping the plaid off from around his shoulders, he threw it toward them. “Damn it, Callum, wrap her in this. She’ll bring the entire English army down on us with all that chattering.”

  Callum caught the plaid and draped it over her, tucking it under her feet, which were slung to one side. Rosalin burrowed into its heat with a contended sigh.

  Apparently, Boyd did not want or expect her thanks, because he’d already turned around.

  Considerably more comfortable, she told herself not to read anything into the less than graciously made gesture. But there was a strange intimacy to being wrapped in his plaid. The thick wool fibers still held the warmth of his body, and if she inhaled just a little, she caught the faint edge of pine and heather and something distinctly masculine. It felt like he was surrounding her and made it difficult for her not to think about foolish things.

  She tried instead to think about Sir Henry. He would be arriving at Berwick soon. She shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about her abduction. She hoped he didn’t do something rash. Her nose scrunched up. Strange that although she didn’t know him that well, that was her first thought.

  The sky was as black as pitch by time they finally stopped. Though they’d been riding for a few hours, with the rough terrain, heavy loads, and having to slow their speed with the horses over the hills, she guessed they hadn’t gone more than ten or fifteen miles.

  Callum dismounted and helped her down without looking at her.

  Despite his less than friendly expression, she asked, “Where are we?”

  “Ask the captain,” he replied, already walking off.

  She intended to. Right after she checked on Roger. But seeing her nephew standing with “the captain” a few feet away, she marched over toward them both. After a quick glance to assure her Roger was all right, she turned to Boyd. Not without reluctance, she unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders and handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Keep it,” he said indifferently. “You’ll need it tonight.”

  “Won’t you be cold?”

  He gave her a long stare. “I didn’t go swimming in a river.”

  It hadn’t been swimming, but given the subject was her attempted escape, she decided not to argue semantics. She looked around in the torchlit darkness, seeing what appeared to be a small sheltered corrie in the forest with a stream running between the two mist-shrouded hills. It would be hauntingly beautiful if she weren’t cold, abducted, and suspecting that it would serve as her bedchamber for the night. “Where are we?”

  He waited a long beat before replying. “St. Cuthbert’s Hills.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  The way he shrugged suggested he was well aware of that, which was probably why he’d told her. It was probably a local way of referring to the place that would have no meaning to anyone not from the area.

  “Is that near Edinburgh?”

  His piercing blue eyes narrowed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the sharp contrast of his light eyes with dark hair, and she felt something like a shiver race over her skin. It was unsettling. He was unsettling.

  “If you are thinking about attempting another escape, I would not advise it. These hills are dangerous, my lady. You never know who you might come across.”

  As if to punctuate his words, a group of riders approached from the other direction. “Ah, here they are now,” Boyd said.

  Apparently the newcomers were expected.

  A few moments later a man jumped off his horse, pulled off his helm, and strode toward them. He was a big man. Maybe even an inch taller than Boyd, though not as heavily muscled. She doubted few men were as heavily muscled as Boyd. Not that Boyd was bulky. Just strong-looking. Not that she’d been staring at him. She was a woman of two and twenty now, not some impressionable sixteen-year-old to be taken by an impressive-looking physique. Even if it was the most impressive-looking physique she’d ever seen. There had to be an ounce of fat on him somewhere, although she certainly couldn’t see it.

  She turned—not forced—her gaze back to the other man. He wore the same black leather warcoat and chausses as the other men, but it was as fine as anything Cliff might wear. Neatly shaved and free of dust and dirt, he appeared considerably more civilized than Boyd and his band of rough-looking brigands.

  “You’re late,” Boyd said. “Any problems?”

  The dark-visaged newcomer shook his head. “Nothing that couldn’t be handled.” Noticing her, he barely covered his surprise. He slowly lifted a brow and turned back to Boyd. “What about you? Your haul looks much more interesting than mine. Have you finally decided to take a wife? Your methods might be a little old-fashioned, but the results seem to have been worth it.” He let out a low whistle. “You’re fortunate I’m a happily married man, but don’t let Randolph see her—you know how partial he is to blondes.”

  “Sod off, Sir James. The lass is a hostage, as is the lad.”

  “Sir”? Thank goodness! At last, a knight! Perhaps she would find someone to champion their cause for release. Although something about the way Boyd had emphasized “sir” made her think there was more to it.

  “This sounds even more interesting,” Sir James said. “Who are they?”

  “Clifford’s sister and heir.”

  Sir James’s expression changed so quickly, it was as if a dark thunderstorm had clapped down over them all. She took a step back, feeling the hot blast of menace directed toward them.

  “Lady Rosalin. Young Roger,” Boyd said with mock formality. “Meet Sir James Douglas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s the rightful owner of the land Clifford has spent nearly fifteen years attempting to occupy.”

  Rosalin gasped. Her blood turned to ice, and her heart slammed to the ground as fear crept over every inch of her skin. Instinctively she reached for Roger’s hand and pulled him back toward her and Boyd, whom she’d just as instinctively sought out. Only moments ago he’d seemed like their worst nightmare. But now they knew otherwise. Their worst nightmare was standing right before them. The Black Douglas. Her brother’s worst enemy, and the man who hated him more than anyone.

  With one glance, Robbie told Douglas to back off. He’d experienced a strange thump in his chest when she’d unconsciously moved to him for protection, and had to fight an unexpected—and unwelcome—urge to put his arm around her. When Seton shot him an odd look, however, Robbie wondered whether he’d fought the urge as well as he thought he had.

  Whether it was the shock fading or his warning glance, he didn’t know, but Douglas’s expression changed. A sly curve slid up his mouth. “By God, this is perfect. What a boon! We finally have the means to bring that English bastard to his damned knees. With his sister and heir in our possession, he’ll dance a damned jig atop the parapets of Berwick Castle if we want him to.”

  It was the same reaction Robbie had had, but for some reason coming from Douglas it sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the effect the words had on the lass and the boy. They both visibly paled and huddled a few inches closer to him. That odd thump expanded in his chest.

  He turned to Seton, and with a glance told him what he wanted him to do.

  “Come, my lady,” Seton said, leading her away. “You must be hungry. Let’s find you and young Roger something to eat.”

  The look of gratitude she gave his partner made Robbie almost wish that he’d voiced his order. He frowned at the odd reaction. Knight errant was Seton’s role, not his. But the lass seemed to be provoking all kinds of odd reactions in him. When he
returned from scouting earlier, he’d felt like he was crawling out of his damned skin every time he saw her shiver.

  “Seton,” he called out. His partner turned around questioningly. “Have Malcolm build a fire.”

  Seton didn’t say anything, but Robbie read the speculation in his gaze and quickly put a stop to it with a hard stare. It wasn’t that unusual a request, damn it. It was a cold, misty night. Even if they were a little exposed for a fire, the English wouldn’t track them into the hills and forests at night—or in the day, for that matter. It was near villages and English garrisoned castles where they had to be careful.

  “Whatever you say, Captain.”

  Boyd didn’t miss the sarcasm in Seton’s tone. His partner was still smarting from the fact that Bruce had put Robbie in charge. This was his mission, and therefore—as he’d told his partner many times over the past few hours—he didn’t have to listen to Seton’s opinion on what they should do.

  He’d been in no mood to hear about Seton’s damned code of honor, and how they “had” to release her and the boy. How it was only “right” after what she’d done for them.

  The only “right” thing was winning this damned war. That was all Robbie should be thinking about. His sole focus should be on doing whatever was needed to secure Clifford’s agreement and then collecting the money. If the lass and boy would help him in that regard, nothing else should matter. Honor wasn’t going to win the damned war.

  But no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice. You owe me. He did, damn it.

  Honor—or what he had left of it—warred with duty. He owed her a debt, but he couldn’t just hand over the means to bring Clifford to heel.

  He watched her hurry away with Seton, trying not to wonder what they were talking about. Or why she’d suddenly turned and given Seton a tentative smile.

  Bloody hell! His fists clenched. Did she have to look like that? If he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman, he couldn’t think of one. Lady Rosalin Clifford was stunning. Breathtakingly stunning. By all rights, Clifford’s sister should have a forked tongue, horns, and all sorts of other manner of devilry. Or perhaps warts and moles, like a troll or witch.

  Actually, she did have a mole. A very small one that looked like a freckle. And its placement on the edge of a very sensually curved upper lip didn’t make him think of witches or trolls, but of something else entirely. An unwelcome heat and heaviness tugged in his groin. He liked having his cock sucked just as much as any other man—which was to say a whole hell of a lot—but never had the mere thought of it made him hard.

  Clifford’s sister. He still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t reconcile the sweet lass who’d saved him with the cosseted, spoiled English beauty she had to be. He was sure that once some of her fear dissipated, and she realized he meant what he said about them coming to no harm, she would start making demands and issuing orders. Her expression would change from looking as if he’d just torn up the pages to her favorite faerie tale and burned them before her eyes to haughty and condescending. She would look down that adorable little nose of hers not with disappointment and disillusionment, but with cold hatred.

  She couldn’t possibly be as sweet as she looked. Not with a brother like that.

  He frowned as Seton jerked off his plaid to cover a low boulder for her to sit on. Dragon and his damned knightly sensibilities. Even after seven years of fighting like a “pirate,” he still thought he was bloody Lancelot. It was how he’d earned his war name. Dragon was a jest, referring to the wyvern on the Seton arms that he’d so stubbornly held to wearing in the early days of their training—before he was forced to admit how ridiculous it was to wear mail and a surcoat doing the kind of fighting they would be doing.

  “What in Hades is wrong with you?”

  It took Robbie a minute to realize Douglas was talking to him. Hell, how long had he been staring? Too long, if the man’s narrowed gaze was any indication.

  “I would have thought you would be more excited,” Douglas added. “We have Clifford by the bollocks.”

  “I am,” he assured him, forcing the dark scowl from his face. “Did you receive the money from the good bishop?” Douglas had gone to Bewley Castle to meet with the Bishop of Cumbria.

  But Douglas wouldn’t be so easily put off. “You seemed almost protective of the lass. I’ll admit, she’s a beauty, but I wouldn’t have thought you would be so easily deceived. The English bitch is Clifford’s sister, for Christ’s sake.”

  Robbie had to be more tired than he realized, because he was feeling quite a few of Seton’s knightly sensibilities right now—as well as the sudden urge to slam his fist through his friend’s teeth. For what? Calling her a bitch? It wasn’t anything Robbie hadn’t said many times before about their enemy: English dog, English bitch—it was as common as saying it looks like it might rain or the skies are dreich today.

  Which didn’t explain why his teeth were grinding. “I don’t need you to remind me who she is”—he could think of nothing else, damn it—“but the lass is under my protection and will be until she is released.”

  “Why the hell would you release her? King Edward still holds Bruce’s wife, daughter, and sister. Why should we not do the same with our ‘overlord’s’ family?”

  Robbie was just about as interested in hearing Douglas’s opinion on the subject as he was Seton’s. Nor was he going to explain himself.

  He glanced over at Seton and the lady in question just in time to hear the soft tinkle of her laugh. Every muscle in his body tensed. The lad, Roger, was laughing, too. Both were stretching their feet out by the crackling fire, looking quite cozy.

  “Hell, if you want the chit, why don’t you just keep her for yourself? Think how furious Clifford would be to learn that his precious sister is in Robbie Boyd’s bed.”

  The image was sharper than Robbie would have wished, and included sweaty, naked limbs twisted in well-rumpled bedsheets. He clenched his jaw until the muscle started to tic. “I don’t want her, and I sure as hell don’t want a wife.”

  Douglas smiled slyly. “I wasn’t thinking of her as your wife. You can’t marry an Englishwoman.” He shuddered dramatically. “Make her your leman.”

  “I said I don’t want her, damn it!”

  “Aye, I can see that,” Douglas said with a laugh—the bastard. “That’s why you keep looking over at Seton like you want to kill him—even more than usual, that is.” He lifted a brow. “Oh, look who just showed up! Didn’t take him long to find her. I told you he had a weakness for blondes.”

  Robbie glanced over just in time to see Sir Thomas Randolph, Bruce’s nephew and nearly as much of a pain in his arse as Seton, bending over her hand like a gallant courtier and not the ruthless warrior he was—that they all were.

  “My wife informs me that women find him attractive. I don’t bloody see it,” Douglas said with disgust. Obviously, Joanna Douglas was keeping her notoriously competitive husband on his toes by teasing him about his rival. Robbie was really beginning to like his friend’s new bride. She was tougher than she looked. “Maybe it won’t be you taking her to bed after all,” Douglas added.

  Robbie thought his head might explode. “No one is taking her to bed, damn it. She isn’t going to be here long enough.”

  Six

  It took Rosalin a while to figure it out. Once she did, she had to wait for Sir Thomas to engage Roger in conversation so they would not be overheard.

  She’d met Sir Thomas, Robert Bruce’s nephew, a number of times at court when he’d temporarily changed sides a few years back. The gallant, handsome knight hadn’t changed at all—he was still a charming rogue. His friendly presence had relieved some of the tension of encountering the Black Douglas.

  But it wasn’t Sir Thomas with whom she wished to speak in private. “You were there, too,” she said softly to the blond-haired warrior who’d championed them earlier.

  She hadn’t realized it before only because he’d changed so much
. The tall, lean, boyishly handsome youth with the sun-bleached hair had added sufficient bulk and hardness to his build as to almost be unrecognizable. He was no longer a youth but a man full-grown—quite impressively, she might add. With his blue-eyed, golden-haired good looks, he seemed like every girl’s fantasy of a knight in shining armor.

  Except he was a brigand.

  He looked surprised but nodded. “Aye, I was there.”

  He handed her another oat bannock fresh from the iron plate or “girdle,” as he called it, cooked over the campfire. Though she was starving and would have eaten anything, the simple fare was surprisingly tasty. She suspected the oats had been mixed with some of the fat from the strips of pork she was also offered.

  “I remember you.” Indeed, had she not seen Boyd first, she probably would have found herself watching him. “I used to see you and Boyd talking all the time. You were friends even then.” His mouth tightened a little as if he might disagree. “There was another man as well. He had red hair.”

  “Thomas,” he said. “A childhood friend of Boyd’s.”

  “What became of him?”

  He gave her a sad look. “He died two days after we escaped.”

  Rosalin’s heart squeezed, more stricken by his answer than she would have believed. Learning that her efforts to save him hadn’t been enough made what she’d done seem so much worse. “I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “He was a good man.”

  She did not doubt it. “Might I know your name?”

  “Sir Alexander—Alex—Seton, my lady.”

  He was a knight? She must have shown her surprise. One side of his mouth lifted in a wry smile that held a hint of sadness. “I know it doesn’t seem that way, but we are not all brigands.”

  There was more than a little bitterness in his tone, which she thought it better not to explore. At least not yet. But it was clear that if she hoped to find a friend from among the rebels, this man would be her best prospect.