“Lady Rosalin?” Seton asked in a slightly stunned voice that told Robbie he’d seen her face and had been similarly affected.
Ignoring Robbie’s question, she looked at Seton and nodded.
Of course. Robbie should have guessed. The beauty of Clifford’s sister was well known. The English called her the Fair Rosalin, alluding to Clifford’s illustrious ancestor.
For once, Robbie was forced to acknowledge that the English stories that he’d assumed were exaggerations were true—perhaps even understatements. The lass was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. The quintessential English Rose. His jaw tightened. But there was enough resemblance to Clifford to remind him of exactly who she was: the sister of the man bent on destroying them, conquering their land, and seeing them subjugated.
Clifford’s sister, bloody hell! He felt his face darken as blood surged through his veins in a hot rush. Somehow his attraction to the lass made it worse. It felt like a damned betrayal. In this case, his own.
God knew she was probably as arrogant and condescending as her brother. Aye, no doubt she was a spoiled, cosseted brat who’d never suffered a moment of hardship or strife in her life.
Beautiful or not, how could he have forgotten—even for an instant—that she was English? She might look sweet on the outside, but she was undoubtedly just as ugly as her brother on the inside. Beauty, in this case, was surely deceiving.
He stared at her coldly, calculatingly, forcing himself to see not the perfection of her features but the resemblance to his enemy and the added benefit she would bring him. Their raid had reaped far greater bounty than he could ever have dreamed.
“It seems fortune has shined on us twice today,” he said, as much for her benefit as that of his men’s who’d gathered around them. “Not only have we caught Clifford’s heir, but his beloved sister as well.” Clifford’s affection for his only sibling was well known. Apparently the bastard had a weakness for the women in his life. At one time Robbie had, too. But unlike Clifford’s sister, his hadn’t escaped the brutality of war. His mouth fell in a hard, unrelenting line as the familiar anger stirred inside. “I’d wager we have double the means to ensure a truce, don’t we, lads?”
He was answered with a flurry of “ayes” from all his men except for Seton, who managed to shake off his stunned trance for long enough to turn on him. “I thought—”
“The situation has changed,” Robbie said, cutting him off with a look of warning. If Seton was going to insist on voicing his objections—not that it would make a difference—it wasn’t going to be now. He wasn’t going to give up a boon like Clifford’s sister without consideration. A whole hell of a lot of consideration.
“What do you mean to do with us?” she asked. Her voice trembled, although he didn’t miss the way she angled herself in front of the lad as if to protect him.
Something about that voice bothered him. It wasn’t just that having a woman—even if she was Clifford’s sister—scared of him didn’t sit well, it was something else. Something he couldn’t put his finger on that made him feel as if a ghostly voice were whispering a warning in his ear, but he couldn’t make out the words.
He pushed the odd feeling aside and answered her question. “You and the lad will be taken someplace safe to wait while a messenger is sent to your brother.” He shrugged. “Whatever happens after that is up to him.”
Her eyes widened, and despite her obvious fear she managed, “You can’t do that!”
He would admire her courage later, but right now all he could see was the slight stiffening of the spine and offended lift of the chin that reminded him too much of her condescending brother. He leaned toward her threateningly. He was trying to emphasize his point. It wasn’t because she smelled so damned good. Although that was what hit his senses, engulfing him in her soft floral scent. Roses, of course. A big, heady, blooming bouquet of them. He managed not to inhale—just.
“I assure you, my lady, I can. Your brother’s authority does not run here. If I were you, I would remember that.” Her eyes widened further, and he had to force himself to stand his ground. Clifford’s sister…He quashed whatever foolish impulses were leaping inside him. But bloody hell, he wished she would stop looking at him like that. “Consider yourself fortunate that you are not being punished for attempting to escape.”
Her eyes scanned his face with an intensity that made him uneasy. She almost looked close to tears. “What happened to you?”
His brow furrowed. It was an odd comment to make, but he’d never understood the English. “War,” he said simply, turning away. She’d delayed him long enough. “Tie up the lad and separate them,” he said to Malcolm, who was still holding Clifford’s whelp.
That should prevent any further problems.
“No!” she shouted, grabbing his arm and swinging him back around to face her. He ignored the slam in his chest and spike in his temperature caused by her touch. His skin tightened. Actually, all of him tightened.
Fear forgotten, her eyes flashed angrily. “You can’t do that. He’s only a boy. I won’t let you hurt him.”
The fierceness of her voice made him smile. This was more like it. He liked her better like this. It made it easier to remember her brother.
The source of her impassioned defense, however, didn’t look as pleased. The boy was too old to have a woman defending him, and the red in his cheeks suggested he knew it. “Let them tie me up, Aunt Rosalin. I don’t care. They won’t hurt me. Father will kill them if they dare harm either one of us.”
Not a complete whelp, at least. After watching him wield that sword at Fraser earlier and the attempt he’d squandered with a bad plunge of his dagger, Robbie had wondered. But he had no more patience for the lad’s bravado than he had for the aunt’s. “Your father wants to kill us anyway. I assure you it is not the threat of Clifford that will keep you safe.”
“Then what will?” she demanded.
Steeling himself, he met her gaze again. Not that it helped. Every muscle in his body still squeezed. What the hell was wrong with him? It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. His eyes dipped. And noticed a spectacular set of…He forced his gaze up and schooled the lust from his body. This lack of focus wasn’t like him.
“My good humor,” he replied. “So I suggest you do not try it again.” Her hand dropped and he felt his pulse return to normal. “But a word of caution about attempting to escape. Your brother’s raids have not exactly endeared him to the people around these parts, and you might not like who finds you. But as long as you are under my protection, no one will harm you.”
“Is that supposed to ease my mind?”
Sarcasm. He liked that, too. He was really seeing Clifford now. “I don’t give a damn whether it eases your mind or not.”
“You have nothing to fear,” Seton interjected gallantly. “You and the boy will be safe for the short time you are here. I will see to it personally.”
Seton might as well have stepped between them and lifted his shiny shield—the effect was the same. He’d just declared himself their champion and made Robbie the enemy.
It was a role he’d been cast in before, so there was no reason it should bother him. There was no reason he should want to rip that shiny shield from his partner’s hand and hold it up himself. There was no reason he should care if she looked at Seton with gratitude.
Except it wasn’t Seton she was looking at, it was him—with the oddest expression on her face. “Please,” she said softly. “Don’t do this. I’m asking you to release us.”
The look made him feel uneasy. It was that feeling that she knew him again. That she was searching for something in his face, but it wasn’t there. That she was waiting for something.
“Why the hell would I do that?”
Her eyes never left his. “Because you owe me.”
He tried to laugh, but it didn’t ease the tension coiling inside him. The feeling that something was very wrong, and that whatever it was, he was
n’t going to like it. “What could I possibly owe Clifford’s sister?”
She lowered her voice, but he heard the one word that changed everything. “Kildrummy.”
Five
The blood drained from Robbie’s face. Kildrummy. A memory stirred. His heart started to pound.
Nay, it wasn’t possible.
It couldn’t be…
But he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. The knowledge of what that ghostly voice had been trying to tell him. Of why she was looking at him as if she knew him and expected him to know her as well.
He swore and closed the distance between them in one long stride. With the back of one gauntleted finger—gauntlets designed to protect him from blades in battle, not silky-soft skin, although right now he was rather glad of the latter—he tilted her face back and forth in the misty twilight.
She didn’t shirk from his touch or try to pull away, holding her finely carved features up to his scrutiny, almost daring him to deny the truth.
Dread churned like a portent of doom in his gut. But he knew. The shadowed lines of her chin and nose left no doubt: it was the young lass who helped free him from prison all those years ago. The lass who from behind her hooded cloak he’d assumed to be a servant. The lass whom he’d tried to find for years so he could repay her. Though it seemed inconceivable, the sweet, young girl whose velvety lips had trembled under his with a chaste kiss had been Clifford’s sister.
The truth slammed like a hammer across his chest, the blow powerful enough to fell even the strongest man in Scotland.
Suddenly, it all fit. He recalled overhearing some of the guards discussing the girl’s unexpected arrival with Hereford’s party, and how she’d been locked up tight in one of the towers like some bloody princess who would be sullied by just breathing the same air as the vile Scots.
It had never crossed his mind that their guardian angel might be Clifford’s precious sister. No wonder Robbie’s enquiries hadn’t turned up anything. He’d asked about the half-dozen young serving women in the Earl’s party, not the ladies.
Their eyes met. “You said you would repay me if we ever met again,” she said.
Seton being the only one close enough to overhear, and the only one who would understand of what she spoke, he uttered an expletive under his breath.
For once he and his partner were in agreement. Robbie dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, not trusting himself. Something was building inside him that he didn’t recognize. A different kind of anger. A wild, frenzied maelstrom harnessed by the barest of tethers.
It wasn’t right, damn it! Why did it have to be her? The one good memory he had of that godforsaken time was now destroyed by the knowledge that his angel of mercy, the sweet young girl who’d freed him from that hellhole, was sister to the man who’d put him there.
“Release us,” she entreated, her soft voice tugging on a part of him long forgotten.
His conscience, damn it.
Damn her for doing this to him! For ruining everything. For making him indebted to a bloody Clifford. His mouth fell in a hard line, his fists clenching against the storm of emotions surging inside him.
He needed to think. But he couldn’t do it standing here with her looking up at him. Turning away from that expectant gaze, he started back to his horse. “Get them mounted up,” he said to Seton. “We’ll need to ride hard if we are to reach the gathering place in time.”
Norham wasn’t the only raid this day. Douglas and Randolph were waiting for them near Channelkirk.
He didn’t need to look at her. Her harsh gasp of disbelief said it all.
Seton was just as astonished but not as restrained. “You mean you aren’t going to release—”
Robbie stopped him with a glare that was probably as black as he felt inside. Just once he wished his partner didn’t have to question everything he did—or didn’t do. “Damn it, not now. Clifford’s men are probably right on our tails. If we don’t get out of here right now, we’ll be the ones who need releasing.”
How could I have been so wrong?
Rosalin watched him stride away and felt the last flicker of uncertainty in her go out. All the doubts fostered by years of stories and rumor had proved true. The cold expression on his face when he realized her identity, and his refusal to release them, left her no doubt that whatever good she’d once imagined in Robbie Boyd was long gone.
It was her worst fear realized. She’d made a mistake in releasing him, and her shame knew no end. She couldn’t bear to think about how many of her countrymen might have died because of her misplaced compassion. Because she’d thought she was righting a terrible wrong and couldn’t look away. The noble rebel that she’d created in her mind was nothing more than a merciless brigand without any semblance of honor.
After what she’d done for him and all she’d risked, he’d turned his back on her—literally.
Whatever vestiges remained of her foolish young girl’s heart crumbled to dust. Had she really thought the connection forged by one reckless act somehow bound them? Had she really expected him to release them because of some debt he’d probably never thought to have to repay?
She had. She’d never believed the man she’d watched could be so ruthless.
“What were you saying to that rebel, Aunt Rosalin? It almost looked like you knew him.”
Malcolm had released Roger, and he’d come up to stand beside her as the blond-haired warrior sorted out their riding companions. Rosalin hated lying to him, but she could hardly explain. “How would I know him?” How indeed. “I simply asked him to release us.”
“But don’t you know who that is? That’s the Devil’s Enforcer, Robbie Boyd. One of the most ruthless men in Scotland—and said to be the strongest. Father had him imprisoned at one time, and he would have been executed if he hadn’t managed to escape. He and Father hate each other. The Devil’s Enforcer won’t release us without exacting payment from Father.”
“I see that now,” she said quietly. “But I had to try.”
They didn’t have the opportunity to talk further, as the brigands had decided on their riding arrangements and they were separated. Roger’s hands were tied, and he was forced to ride with the warrior who’d first captured him at Norham. Fraser, she thought someone had called him. If he was part of that great patriotic family, she knew she would find no sympathy from him. She was placed in the charge of a stony-faced, red-bearded older warrior—apparently named Callum, although he’d not spoken a word to her—who bore a strong resemblance to young Malcolm. If it was his father, as she suspected, he’s apparently taken her tricking of Malcolm personally.
Within a few minutes, she was plopped up on the saddle before him, and they were on their way. To where, she could only guess. She wished she’d paid more attention on the journey south from Kildrummy with Sir Humphrey. Her head had been filled with romantic fantasies (which seemed especially cruel in light of what had just happened), and she hadn’t taken note of many landmarks. She’d seen so many churches and castles, they’d all started to blur. She knew the general location of the major burghs and cities, but she doubted the rebels would go anywhere near those. By her best estimation, they were northwest of Norham and Berwick in the hills and forests, headed west into more of the same.
She knew Bruce and his men controlled the countryside and operated from their base in the Ettrick Forest…
Her heart dropped. Good God, was that where they were going? Rosalin didn’t believe in ghosts, but the stories of Bruce’s phantoms who reputedly had their lair in the vast Royal Forest made her wonder. Her brother’s men would be hard-pressed to follow them into such hostile and dangerous territory.
Which made the need to escape as soon as possible even more imperative. But as she could not do so without Roger, she would have to bide her time. They could not ride halfway across the Borders to Ettrick without resting.
She hoped. But these men looked tough and rugged, and used to riding bone-jarring and bottom-numbing dis
tances. They’d probably pick up the horses and carry them when they got tired.
Although she was considerably more comfortable than she had been when she was strewn over Boyd’s lap in a sack, as the day faded and became swallowed up by the mist, she increasingly suffered the effects of her walk through the river. Her wet slippers had turned to ice, and her feet along with them. Soon, her shivering became uncontrollable.
Not that anyone noticed. The gruff old warrior behind her barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead, he completely ignored her. The other warriors did as well.
Boyd and the handsome blond-haired warrior, who also looked familiar, had stayed behind initially (presumably to scout for any soldiers who might be pursuing them) and had only just reappeared.
Not that she would expect sympathy from him. He hadn’t looked in her direction once. So much for the special connection. If she needed proof of how one-sided that connection was, she had it. What had she expected—one look and somehow he would know her? That he would fall on his knees and pledge his undying devotion to her for what she’d done?
He hadn’t seen her face, so how could he know her? And he wasn’t a knight in a faerie tale; he was a rebel. A brigand. A scourge. A man who fought without rules or honor.
And she was a fool.
Rosalin wrapped the plaid around her tighter and tried not to think about how tired she was, or how cold she was, or how miserable she was.
Unsuccessfully. Her throat tightened and a hot sheen of tears burned behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter that she’d been abducted, manhandled, hunted, nearly crushed to death, found out a man she thought was a hero was no more than a merciless brigand, and was probably being taken into what undoubtedly was the most terrifying place in Christendom. She had to stay strong for Roger.
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