The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel)

by Monica McCarty

  Suddenly, she realized what else he’d said. Her eyes widened. “Seton? Were you related to Sir Christopher?”

  He looked down at the fire, prodding it with a stick. “He was my brother.”

  He said it matter-of-factly, but she sensed the deep emotion underlying the simple words.

  Her shock was complete. Like Wallace, Sir Christopher Seton had been one of the great Scot heroes in the early days of the war. Losing Sir Christopher’s brother would have been nearly as big a blow to Cliff as losing Robbie Boyd. “My brother didn’t know?”

  Sir Alex shook his head. “Circumstances…Well, suffice it to say I had reasons for not making my name well known at the time. In the chaos and confusion of the surrender, no one made the connection. I was lucky. Others were not.”

  The sick feeling in her stomach grew along with her guilt. Now she had not only the release of Robbie Boyd on her list of grievous betrayals of her brother and country, but Sir Christopher Seton’s brother as well.

  He must have guessed her thoughts. “Thank you for what you did for us, my lady. I owe you my life. We all do.”

  His gratitude was so graciously given, she could not refuse it. She bowed her head. “You are welcome.” Her gaze slid over to Boyd, who was still locked in conversation with the Black Douglas, and she shivered reflexively. “I wish all felt as you do.”

  She turned back to Sir Alex in time to see his mouth harden. “I tried, my lady. If it were my command, you and the lad would have never been taken.” He paused, a tinge of resentment sneaking out. “But it isn’t my command.”

  “Thank you for trying. Is there nothing more that can be—”

  She stopped, stiffening, as a dark shadow fell across her. Good gracious, how had he gotten there so quickly?

  She didn’t need to look to know who it was. The strange hum along her skin and spike in her pulse identified him. She resisted the urge to glance up and confirm it, guessing that her disinterest would bother him.

  If the sharpness of his voice was any indication, it did. “Time for bed, my lady.”

  There was nothing suggestive in his tone, but her stomach did a little flip anyway. She smothered a sharp intake of breath but wasn’t able to stop her face from paling. She looked up at him and knew from the glint in his eyes that he’d guessed her thoughts and was taking devilish pleasure in discomfiting her.

  Why was he so angry with her? The dark look he directed at Sir Alex made her wonder if it had something to do with him.

  “I’m not tired yet.” It couldn’t be much past seven o’clock. She stretched her feet close to the fire. “And my shoes aren’t dry.”

  “If you wish to be returned to see your brother in the morning, you will go to bed now.”

  Her shocked “What?” was drowned out by the half-dozen or so louder ones coming from the men around her. She didn’t know who was more stunned: her, Sir Alex, or the Black Douglas.

  “You are releasing us?” she asked incredulously.

  “Not ‘us,’ you.”

  The Black Douglas exploded. “You can’t release her! Clifford will give his left arm for the chit.”

  Rosalin’s gaze had immediately slid to her nephew on Boyd’s pronouncement. Although Roger was trying valiantly not to show his fear among the enemy warriors, she saw his face pale. Her heart went out to him. Despite the height and armor, he was still only a boy. As terrified as she was, she would not leave him.

  “No!” She didn’t realize how loudly she’d spoken until all the men turned in her direction. With so many eyes upon her, heat rose to her cheeks. “I won’t go,” she said in a more moderate tone. “Not without Roger.”

  Robbie struggled to control his temper. Something he seemed to be doing quite a bit around Lady Rosalin Clifford. The lass was as bad as Seton.

  Though he’d overheard only the last few words, it wasn’t hard to figure out what they were talking about. He might be impressed at how quickly she’d identified a sympathetic ear if he weren’t so furious about it. The last thing he and Seton needed was more discord between them; it was even more reason for the lass to be on her way.

  He should have guessed after the way she’d refused to let go of the boy in Norham that she would be difficult about this. Her protectiveness toward the lad was commendable, but God’s breath, did she have any idea of the concession he was making in letting her go with nothing in return? Douglas wouldn’t be the only one who was furious—the king, too, would have some questions. Questions Robbie would be hard pressed to answer without revealing what she’d done for him. Something that he suspected she might not want known.

  But the lass was right. He did owe her. And Robbie Boyd always paid his debts. That was one thing all the English could bloody well count on.

  He would still have the lad. Clifford would pay with or without the lass.

  He tamped down the urge to tell her that the matter wasn’t open for debate and instead turned to Seton. “Take the lad to the cave and get it ready for the night. I want two men posted at the entrance at all times in four-hour shifts.”

  Robbie saw the frightened exchange of glances between the lass and lad and wasn’t as immune to their unwarranted fear as he wanted to be.

  “But—”

  He didn’t let her finish. “Your aunt will be along shortly,” he said to the boy, relieving them both. “Lady Rosalin and I have something to discuss.” He looked at Douglas and Randolph. “Alone.”

  The boy looked to her, and she nodded. “Go. I’ll be fine. The captain has given us his word that no harm will come to us.”

  From the way her gaze flickered to Douglas’s, Robbie suspected she’d said it just as much for his friend’s benefit as for his.

  With obvious reluctance the boy did as he bade, casting worried glances over his shoulder until he disappeared into the misty darkness.

  Randolph and Douglas followed with nearly as much heel digging. “You and I will talk later,” the latter said in a voice that promised a reckoning.

  There were perhaps a handful of men in this world who would not be intimidated by a threat from the Black Douglas; Robbie was one of them. He met his friend’s gaze unflinchingly. Douglas might not like it, but that wasn’t going to stop him from letting the lass go.

  The exchange, however, had a different effect on Lady Rosalin. The fear that she’d been making such an effort to contain returned full force. She watched Douglas walk away as if he were a snake coiled and ready to strike. As soon as he was gone, she turned to Robbie. “What does he mean to do with us?”

  He sat opposite her on the stump vacated by Seton. “Nothing. You are under my protection. You have nothing to fear from Douglas.”

  She made a sharp sound that was halfway between a laugh and a choke. “Does he know that?”

  Robbie almost smiled before he caught himself. “Don’t worry about Douglas. I’ll take care of him.”

  She eyed him warily, clearly not sure whether to believe him.

  He had to fight the urge to reassure her, which was sure as hell not anything he’d ever felt compelled to do with a hostage before. Of course, he’d never had a woman as a hostage before. A woman who was so beautiful it was hard to look at her without his blood heating.

  What the hell was wrong with him? She was English, damn it. Clifford’s sister. The enemy.

  His mouth tightened. “Go home, Lady Rosalin. I’ve given you what you asked for. I suggest you take it.”

  “I asked for you to release both of us. I will not leave Roger here alone.” With you, she didn’t need to add. Her gaze turned imploring. “Please, won’t you just let us go?”

  He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. This was too important. He’d been handed a way to bring Clifford in line, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to throw it back—not all of it, at least. The king was counting on him.

  “You heard Douglas. You should consider yourself fortunate that I’ve decided to let you go. Your brother is causing trouble. Your nephew will ensure it stops.” />
  “Then keep me and let him go.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “The boy is more valuable. You might be his sister, but Roger is his heir.”

  “To most men, perhaps, but not my brother. He loves me. He’ll do anything—”

  She stopped, probably realizing she shouldn’t be saying that.

  “The lad stays.”

  She looked up at him, her big green eyes luminous in the misty moonlight. “Won’t you have pity? He’s only a boy. Just thirteen last month.”

  He steeled himself against the sheen of tears in her eyes. An onslaught he’d never faced in battle, and one that was proving more effective than any sword. God’s breath! He squeezed his fists. “That ‘boy’ would have put a blade through my back or slain any one of my men if given the chance. I’ll remind you that I wasn’t the one to put him in the battle.” It was hard as hell being cold and matter-of-fact with her looking at him like that. He relented—just a little. Her devotion to her nephew and attempt to protect him were admirable. “Your fears for the lad are unfounded. He does not need you here to defend him. He will be perfectly safe.”

  “And I am to believe that from you?” Her eyes met his. “Your reputation is well known, my lord.”

  There was just enough English haughtiness in her tone to set his temper right back on edge. “Perhaps you should have thought of that earlier.”

  It took her a moment to realize to what he was referring. When she flinched, he almost wished he could take it back.

  “I didn’t know who you were.” Her eyes searched his with an intensity verging on desperation that made him want to look away. She wanted something from him that if it ever had been there was long gone. “At the time, I thought I saw something worth saving. Something noble and honorable. Apparently, I was wrong. A man who would use a woman and child to his advantage—as a weapon in war—is without honor. A knight would never—”

  “Bloody hell! You English and your damned knights!” For a moment, staring into those fathomless green eyes, he’d been in danger of forgetting who she was. “You don’t need to tell me what a knight would do. I know all about English chivalry. If you think your countrymen are like heroes in some troubadour’s tale, you are dead wrong. Your king put a sword in my hand when I wasn’t much older than your nephew, and he invited my father and some other local chieftains to a parley—under a truce—and then treacherously slaughtered them all.”

  Her eyes widened and blinked, slowly.

  “Whatever I have done,” he continued, “I assure you, your countrymen have done far worse. Should I remind you of the two women who were hung in cages from English castles for over two years? Where the hell is the chivalry in that? Bruce’s queen, sisters, and daughter are still imprisoned by your king. The English have done everything they can to destroy and impoverish us: razing our countryside, taking our castles, raping our women, and killing our people for over fifteen years. So if winning this war and seeing my country free from English occupation and subjugations means I have to use a squire to do so, you can be damned sure I will do it. There is very little I wouldn’t do to win, so perhaps you’ll remember that before you start spouting off about rules and codes of which you know nothing.”

  She drew back at the onslaught but did not cower. “My God, you are nothing more than what they say: the Devil’s Enforcer. Bruce’s hired muscle. A brigand and a thug.”

  He’d been called a hell of a lot worse, but somehow her words pelted like stones—deeper and sharper than he would have thought possible.

  Furious, he stood and hauled her up beside him. It was a mistake. Standing close to her was like being caught in a fierce undertow. His senses flared as wildfire ignited through his blood.

  Their eyes held. He swore he could see the tiny flutter of her pulse at her neck and had to fight the urge not to reach down and caress it with his thumb.

  He couldn’t tell whether she was scared or aroused.

  She sucked in her breath and awareness crackled between them. The soft parting of her lips answered his question: aroused. Hot with it. Soft with it. Ripe with it.

  His eyes fixed on her mouth. A desire so fierce and strong rose inside him, every muscle in his body went rigid. He was a hairsbreadth from lowering his mouth down onto hers.

  What the hell was he doing?

  He let her go and took a step back. “If I were you, I’d be hoping you were wrong in your estimation of my character. A less-than-honorable man might think about taking you up on your invitation.”

  Her eyes widened, the vivid emeralds sparking with indignation. Lady Rosalin Clifford might look sweet and docile on the outside, but as he’d seen with her defense of her young nephew, the little kitten had the claws of a she-tiger when stirred. Usually he preferred women with more of an edge—experienced women who knew what they wanted. He’d assumed sweet meant boring. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again. Her combination of sweet and fierce was oddly arousing. Maddeningly arousing.

  “An invitation? By God, you must be mad! I don’t know what you think you saw, but I assure you, I am no longer a naive, starry-eyed maiden susceptible to a generous display of flexing muscle.” She smiled sweetly, her gaze skimming over some of those flexing muscles. “I outgrew oversized barbarians when I turned seventeen.”

  Claws and a sharp tongue to go along with it. Part of him admired her spirit, while another part of him wondered whether she spoke the truth. Had he imagined it?

  His eyes narrowed at something else. Seventeen. Christ, how the hell young had she been?

  The kiss that neither of them wanted to mention hung between them.

  “You weren’t eighteen,” he said flatly.

  Her small smile had a distinct devilish glint, as if she knew how much the answer would bother him. “Nay, just sixteen.”

  He grimaced and swore. Which meant she was only two and twenty now. Compared to his two and thirty, she was a child. God knew, in those ten years he’d seen a lifetime of pain and suffering.

  Suddenly, in the eyes of this beautiful girl brimming with youthful innocence and radiance, he felt very tired and very old.

  “You have until the morning to reconsider. But if I were you, Lady Rosalin, I’d take the offer. ’Tis not one you are likely to get again. I do not think you will find the hardships of war to your liking.”

  She stayed. Not that there had ever been a question on her part. Rosalin wouldn’t leave Roger to face the brutes and brigands on his own. They were in this together, and together they would get through it. Preferably without having to spend another wretched night sleeping on a dirt-floored cave with little more than a plaid for cover.

  Boyd was right. She didn’t like the “hardships” of war, especially living like an outlaw without even the most basic of necessities. She’d thought travel before difficult, but then the long stretches of riding had been broken up by stops at castles—or at the very worst an inn—with her own bedding and plenty of servants to attend her every need. Here, she didn’t even have a pitcher to wash her face or a comb to run through her hair.

  She supposed she should be grateful that she wasn’t sleeping outside surrounded by a bevy of brutish barbarians but was instead in a cave alone with Roger. But it was hard to be grateful for small mercies when they were imposed with such harshness.

  Boyd’s coldness toward her stung. She didn’t know what she’d expected him to be, but it wasn’t this horrible and unfeeling brute. He’d hardened to stone—just like that muscled body of his. He seemed a shell of the man he’d once been, consumed by vengeance and intent on vanquishing the enemy at any cost. Finding out she was Cliff’s sister had seemingly erased whatever good favor she might have curried by releasing him. She wasn’t surprised that he hated her brother or the English; she was just surprised by the depth of that hatred and that it included her.

  How dare he act like this after what she’d done! To Hades with the blighter. She supposed one good thing had come out of all this:
he’d certainly cured her of any romantic fantasies. She would marry Sir Henry when this ordeal was over and never look back.

  As it was clear he had no intention of releasing Roger, her thoughts turned toward escape. Although she and Roger had been permitted to be together in the cave, the moment they woke and tried to go down to the stream to wash, they were separated. Roger was taken to rejoin the rest of the group, while she was permitted a few moments—a very few moments—of privacy in which to tend her needs, wash her face and teeth in the icy water, and run her fingers through her hair before braiding it with the one frayed ribbon she had left. On second thought, she left her hair loose and tucked the ribbon in her purse, which hung from the thin leather girdle belted around her waist. She had an idea.

  The best part of the morning, however, was when she was led back to camp and learned that over half the men had departed, including—to her and Roger’s great relief—the Black Douglas. Apparently, they were taking all the ill-gained pirate plunder from the raids to Robert Bruce in the North. She and Roger were being taken elsewhere. Their captor was far less forthcoming about that, but from the southwesterly direction they’d been riding, the daunting Ettrick Forest still seemed a likely destination.

  The second-best moment of the morning had been learning that horses had been arranged for her and Roger, so she would not be forced to ride tandem with the stoic and taciturn Callum. It also gave her an opportunity to begin implementing her plan.

  Working carefully, to ensure no one could see what she was doing, Rosalin slid the frayed pink ribbon from her purse and began pulling threads free, dropping them every furlong or so. If her brother and his men were tracking them, the threads would leave a trail for them to follow. But without the sumpter horses and extra goods, they were traveling at a much faster pace. She would have to try to find a way to slow them down.