That was about the gist of it, but it hadn’t sounded so bad when he thought it.
She made a sharp harrumphing sound and mumbled something about spoiled, too-handsome-for-their-own-good brutes that almost made him smile.
She stomped over to where he stood by his bed and put her hands on her hips. “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, I should like you to try.”
He looked down at her and wanted to pull her into his arms so badly, his muscles ached from the restraint.
“Can you do that?” she asked.
When all he had to do was smell her and he wanted to toss her down on the bed behind them? “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “From what I’ve seen, you are plenty strong.”
He gave her a sharp glance. Naughty lass! That wasn’t what he meant. And it wasn’t going to help his restraint. “Not when it comes to you. We can’t—” He stopped, trying to think of a way to say it less crudely. “I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did or let you touch me the way you just did. It’s dangerous. The next time, I might not stop. I don’t seem to have much control when it comes to you. Nor do I wish to give your brother a reason to kill me that is deserved.”
She shivered, but whether it was from fear or something else, he didn’t want to guess.
“Does that mean you won’t try?”
She looked so disheartened, he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll try,” he said, even if he suspected it was going to kill him.
The broad smile that lit her face made him reconsider. He didn’t suspect a damned thing; it was killing him already.
“Truce,” she said, holding out her hand.
Reluctantly, he clutched her soft hand in his own. “Truce,” he repeated.
Robbie had his truce with a Clifford, though he wondered how much this one was going to cost him.
Thirteen
Rosalin saw little of him over the next two days. Apparently, Robbie’s idea of a truce was to duck in long enough to grab some clothes, mumble a few words, and then disappear. He slept in the tent with her, but he waited until after she was asleep to creep in and woke before she was awake to creep back out.
In between, she tried to keep herself busy and do her best (without much success) to not perish of boredom. During the long hours alone, with only her none-too-friendly Douglas guardsmen for the curt exchange of words that passed as “conversation” (they probably thought something was wrong with her, she asked to go to the privy so often just to go outside), Rosalin was seriously considering mutiny. Or, as they weren’t on a ship, open rebellion.
The first day, she’d attended to her person and her much abused clothing. She’d combed her hair until it was free of every last knot and tangle and fell around her shoulders in long, shimmery waves, and pounded and brushed her woolen gowns until they were free of most of the dirt. They still smelled of smoke, though, so she asked one of the dour Douglas brothers (she’d learned their names at least: Iain and Archie) to fetch her some dried heather and packed the gowns with it. By the following morning her chemise was completely dry and her gowns smelled good enough to wear again.
She’d never cleaned in her life, but by the second day, she’d wiped every surface, tidied every furnishing, and practiced making the beds enough times to rival any of the maidservants at Whitehall Palace. She’d even mixed in some of the dried heather with the rushes to brighten the smell of peat that seemed to linger on everything.
While in the process of putting away the linens and plaid that she’d borrowed, Rosalin decided to take a peek through the rest of the trunk. Normally she wouldn’t be so nosy, or show such a lack of regard for someone’s privacy, but really it was Robbie’s own fault. If he wasn’t going to tell her about himself, then she was going to have to see what she could find out on her own.
Never far from her mind was his admission that felt like more of a confession: I don’t know if I’m strong enough.
She knew he’d meant it as a warning—and it had been well taken. He was right: her brother would kill him. But the idea that she could weaken him so warmed her and sent a little—well, not so little—thrill shooting through her. It also provoked an urge in her to dig deeper, to see if maybe it meant something more. Fate had brought them together again, and she couldn’t help but think there was a reason.
She didn’t know what she expected to find, maybe a few mementos—a sprig of dried flowers or a lock of hair from a past sweetheart, a brooch or ring, something that hinted to his past—but that wasn’t the treasure trove she uncovered when she dug through the stack of carefully folded linens, clothing, and armor, to the bottom of the trunk.
One by one, Rosalin pulled out leather-bound codex after leather-bound codex. There were seven in all, most containing multiple works. It was a small fortune in manuscripts ranging from Socrates and Plato to Augustine and the relatively new work of Father Thomas Aquinas, of whom there was talk of making a saint. They were scholarly works that did not belong in the war chest of a…barbarian. Good gracious, he could rival her brother in his philosophical learnings!
There were also a few histories. She picked up one of the volumes, entitled Historia Romana, by someone named Appian of Alexandria. She paged through the thick pieces of parchment, scanning the carefully inked words in Latin. Picking up another, she was stunned to see that it was written in Greek.
Did Robbie really read these? If the well-worn bindings were any indication, it appeared that he did—quite frequently.
She was so enthralled by her discovery that she didn’t hear him enter until he was standing right behind her. “What are you doing?”
She looked up guiltily from her cross-legged position on the ground before his trunk. It was quite obvious what she was doing, and his dark scowl reflected that knowledge, but she answered anyway. “I was bored.”
His eyes narrowed. “So you decided to go through my belongings?”
“I was putting away the tunic and plaid I borrowed and happened to see these.”
He gave her a look that suggested he knew otherwise.
He glanced around the tent, noticing the changes she’d made. “You aren’t a serving maid, Rosalin.”
“Nay, I’m a hostage,” she said cheekily. Seeing his frown, she added quickly, “It’s something to do.”
He ignored her hint. “Aye, well, just make sure you make that clear to your brother when you come back with callused hands.”
She picked up one of the books and started to flip through it again. “Why would you wish to hide these? They are wonderful.”
“I’m not hiding anything. I just would have rather you had asked me first.”
“Which I would have, had you been here. But as you’ve avoided me for the past—”
“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”
She blinked up at him innocently. “Haven’t you? Hmm. You must be very busy if you can’t retire until after midnight and wake before dawn.” She could see his temper flaring, and decided to switch subjects before she started to laugh. Teasing him was surprisingly fun. Holding up the codex she’d been leafing through, she asked, “Do you really read Greek?”
“Aye, a bit.” He practically snatched it from her hand. “Have care with that. It’s a rare partial manuscript of Roman history by Polybius.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard of him.”
He carefully placed the book back in the trunk and started to pick up the others to do the same. “Aye, well, I doubt many lasses are well versed in military history.”
“And I doubt many Scottish warriors are well versed in Greek and ancient philosophy.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “We aren’t all barbarians.” She glanced away so that he wouldn’t see her blush. How had he guessed she’d had that exact thought? “We even have schools in Scotland, just like they do in England.”
She ignored the sarcasm, focusing instead on what he’d said and the oppo
rtunity to learn more about him. She stood from the ground, shook out her skirts, and plopped down on the stool nearby. “So you went away to school when you were younger?”
He’d replaced all the books and seemed to be looking for something in his trunk. But he took the time to shoot her a look that said he knew what she was up to. “Aye. In Dundee.”
“Is that near where you grew up?”
He sighed and turned to face her. “It is not.” When it seemed that was all he intended to say on the subject, her disappointment must have shown in her expression. He continued with all the enthusiasm of having a tooth pulled. “I was born in my father’s barony of Noddsdale, near Renfrew in Ayr, on the west coast of Scotland and was fostered in the Borders. Dundee is in the east of Scotland on the north side of the Tay. About thirty miles south of Kildrummy.”
“That’s quite a distance to travel for schooling.”
“It’s a well-known school, attended by young lairds and chieftains from all around Scotland. The vicar who taught me there—a man by the name of William Mydford—among other things, was an ardent military strategist. The ‘pirate’ warfare of which your countrymen often disparage us is actually traced to some of those books.”
Her skepticism must have shown.
“Both Appian and Polybius wrote of Hannibal, the Carthaginian general reputed to be one of the greatest military strategists of all time. He was famous not only for his use of ambuscade, scorched earth, and for catching the Romans off guard by crossing the Alps, but also for teaching the Romans fear.”
Rosalin had heard something of Hannibal. “He was also reputed to be unspeakably cruel.”
He held her gaze. “By whom? The descendants of the Romans he defeated? Even Polybius, Greek by birth but Roman by affiliation, conceded that like most people he was probably good and bad.”
She smiled. “So you went to school to learn to be a brigand?”
He shot her a look and seeing that she was teasing him, shook his head. “Nay, I was born knowing how to do that.”
She scanned the leather-clad arms and chest. “Aye, I don’t doubt it. You look as if you were born with a sword in your hand.”
“I didn’t need a sword until the English put one there. It was never my desire to be a warrior. I would have been content—” He stopped suddenly, looking away, as if the memories had overtaken him for a moment but he’d been able to wrestle them back under control.
When he turned back to her, the good-humored teasing they’d shared a few minutes ago was once again carefully contained behind the determined, humorless facade. “School is where I learned to be a ‘rebel.’ It’s where I learned about justice—real justice, not the English version—the tyranny of oppression, and the principles of liberty and freedom that give Scotland and the community of the realm the ancient right and responsibility to anoint its own king and not be ruled by a foreign one.”
Unwittingly, Rosalin’s discovery of the books had raised the specter of all that was between them. The teachings in these manuscripts had fostered the fierce patriotism that gave him the single-minded determination to fight for Scotland’s independence against her countrymen.
She was embarrassed to realize that she’d never given much thought to the Scots’ side of things or that they might have their foundations in something so…scholarly. Indeed, they were likely the same philosophical underpinnings that her countrymen used to justify the war. She’d thought of the Scots as ruthless brigands, as backward barbarians. But what if…what if they had cause to fight? What if they had justice on their side?
Even the thought felt disloyal to her brother, not to mention treasonous to her king. But how could she ignore all that Robbie had told her about what happened to him?
It was disconcerting to think that the enemy were not uncivilized rebels who needed to be brought to heel, but educated warriors fighting for freedom and justice.
But she wanted to know what he’d been about to say. “What would you have been content with?”
He retrieved the item he’d been looking for from his trunk and slid it into the sporran at his waist. She’d caught only a quick glance, but it looked to be a curved piece of thin metal with a short handle.
Though her question seemed to have made him uncomfortable, he answered. “My brother Duncan had the love of battle like my father. I would have been content to till our land and raise our cattle. Before everything was razed, that is.”
It took her a moment to process what he’d said. “You wanted to be a farmer?” This man who seemed to epitomize war and warfare?
His mouth hardened, as if her disbelief had offended him. “Aye. Well, the decision was taken from my hands when my father was murdered by your countrymen. I left school at seven and ten, joined the risings with my school companion and boyhood friend William Wallace, and never looked back.” He nodded to the trunk. “Those books belonged to him, by the way.”
She paled. William Wallace, dear God! Many English were just as horrified by what had happened to him as the Scots. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You didn’t kill him.” He said it matter-of-factly, but she sensed the deep emotion underlying the careless words.
“Perhaps not, but I’m sorry for everything you lost. The life you describe…It sounds nice. I shouldn’t have said those things to you earlier—calling you a thug and a brigand. I didn’t realize—” She stopped and looked at him. “I know little about the war or the history between our two countries, but with what you have told me, I think I understand now why you fight.” She paused. “You had a brother?”
“Aye. Duncan was captured after the battle of Methven, not long before I was captured at Kildrummy. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a guardian angel to rescue him and was executed before I could reach him.”
She put her hand on his arm, her heart breaking for him. His father, his sister, his brother, his closest friends, his home and future. She didn’t dare ask about his mother. “I’m so sorry.”
He stared at her hand, as if no one had ever touched him with compassion like that before and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Eventually, he shrugged it off. “It was a long time ago, Rosalin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”
She jumped up. “Wait!” She couldn’t let him go without trying. “I have something to ask you. A rebellion of my own, so to speak.”
He looked at her blankly.
She bit her lip. “Is there…might I be permitted…” She drew a deep, exasperated breath and just blurted it out. “I’m dying of boredom in here with nothing to do. Might I be allowed some freedom to move about? You’ve made the danger of attempting to escape perfectly clear.”
He gave her a long look. “You will give me your word you will not try to escape?”
Was he recalling the similar condition she’d made once?
She repeated the words he’d said to her from the pit prison. “My word is good enough for you?”
“It is.”
She smiled. “Then you have it. I swear I will not attempt to escape while I am here.”
He nodded. “Do not stray from camp without me or one of my men. It can be dangerous. And do not expect much from those at camp—as I’ve said, your brother is not a popular man in these parts. You’ll not find many friendly faces.”
Rosalin was so excited by the prospect of fresh air, she didn’t care. “You will remove your watchdogs? I’ve had quite enough of the dour Douglas brothers. I don’t like the way they look at me.”
He took a step toward her, the muscles in his shoulders flaring. “Have they done something to offend you? If they’ve hurt—”
“No, no. Nothing like that. They’ve attended to their duty admirably under the circumstances. You can’t blame them for frowning all the time—given who my brother is.”
He relaxed, no longer looking like the God of War bent on destruction. “Good. I would kill any man who tried to hurt you.”
The vehemence of his words startled her—as did the i
nstinct. The primitive instinct of a man to protect a woman. Nay, not just a woman, his woman.
“I know,” she said. And she did. Robbie Boyd would protect her with his life. She was safe with him.
But was she safe from him? Could he protect her from himself? For the longer she stayed here, and the more she came to know and understand him, the harder it was going to be to leave.
He considered her for a moment. “Very well. I will remove the guards.”
She brightened at the unexpected concession. “Thank you.”
Their eyes held for one brief instant, but it was enough to fill her chest with a strange warmth.
He gave her a curt nod and left.
Robbie winced when the blade nicked his neck. “Bloody hell, Malcolm, watch what you are doing. I’ve need of a shave, not a gulleting.”
The lad grimaced as he carefully scraped the half-moon-shaped blade along Robbie’s jaw. “Sorry, Captain. My brother is the barber.”
Robbie drew his hand over the shaved area, a few fingers coming back with blood. “Aye, well, ’tis a good thing it’s only a shave and not an arrow in my arm.”
The lad frowned. “You could have waited for Angus to return with the Douglas. I don’t know why you are in such a rush—they should be back any day. You’ve had a beard before.”
“As I told you, it itches,” Robbie said, too defensively even to his own ears.
What in Hades was he doing? The lad was right. He was used to being stubbled. He liked stubbled.
But not unkempt, and every time he looked at Rosalin, he felt like the damned barbarian she thought him.
She didn’t belong here. He knew it, and everyone around him did as well. Each time she stepped out of the tent, it was as if a hush descended on the camp. Everyone stopped and turned toward her, watching her as if she were some kind of ethereal creature from another world.
With her fine—even if slightly stained—clothes, her refined English manners, and her pristine ice-blond coloring, she looked like she should be dancing under the candelabra of Whitehall Palace, not tidying his tent in the middle of Ettrick Forest. And after months of living with the “rustic” amenities of their headquarters in the heather, Robbie and his men looked like they should be thrown into the Tower of London for just daring to look at her.
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