His men might view her with varying degrees of animosity, but there was no denying her beauty, nobility, and innocence. Well, perhaps she was not so innocent, but he sure as hell shouldn’t think about that.
Yet it seemed all he could do was think about that. Robbie…
Ah hell.
He must have sworn aloud.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay, just hurry it up, lad.”
He should be telling himself the same thing. Robbie knew he was playing with fire. The sooner the “Fair Rosalin” was gone, the better. She had him all twisted up in knots. He was afraid to sleep in his own tent, he was irritable and ill-tempered from lack of sleep, he was shaving in the middle of the day, he’d found himself bellowing at Iain and Archie Douglas for frowning, and he’d agreed to let a hostage—his means of bringing Clifford to heel—have free roam of the camp.
He’d also agreed to try to be nice—friendly. Christ, what the hell had he gotten himself into? He liked her too damned much already.
If their conversation earlier in the tent was any indication, she would know his life story before she left here. His schooling? Wallace? A farmer? For a moment he’d actually pictured himself with a wife and bairns running all around him. Pretty soon he’d be confiding in her how he’d come to join the Guard.
But it was her reaction that was the problem. Compassion, understanding, and a deep sense of justice were the last things he expected to find from an Englishwoman, let alone the paragon of injustice’s sister. But Rosalin was still the same sweet girl who six years ago risked everything to right a perceived wrong. Wrapped up in a more sophisticated package, perhaps, but in all the ways that mattered, unchanged.
He wished he could say the same. But six years of war had hardened him. Focused him. Leaving no room for anything else.
For both their sakes, the sooner her brother agreed to the truce, the better.
Malcolm finished and handed Robbie a damp drying cloth to wipe away any stray hairs.
“That’s an unusual blade,” the lad said, handing it back to him. “Where did you get it?”
Robbie took it and slid it back into his sporran. “A friend of mine made it for me.”
Magnus MacKay, known by the war name of Saint in the Highland Guard, wasn’t just the toughest bastard Boyd knew, with more knowledge of the hazardous terrain of the Highlands than any other man, he was also skilled at forging unusual weapons, and on occasion, improving other everyday tools like the razor.
Ironically, he was also standing in front of him a few minutes later, along with Kenneth Sutherland, the newest member of the Guard, Ewen Lamont, Eoin MacLean, Arthur Campbell, and Gregor MacGregor. The six members of the Highland Guard had arrived with Douglas from Dundee. Douglas was one of the handful of the king’s closest advisors who knew of the secret band of warriors—and their identities.
Right away Robbie knew two things: Bruce had a mission for them, and it must be an important one if it required nearly all of his elite Guard. Only Tor MacLeod, Erik MacSorley, and Lachlan MacRuairi were absent.
They stood on the edge of camp in the clearing that they used for practice, where Robbie had greeted them when he’d been informed by the scouts around camp of their arrival.
“What’s the occasion?” MacKay said with an eye to Robbie’s jaw, exchanging grasps of the forearm by way of greeting. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you clean-shaven.”
Robbie swore inwardly, cursing the impulse that would give his brethren even a whiff of a scent to follow. They were tenacious curs, every last one of them. If they connected his shaving with Rosalin’s presence, he would never hear the end of it.
“It was at your wedding, Saint,” MacGregor offered helpfully.
Robbie shot him a glare. “The only reason you know that was because you’re still angry about the lass. I know it’s hard for you to believe, but not all women prefer a pretty face.”
Even after seven years, MacGregor hated being reminded of his dubious distinction of being known as the most handsome man in Scotland. For a warrior as skilled with a bow as he was, it was particularly galling to be known for something so embarrassingly un-warriorly.
MacGregor shot him a glare. “Sod off, Raider.”
Seton looked as if he might say something, but reconsidered after Robbie gave him a look that promised retribution if he did.
Douglas wasn’t as circumspect. “I hope this doesn’t have anything to do with our hostages? The king was troubled by the taking of the lass. I told him it hadn’t been intentional and that you intended to let her go. But he’s made you personally responsible for them both.”
“Too bad, too,” MacGregor added. “I would have liked to see the Fair Rosalin. If even Douglas here conceded her beauty, the lass must be sensational.”
Why the hell did Robbie suddenly feel the urge to make that face of his not so pretty? Masking the annoyance he felt at MacGregor, he turned back to Douglas. “Aye, well, there’s been a change of plans.”
Douglas’s face darkened. “What kind of change of plans?”
“The lad got away.”
There was a moment of dead silence as the men stared at him. Robbie Boyd didn’t make mistakes like that.
“You let Clifford’s son escape?” Douglas spit out, giving voice to what all of them were thinking.
“I didn’t let him do anything. The lad shimmied down a forty-foot-long rope from the garret of Kirkton Manor in the middle of the night and made it to Peebles Castle before I realized he was gone.”
Douglas was furious. “Was no one standing guard? How the hell did you let this happen? He’s Clifford’s heir, for Christ’s sake!”
Robbie wasn’t used to being taken to task like a wet-behind-the-ears squire—even if in this case, it was deserved. “I was standing guard, and if you have a problem with my abilities we can put them to the test on the practice yard.”
Douglas didn’t take him up on the challenge and backed off. “But you still have the lass?” he said.
“Aye.”
Douglas was looking at him as if he knew there was more, but sensed that he’d pushed Robbie about as far as he could.
Excusing himself, Douglas left to see to his men, who had gone to the Great Hall to find food and drink after the long ride.
As soon as he’d gone, Robbie turned to MacKay. “I assume you are here for a reason?”
The big Highlander nodded. “Aye. You and Dragon need to gather your things. We’ll need to leave as soon as possible if we are to make it by nightfall.”
“Where are we going?”
“Lochmaben. We’ve received word of a shipment of silver from Carlisle heading north to pay the garrison at Stirling. The coin will be heavily guarded—the English aren’t taking any chances of it not getting through.”
“Your information is reliable?”
“Extremely,” Lamont interjected. Hunter’s new wife, the former Janet of Mar, had worked with a source inside Roxburgh Castle who had never been wrong, and Robbie assumed from Lamont’s confidence that was where the information had come from. They’d taken to calling their informant the Ghost.
“The English have taken a few of our lessons to heart,” Sutherland added, “and have set up a diversionary shipment going to Caerlaverloch. Chief, Hawk, and Viper are monitoring the coast, just in case, but we intend to intercept them before they reach Lochmaben for the night.”
“How many?” Seton asked.
“We’re not sure,” Lamont said.
“Possibly as many as fifty,” MacLean said with a shrug.
Robbie lifted a brow, anticipation for battle already surging through his veins. “What are the rest of you going to do?”
He even managed to get a chuckle out of Arthur Campbell at that. The famed scout was one of the quieter members of the Guard.
Robbie was just about to send his brethren to the Hall to get some food while he and Seton headed off to Douglas’s tent (where he’d removed from prying eyes t
he distinctive armor he wore on Highland Guard missions), when MacGregor let out a low whistle.
“Christ almighty, if that’s your hostage, I think I’m going to start joining you on your raids.”
Robbie followed the direction of his gaze, seeing Rosalin hurrying out of the Hall, looking as if the devil were on her heels. She must have seen Douglas. If the bastard had scared her—
He stopped, thinking of another bastard. “Stay the hell away from her, Arrow.”
He might have growled.
MacGregor wasn’t the only one to look at him. The other Guardsmen eyed him with varying degrees of lifted eyebrows and understanding.
“Is that the way of it?” MacGregor said slowly, considering him. “Clifford’s sister? Of all the women in the world to finally catch your eye! I can’t wait for Hawk to hear about this.”
Robbie silently swore every foul word he could think of. Since when had he become so transparent? He clenched his jaw. Since the moment Rosalin Clifford had ended up tossed over his lap.
“The lass is my hostage, nothing more. My temporary hostage. But yours is not a face most lasses forget. I think you’d probably rather not have her brother learn of your presence in camp.”
It was a good excuse, but not one any of them believed.
MacKay stayed back while the others strode off. He gave Robbie a pitying look. “I’ve been there,” he said. “And so have most of the others. I think only Chief and Hawk escaped the curse.”
“What curse?”
MacKay’s mouth hardened. “The curse of that damned face. Bloody hell, my wife threatened to have Arrow watch over her if I wouldn’t when she came on our missions.”
Robbie gave an involuntary shudder. No man would want his wife in that kind of proximity to MacGregor. “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill him.”
MacKay smiled. “I made him pay on the practice yard, and enjoyed every bloody minute of it.”
“You could have done something about the face.”
MacKay shook his head. “I tried, damn it, I tried. But I think Arrow’s mother dipped it in the same water that Achilles’s mother used. He heals without a scratch.”
Robbie laughed and went off to fetch his things. A mission was exactly what he needed to remind him of what was important. Rosalin Clifford may have distracted him, but it wasn’t going to get in the way of what he had to do.
Fourteen
Rosalin had her freedom, but she was too scared to use it. After coming face-to-face with the Black Douglas, she’d scurried back to her tent like a frightened mouse. Three hours of waiting later—with no Robbie appearing to reassure her—she decided that she was being ridiculous. Robbie had told her Douglas wouldn’t harm her; she would believe him. She was also hungry. The removal of her guards meant she would have to fetch her own food.
Mustering her courage, she wrapped her plaid around her shoulders and headed out of the tent into the cool evening mist. From her experience so far in Scotland there seemed to be little else: morning mist, midday mist, and evening mist. Today, the gloom was heavier than usual, almost seamlessly switching back and forth between a drizzling, dreary rain.
Remembering the reaction her arrival in the Hall had caused earlier—and the discomfort of being stared at by so many—Rosalin decided to seek out a smaller number of curious-wary-angry gazes and headed toward the camp kitchens, which had been set up against the back wall of the Hall. A wooden roof protected the pots and fires from the rain and snow, but the walls that enclosed the area were only on three sides and didn’t go all the way up, offering little insulation from the cold and wind.
It was a crude but efficient setup. In addition to the pots hanging in fires, there were a few tables to prepare the meals and a large bread oven constructed of stone.
Apparently, the women at camp weren’t here just to be companions for the men. They were also serving maids for the meals. One woman looked up as she approached and whispered something to the dark-haired woman standing beside her.
Rosalin’s foot seemed to stutter mid-step, and she nearly stumbled. It was the woman who’d kissed Robbie. Deirdre.
A pit of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach, and her courage faltered. The last thing she wanted to do was be confronted by an angry mistress. After years at court, Rosalin was under no illusions about women. They could be every bit as cruel and ruthless as men. Perhaps more so.
But she forced her feet forward and her chin up. She was Lady Rosalin Clifford, sister of one of the most important barons in England. She did not cower and run.
Usually. But she was painfully aware that none of that mattered here. Her rank would afford her little protection with these women. They didn’t care who she was, they only knew what she was: English, a hostage, and the sister of the man who was probably the most hated in Scotland.
A third woman had joined the first two by the time Rosalin drew close enough to hear them. Of course they were speaking in Gaelic, so she couldn’t understand a word. From the way the two other women deferred to Deirdre, however, Rosalin guessed that she must be in charge.
She was older than she’d appeared at first glance. At least a good handful of years beyond Rosalin and the other two girls, who appeared closer to her own two and twenty. She was prettier, too, than she’d realized, possessing the kind of bold sensuality that Rosalin could never hope to emulate. With her dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and wide mouth, Deirdre’s features were sharp—almost exotic-looking—making Rosalin suddenly feel drab and uninteresting by comparison.
And then there was her figure. Rosalin wrapped her plaid around her chest self-consciously. She could never hope to compare in that arena. Buxom and curvaceous were putting it mildly.
The two younger women were also brown-haired, albeit lighter in complexion and eye color, but not as fair of face. There was a sullen, downtrodden look to them that spoke of hardship. Deirdre had it as well, but hers was better hidden behind the sharp edge of maturity. There was little this woman hadn’t seen, and Rosalin didn’t know whether to pity or envy her for it.
The three women must have been clearing the dishes, as a stack of used trays, trenchers, goblets, and pitchers had been deposited on one of the worktables. Two large tubs of water set out next to it suggested that they were about to start washing.
Rosalin came to a stop in front of the table opposite them. She looked down at the dirty dishes, a wry smile turning her mouth. “It seems I’ve missed the meal.”
She assumed they would speak English, but the blank expressions and awkward silence that followed made her wonder.
Finally, Deirdre responded. “Fetch the lady something to eat, Mor,” she said to one of the girls at her side. Then to Rosalin, she said, “The cook has just taken in a few more trays. If you like, I will have Mor bring it to you there.”
Her tone was more matter-of-fact than friendly or deferential, but free of the malice or resentment Rosalin had feared.
Rosalin shook her head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I will take it back to my tent.” A loud roar emitted from the Hall behind them. “I should not wish to disturb their celebration.”
“They are not celebrating—no more than any other night when ale and whisky are plentiful.” She studied Rosalin’s face with a scrutiny that made her wish she could read minds. “But you are probably right. They are not the most reasonable in this state.” Rosalin took that to mean her Englishness would not be appreciated—or rather, would be even less appreciated than normal. Deirdre eyed her askance. “Iain is not fetching your meals?”
Rosalin shook her head. “Robb—” She blushed, and quickly corrected, “The captain has given me permission to move around the camp.”
Deirdre lifted a brow at that. “He has? Hmm.”
Rosalin didn’t know what that “hmm” meant, but it didn’t seem as if she agreed with Robbie’s decision.
Rosalin tried to explain. “I threatened to die of boredom, which would make me quite useless as a hostage.”
The faint hint of a smile lifted one corner of the other woman’s mouth. “You do not need to defend him to me, my lady; the captain makes his own decisions. I would not think to question them.”
Rosalin was aware of a subtle undercurrent and realized Deirdre was probably referring to other decisions as well—such as the one that had taken him from her bed.
Feeling a tightening in her heart, Rosalin was suddenly anxious to leave. In spite of the woman’s unexpected equanimity, she was painfully aware of the man who was between them. The man Deirdre had had, but Rosalin…never would.
The truth hit her with a blow. She understood what Deirdre must have known from the first. Deirdre didn’t resent her because she didn’t fear her. I’m not a threat to her. Rosalin might have distracted him temporarily, but eventually she would go, and when she did…
Rosalin saw her thoughts mirrored in the woman’s eyes. When she did, he would go back to Deirdre’s bed.
Her stomach turned, and it took everything she had to hold back the hard press of tears that sprang to her eyes. It had taken Robbie’s mistress to make her see what was so obvious. There could never be anything meaningful between them. She was temporary. A means to an end. When he’d exacted what payment he could from her brother, she would be sent back and undoubtedly never see him again.
Fortunately, the girl—Mor—chose that moment to return with a small tray of food. Rosalin took it from her and recovered her composure enough to thank her. “I will return the tray when I am finished.”
“The morning will be soon enough,” Deirdre said absently, already turning her attention back to the stack of dishes in front of her.
The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 20
