But it wasn’t Seton’s threat that worried him now. It was this other feeling. This bigger feeling that seemed to be growing in his chest and overtaking everything else. The feeling that made him want to slay every dragon for her so he wouldn’t have to see this look on her face again.
Rosalin Clifford felt too keenly. That was her problem. And it would only bring her disappointment and frustration. He should know. One day she would learn the hard truth that she could not right every wrong in the world. He was almost glad he wouldn’t be around to see it. Almost.
But that didn’t mean he was untouched by her outrage on behalf of the lass. And he couldn’t help but think of his sister. If someone like Rosalin had been there to stand up for Marian, maybe she wouldn’t have felt that there was no other road but the one that led off a cliff.
“I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. He forced himself not to look at it. “I did not mean to raise bitter memories. Of course you know of what I speak.”
Her head was tipped back to look at him. The soft scent of lavender permeated his senses. She was standing so close, all he had to do was bend his head down and his lips would be touching hers.
Fire roared in his blood in anticipation. His eyes flickered over the too-beautiful features, the wide green eyes, the dark, long lashes, the red lips and velvety-soft skin, and all he could think about was watching those lips part, those lashes flutter over half-lidded eyes, those creamy cheeks flush as he brought her to the peak of pleasure with his hands—and his mouth.
God, he wanted to taste her. He wanted to slide his tongue between her legs and ravish her until she bucked and arched. Until she broke apart and came into his mouth with a hot rush. He could almost taste her on his lips. Feel the warm silk of her honey sliding against his tongue.
He almost groaned. Desire coursed through every vein in his body, reverberating like a drum. And she heard it. Sensed it. Her eyes grew hazy. Her mouth opened in a soft gasp of anticipation.
He leaned into her, feeling the soft shudder that rippled through her as if it were his own.
His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. His fists clenched against the temptation. The temptation he had to resist.
With a muttered curse, he stepped back. “I need to bathe before the meal.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before stalking out of the tent.
He wasn’t running away, damn it. It was self-preservation.
But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. It couldn’t be much longer, he told himself. The envoy to Clifford would return at any time, Clifford would agree to the truce—what else could he do?—Rosalin would leave, and Robbie would be one step closer to achieving the only thing that mattered: winning the war and freedom from English rule.
Freedom from men like her brother.
His jaw hardened. A few more cold dips in the burn would get him through this. If only the memories were as easy to wash away from his body as the lust.
Sixteen
Robbie entered the Hall a short while later—clean, if not more relaxed—and was surprised to see Rosalin seated at one end of the trestle table next to Seton. Douglas, not surprisingly, was at the opposite end.
He knew she was still uneasy around Douglas, even though his friend had stopped looking at her as if she were Satan’s spawn (or in this case, his sister). He took a seat on the other side of Seton to act as another barrier. It wasn’t because he didn’t think he could take sitting next to her for a couple of hours. He couldn’t be that weak.
Bloody hell.
He spent most of the meal conversing with Fraser and trying to ignore the easy conversation between his partner and the woman who was driving him to distraction. What in the hell were they talking about? Why were they whispering? Why was she laughing so much? And why did he care?
Because Seton was right. Robbie was jealous. Deeply and irrationally jealous. He might not be able to have her, but he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else having her—and sure as hell not the partner who’d been a thorn in his side.
He was saved from doing something embarrassing—like bellowing at them to stop making so much noise—by the appearance before him of one of the serving women. As the lass leaned over to refill his tankard of ale, he caught sight of her cheek.
A reflexive surge of rage rushed through him at the sight of the large, angry-looking bruise. Instantly he understood Rosalin’s outrage.
The lass had spilled a couple of drops that ran over the edge of the table into his lap, and glancing at his expression, misunderstood the source of his anger. She looked terrified. “I’m sorry, my lord. I will fetch a cloth to clean it up.”
He snagged hold of her wrist before she could move away. She was fine-boned like Rosalin, and the fragility only made him more furious. But feeling her tremble with fear forced a gentleness into his tone. “The ale is nothing. My concern is for your injury. Who did this to you, lass?”
Though he was not speaking loudly, quite a few of the occupants of the room had taken notice of the conversation, including the man he suspected of striking her. Fergal Halliday was a minor laird from nearby, and good with a sword, but he also had a vicious temper when drunk.
His suspicions were confirmed when her gaze darted nervously and unconsciously to the man in question at the far side of the Hall. “No one, my lord. It was me. I…” She seemed to try to be thinking of something that would explain the bruise that was clearly caused by a hand. “It’s so silly,” she said with a forced laugh. “I tripped a few nights ago on my way back to my pallet and hit the edge of the table.”
He caught Rosalin’s eye. It was a poor excuse. And were it not for Rosalin’s warning and the lass’s own pleading look, he would have said so and demanded the truth from her. But Rosalin was right—she had been punished enough. He would not take her livelihood from her. Fergal would be dealt with as well. As Captain Robbie could make his life hell for the next week or so.
He released her arm. “An unfortunate accident indeed,” he said slowly. “I hope that it will not happen again. You will come to me if it does.” He held her gaze so there could be no doubt of what he spoke. “No woman should suffer such abuse, and you can be assured it will not be tolerated. You are welcome here, lass, and I hope no one makes you think otherwise.”
Her eyes widened with shock. It was clear she was so unused to kindness that she didn’t know how to react. Slowly the edges of her mouth started to curve, and by the time the smile reached her eyes they were shining with gratitude.
“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”
She hurried away, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.
Robbie glanced toward Rosalin. It was a mistake. He’d had many admiring stares from women—his reputation and popularity at the Games had earned him more than his share—but none had ever felt like this. None had ever made the air in his lungs expand and his chest swell. None had ever made him feel like the most important man in the room. And none sure as hell had ever made him want to keep that look shining in her eyes forever.
A man could get used to that look.
A man could learn to crave that look.
A man could do something stupid for that look.
But damn it, Bruce needed Clifford’s agreement, and Robbie couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. And what he wanted from Rosalin Clifford would sure as hell jeopardize it.
Right now they had momentum, and Clifford’s resistance could easily change that. Not only might it encourage others to follow, but it would stop the progress Bruce was making in retaking his castles.
Robbie forced his gaze away. God’s blood, where was that messenger? He should have been here by now.
Gulping down the remaining ale in his cup, he got to his feet. He had to get out of here.
Before he could start down the aisle to the door, it was thrown back and the very man he’d wanted to see came striding toward him. The man he thought he’d wanted to see. But the stone of dread that sank in his chest wh
en he recognized the envoy told him otherwise.
Clifford’s agreement to the truce had arrived. Robbie’s gaze slid to Rosalin, and the weight in his chest started to burn. He was going to have to give her back.
The Hall had been cleared while Robbie, Sir Alex, the Black Douglas, and a handful of other men talked to the envoy. Rosalin paced nervously outside the door to learn her fate.
She had no doubt her brother would do whatever it took to free her, but how soon would she be forced to leave?
She stopped in her tracks. Blood drained from her face. Forced? Was that what it had become? Did she actually want to stay with the rebels, living in a tent in the godforsaken wilds of the most inhospitable countryside she’d ever seen, with one of the most hated men in England? A man whose very name conjured up whispers of demons? The man whose head her brother longed to see on a pike over the gates of his castle?
It was so inconceivable, so impossible, it couldn’t be true. Of course she wanted to go back to England. To her pretty, clean dresses, her luxurious castles, her comfortable life with the family who loved her.
Her brother’s family. Not hers. Though she loved them with all her heart, they would never be hers. She would have a life with…
The realization hit her with such force it nearly knocked her down. Sir Henry. God in heaven, how could she have forgotten about the man she was supposed to marry?
But forgotten him she had. Utterly and completely. Her stomach started to toss so violently, she had to sit down on one of the stairs. Wrapping her arms around her waist, she tried to calm the sudden maelstrom raging inside her. What was she going to do?
The door behind her slammed open and the men started to pour out. She glanced up and saw Robbie in the doorway. From his clenched jaw, tight mouth, and dark gaze, she knew something was wrong.
She came to her feet anxiously. “What is it?”
“Your brother is a bloody bastard!”
Her heart started to pound, and her teeth caught her lower lip nervously. “What did the message say?”
Ice-cold blue eyes bit into hers, as if it were somehow her fault. “He’s playing games. Games I’ve been on the other side of before. I just never thought he’d play them with his precious sister.” His eyes narrowed. “Or is there something you aren’t telling me? Perhaps you are not as close as I have been led to believe?”
Her brow furrowed. “We are very close. What do you mean by games? And what has he done before?”
His jaw clamped even tighter. It was clear he wanted to tell her, but something was holding him back.
The urge to tell her apparently won out. “When we were taken at Kildrummy it was under a truce. Your brother had given his word that we would be negotiating a surrender. I didn’t want to agree, but Nigel Bruce and Seton insisted your brother could be trusted. As soon as we lifted the gate and walked outside to meet them, the English attacked. We were arrested, Nigel Bruce was taken to Berwick and executed, and the rest of us were cast in irons. You know the rest.”
“You must be mistaken. My brother would never do something so dishonorable.”
“Are you really so sure of that? It is war, and I’m sure he justified his perfidy with that. Our mistake was in trusting the word of an Englishman—any Englishman.”
The look in his eyes sent a chill down her spine. It was a warning. Whatever Cliff’s reply, it had reminded him of who she was and all that lay between them.
She straightened her spine and lifted her chin to him. “If what you say is true, my brother didn’t know anything about it.”
“He said the same—swore to it up and down. So much so that I refrained from killing his men when I had the chance, believing him when he said we would be treated fairly. You saw the results of that. Your brother does not deserve your stalwart defense.”
“You don’t know him the way I do.”
His gaze held hers steadily. “I could say the same to you.”
Rosalin had to look away, the turbulence in her stomach returning. He was right. She didn’t know Cliff as an enemy, but she refused to believe he would have been involved in something so dishonorable. Her brother was a knight, and he took great pride in the chivalric code. There had to be an explanation.
She glanced back to him. The sun had gone down, passing behind the Hall and casting his features in angular shadows. He looked hard and unyielding, every inch the formidable Enforcer. “What else did the messenger say? Did my brother agree to the truce?”
Boyd’s mouth tightened. “Yes and no. He will agree, but only if I parley with him in person.”
Rosalin paled. For the second time in that short afternoon, her heartbeat took an anxious leap. “No! You can’t do that. It’s too dangerous.”
“I thought you trusted your brother. Surely such a renowned knight would not do something as treacherous as setting a trap for me?”
Her cheeks flushed angrily at his taunting challenge. “It’s not my brother I worry about. There will be other men around. They could capture you when you leave. Or follow you.”
He lifted a brow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.”
She felt the strangest urge to tap her finger against that steely chest and maybe give it a good shove. “Of course I’m worried about you, although right now I’m wondering why. You make it difficult for someone to—” She stopped suddenly.
He tipped her chin back to look into her eyes. “To what, Rosalin?” His voice held an odd huskiness.
She scanned the depths of his gaze, looking for something. “To care about you.”
She felt him stiffen. He stared at her so intently for a moment that she thought she was drowning in him, spinning in a whirlpool of emotions.
She thought he would pull her into his arms.
Instead, he dropped his hand from her face. “You would be foolish to do so.”
Disappointment cut through her like a sliver of jagged glass. What had she expected? A return declaration? Some kind of indication that she was not alone in her feelings?
All he cared about was the war and defeating the English. There wasn’t a place for anything—or anyone—else in his life. He was consumed by one thing and one thing only: seeing the English pay for what they’d taken from him.
And she’d listened to him—at first. But something had changed. Something had made her think that there might be room for something else in his heart. Room for her. Now she wasn’t so sure.
“When will you leave?” she asked, her throat squeezing.
“Immediately. I want this over as soon as possible.”
She flinched, the words sinking between her ribs like a dagger. It took everything she had not to let him see how much pain he’d caused. A healthy dose of that Clifford pride held her upright. “God’s speed, then. I will anxiously await your return.”
“Rosalin, hell, that’s not what I meant.”
He tried to reach for her, but she turned away from him, holding her spine stiffly to hide the trembling in her shoulders, and walked away as regally as the princess he’d once accused her of being.
Seventeen
Robbie had been waiting for this moment for six years. But the long aisle of Melrose Abbey was not the battlefield he’d had in mind in which to face his enemy.
Clifford was waiting with three of his men near the carved wooden screen and altar, beyond which only monks were permitted. Robbie started down the south aisle with three of his own men flanking him. He’d brought a dozen men, but only Fraser, Barclay, and Keith had accompanied him inside the abbey. A few more waited outside, while the rest were spread out around the village keeping an eye out for any sign of a trap, and readying for their escape should it be necessary.
Robbie didn’t expect anything, but with the English he’d learned to be cautious.
By agreement, both parties had left their weapons at the door. Though drawing swords in the holy place would be sacrilege, Clifford had insisted, with a not-so-subtle reference to Bruce’s kil
ling of the Red Comyn six years before in a church. The “barbarous” act had begun Bruce’s bid for the throne and had also served to get him excommunicated.
Robbie didn’t object. He wasn’t the one who would need a weapon if their parley took a bad turn.
Besides, as long as Robbie held Rosalin, he had everything he needed to win this particular battle.
The tables had been turned. Robbie was no longer a prisoner under the yoke of his jailor’s bidding or a rebel supporting a king on the run. This time Robbie held all the power, and they both knew it.
He had dreamed of the day he would have the pompous bastard under his heel. The English and their bloody superiority! For too many years they’d treated the Scots like serfs in their own kingdom, like recalcitrant subjects and scurrilous rebels. Seeing a little humility on any English lord’s face—especially Clifford’s—was something Robbie had been looking forward to for a long time.
One day soon the English king would be forced to recognize Scotland as an independent nation, but for now Clifford’s acquiescence would satisfy.
The fall of their footsteps on the tile floor echoed in the cavernous nave of one of Scotland’s greatest abbeys. Built in the shape of St. John’s cross, the abbey’s thick stone pillars and walls rose more than forty feet above him, limned and decorated with brightly colored paintings they complemented the thousands of small pieces of glass stained and meticulously cut and fitted into lead to fill the enormous arched windows, of which there must be fifty.
It was impressive. Awe-inspiring. A modern marvel of architecture. The kind of place you wanted to crank your neck back and look around, picking out the different saints and scenes from the Bible.
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