Sir Alex stared at her intently. “Have you told anyone else of your suspicions?”
“Of course not!”
“Then promise me you will not voice them again to anyone—even Boyd. Especially Boyd.”
His fingers had tightened and his face had grown so dark she almost didn’t recognize him. She nodded, a little fearfully. “Why?”
“Because it’s dangerous.”
Rosalin’s eyes widened at that. They continued walking. She was more disturbed by Sir Alex’s comments than she wanted to let on. Not about the phantoms, but about Robbie’s determination to win at all costs. Sir Alex was right—it was hard to reconcile the Devil’s Enforcer with the noble warrior she remembered.
But maybe they weren’t so far apart after all. Though she loved her brother and understood he was doing his duty, she’d come to sympathize with Robbie’s cause—if not his methods. In the quest to win at all costs, he’d lost sight of what he was fighting for. But recently she thought she might have helped him remember.
He might not be the knight in shining armor riding in on a white steed that she’d created in her mind, but she refused to believe he was the empty black shell of vengeance that Sir Alex suggested, either.
Just as they were about to enter the Hall she turned to him. “You are wrong, Sir Alex. I think he is still greatly affected by right and wrong. I think that’s why he fights so hard. He might act ruthlessly and harshly when he has to, but he won’t do anything truly dishonorable.”
Alex held her gaze steadily. Her impassioned defense perhaps had revealed more than she wanted it to. “Don’t give yourself false hopes, my lady.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve known Robbie Boyd a long time, and he will let nothing get in the way of winning this war. Nothing. When the time comes, he’ll send you back. He needs Clifford’s cooperation, and this is the only way he’ll get it. Do you think your brother would agree to a truce and to the payment of two thousand pounds if Boyd didn’t have you to hold over his head?”
He wouldn’t, although she hadn’t wanted to think about it. Her brother was just as stubborn and single-minded as Robbie. If it weren’t for her, he would never agree.
If she’d been harboring a secret hope that when the time came Robbie would not be able to send her back, that he would stop seeing her as a weapon to use against Cliff, that he’d want to hold on to her just as strongly as she wanted to hold on to him, she knew she’d been deluding herself.
He would send her back, and then what? Would he forget all about her? Fight for her? Or worse, do nothing?
Rosalin didn’t have long to ponder the question, for no sooner had they sat down to eat than the door slammed open, and Robbie and the men who’d gone to meet her brother stormed into the Hall.
She had to clutch the edge of the wooden trestle table to prevent herself from jumping up from her seat. But the moment of relief she felt upon seeing him safely returned died when their eyes met. His burned with an unholy rage that turned the blood racing in her veins to ice.
Unconsciously, she leaned toward Sir Alex, who was seated beside her. If anything, the movement only served to make Robbie’s eyes burn even darker. He crossed the distance of the room in a few strides.
“You’re back,” she said softly.
Her heart clenched as his eyes bit into hers. Something was wrong. Very wrong. “Come with me,” he demanded.
She’d never seen white lines around his mouth like that. Her pulse raced wildly. “I haven’t finished my meal.”
“What’s this about, Boyd?” Sir Alex said, getting up protectively at her side.
It was the wrong thing to do. Robbie looked like he might level his friend with his fist rather than just his gaze. Instead, he reached over the table and plucked Rosalin from her seat. She was so startled, all she could do was gape as he carried her out of the suddenly silent Hall.
Eighteen
She’d turned him into the bloody barbarian some accused him of being, but Robbie didn’t give a shite. He’d controlled his rage for the long journey back to the forest, but the moment he’d seen her there sitting with Seton—looking so damned beautiful it made his chest squeeze—the tethers had broken free.
His jaw clenched and blood roared through his veins as he stormed out of the Hall through the forest to his tent. He was careful not to look down at her. Her soft scent was torture enough. As was the way she wrapped her hands around his neck and seemed to burrow against his chest, tucking her cheek against his shoulder.
She didn’t say anything. Just went with him calmly. Bloody hell, didn’t she see how furious he was with her? Couldn’t she tell that he was at the end of his damned rope? Shouldn’t she be shaking with terror and begging to know what was wrong?
Obviously she trusted him too much. The foolish chit thought he wouldn’t hurt her.
Damn her for knowing me so well.
Cradling her against him, he ducked through the tent flaps and stood at the entry, letting his eyes adjust from the sunlight.
“Are you going to put me down and tell me what this is all about?” she asked gently.
He looked down for the first time, seeing that beautiful face staring up at him. The pang in his chest nearly cut off his breath. She looked so innocent—so guileless—but she’d been lying to him from the start.
Jaw locked, he put her down and set her firmly away from him. “What this is about? How about the fact that you lied to me?”
Her brow furrowed with confusion. “I have never lied to you. Does this have something to do with my brother? Did he refuse your truce?”
“Nay. Clifford agreed to everything.”
Her face fell. What was wrong with her? Why the hell did she look disappointed?
She turned away from him. “Then why are you angry? You have everything you wanted. You can send me back and get on with your war.”
That was exactly what he should do, damn it. But for the first time in a long while, he was thinking about something other than war. When he’d made his demand of Clifford to hold on to her until he received the money, he’d been thinking of one thing and one thing only. “Your brother agreed readily enough, but your betrothed,” he said as he took a step toward her, “your betrothed had need of some assurances.”
He had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of blood slide from her face. Guilt froze the no-longer guileless features. “S-sir Henry was th-there?”
He didn’t know whether it was wanting to make the trembling stop or anger that made him grab her elbow and bring her up hard against him. “Aye, he was,” he said in a voice not far from menacing. “And he didn’t seem all that happy to learn that his affianced might have been spending time in my bed.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. No protest. No “how could you tell him such a thing?” Nothing. “Why did you lie to me, Rosalin? Why didn’t you tell me you were to be married?”
Something cracked in his voice. Something that went beyond anger. Some kind of emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge.
Whatever it was, she heard it. Her eyes softened, and her voice was soothing. The type of soothing voice his mother had used when he’d taken a tumble as a young boy. “I didn’t lie to you. Nor did I mean to hide it from you.” A pink blush stained her cheeks. “I simply did not think of it—or of Sir Henry.”
Robbie was no fool. He might not be an expert on such matters, but he’d wager Sir Henry would give MacGregor some competition—and not with the bow. “Sir Henry might be a hotheaded arse, but he is not the kind of man a lass is likely to forget.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “He’s quite handsome, yes, but in truth he is but a pale substitute for another.”
The spark of rage at the mention of “handsome” died as the truth hit him. Christ. No wonder the knight bothered him so much. He reminded him of someone, all right—himself. A younger, prettier version of himself, that is.
She stepped toward him. “Did you not see it?”
&nbs
p; He didn’t say anything, but simply watched her as a deer watched the hunter’s bow. She was moving closer, wielding a weapon far more dangerous than an arrow: desire. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, and her closeness—her softness—was prodding every primitive instinct in his body.
“I’m ashamed to admit it,” she said, putting her palm flat on his chest and tipping her head back to look at him. It burned—the place under her hand, his chest, everything. “But I didn’t think of him at all.”
She was slipping in under his defenses, digging under his skin. Somehow he needed to find the strength to push her away. “Bloody hell, Rosalin, he is the man you are going to marry!”
A tiny furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows, and then shook her head. “I can no longer marry Sir Henry.”
Bitterness flooded him. “I told him nothing, Rosalin. Your knight will have no cause to break the betrothal. I made you come, but I did not take your maidenhead.”
She appeared not to notice his intentionally crude language. “It’s not because I think he will break the betrothal. I will not marry Sir Henry because I am in love with someone else.”
Robbie saw red. “Who?” he demanded, taking her by the arm to haul her up against him once more. “Damn it, who?”
But he didn’t need to ask. All he needed to do was look in her eyes and the answer stared right back at him. Me. She means me.
Longing rose inside him with a fierceness of which he wouldn’t have believed himself capable. He wanted to believe it, wanted to take what she offered, sweep her up in his arms and make love to her, whispering promises he could not keep.
But it was impossible, damn it! Why couldn’t she see that? Why did she have to make this so damned hard? She was wrong about what she felt, making a young girl’s mistake of confusing lust with emotion.
He backed her against the thick support beam with a slam that shook the tent, pinning her with his body. He wedged her legs between his, letting her feel the proof of his words. “This isn’t about love, Rosalin. It’s about lust.” He circled his hips, grinding himself against her crudely but bloody effectively. A bolt of lust surged to the heavy, throbbing tip.
She gasped, but not with shock—with something else that made every inch of his already hot and pulsing skin tighten and flame even hotter.
God, she wanted it. Wanted him.
Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stretched against him—into him—and lifted her mouth to his, even as he bent to take her lips in a ravenous kiss.
He groaned at the contact. Felt his body roar with pleasure as she opened her mouth to him. He sank in his tongue with no pretense, no caution, stroking her hard into his mouth, and pressing his body into hers as he let her feel the force of his desire pounding between them.
And she was kissing him back. Kissing him back in a way that made his head buzz and his blood pound. Kissing him back in a way that made him want to slow—linger—over every sweet caress. Take his time and show her…
Love, he heard her voice taunting him.
Damn it, no! He tore away with a growl. Lifting one of her legs to wrap it around his hip, he nudged himself into position. “Can you feel what I want to do to you, Rosalin?” He moved again, circling his hips hard and trying not to think about how good it felt. How the heavy tip of his erection was poised at her cleft. How the pressure was coiling at the base of his spine. How only a few layers of fabric separated him from making her his.
Not mine, damn it.
He stared into her eyes. “I want to fuck you so badly I can’t see straight, but that’s all I want. What we have is lust—do not confuse it with anything else.”
Rosalin knew what he was doing, but it didn’t lessen the sting. His crude words in the face of her declaration of love hurt—hurt a lot.
She almost believed him.
“Is that right?” She looked into his eyes and saw the heat—not just of lust but of something else. A slow-burning emotion that he would not name, but which she knew was there. She could feel it in every stroke of his body, in every sweep of his tongue, in every achingly tender touch and caress. He cared for her. “Then show me.” She tightened the leg wrapped around his waist and brought them closer, returning the intimate circling. “Show me that’s all you want. That this is only about…what did you call it, fu—?”
He cut her off with a hard squeeze, his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t say it.”
She quirked a brow. “Why? Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” Very slowly she enunciated the forbidden word.
His face darkened thunderously as he pressed into her harder. The fullness, the weight of him, made her stomach do a funny little flip and her pulse quicken. She remembered how he felt in her hand and wanted to feel him…inside her. Not just to prove a point. She wanted the connection. The closeness. The intimacy of joining her body with his.
“Damn you, you don’t know what you are saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying. If all you want is my body, take it. I’m giving myself to you. Without conditions attached. Walk away when it’s all over.”
His eyes narrowed as if this were some kind of trick, but she could see the flames of desire snapping wildly. “You don’t know what the bloody hell you are talking about. Your brother would kill me.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. I feel this…lust, too. My brother has nothing to do with it. Besides, since when did the Devil’s Enforcer start worrying about an Englishman’s ire?”
Tension snapped between them like wildfire. She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart and the taut flex of barely restrained muscle as her hands skimmed the hard bulges of his chest and arms. She would never tire of touching him. Of feeling the hard, unyielding strength sizzling under her palms. For even beneath the leather and linen, the heat radiated.
“Show me, Robbie.” He was holding himself so still, Rosalin knew she had him at the breaking point. “Or perhaps it wouldn’t be so easy to walk away after all? You know what I think? I think you care about me. Your gentle touch doesn’t lie.”
Rosalin should have known that Robbie Boyd was not a man to back down from a challenge. He would fight to the bitter end. With his hands. And sweet heaven, what hands!
“Gentle?” he laughed mirthlessly. “What I feel for you is far from gentle. It’s rough and primitive and wicked—very, very wicked.”
Rosalin gasped as he reached for the edge of her skirt and lifted it. A moment later his hand was between her legs, cupping her possessively. Heat flooded her as one finger slipped inside. She cried out at the unexpected flood of pleasure, as warmth and dampness pooled to his touch.
Then he did something that did shock her. Something very wicked indeed. He spun her around, clasping her hands over her head to rest on the wooden pole. Flipping up her skirts, he wedged himself between her legs from behind and slid his right hand around to dip his fingers between her legs again.
A thought flashed in her head. Was it possible…
A hot blush flooded her cheeks. His hips were moving against hers in a way that left no doubt as to what was possible.
The pressure—the friction—was incredible. She strained against his hand, against the thick bulge sliding against her, and against the fierce sensation building inside her.
He leaned down, his tight, husky voice breathing close to her ear, as he continued his deft strokes. “What if I came into you like this from behind, my fair Rosalin. Would you like that?”
If the unevenness of her breathing and the frantic pulsing between her legs were any indication, she feared she would. Quite a lot.
He groaned as her pleasure communicated itself to him in a very warm and silky way.
“Is this gentle?” he said. She felt another blunt finger slip inside her, stretching her. Then another. “How about this?”
Releasing his hold on her hands pinned above her, his left hand started to explore her body. The feel of one of his big hands cupping her breast, squee
zing her, pinching her nipple between his fingers, even as others plunged in and out of her body was too much.
She moaned, arching against him, pressing her hips back to meet his feigned thrusts. “Aye,” she whispered between bated breaths. Surprisingly it was. No matter how hard and rough he wanted to make it, there was an inherent tenderness to his touch that he could not hide.
He swore angrily, as if he, too, knew the truth. His movements slowed, his strokes becoming softer and more drawn out, as he, too, succumbed to the pleasure of the intimate touch. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned, rubbing some of her dampness with soft little circling motions of his thumb. “So warm and wet for me. But I’m going to make you even hotter—and wetter.”
Any embarrassment she might have felt was lost in the cacophony of other emotions swirling inside her. Her breath—her whimpering moans—quickened at a frantic pace in keeping with the plunging of his fingers. She felt her body lift in expectation as passion took hold. As her desire and love for this man entwined in the perfect whirlpool of sensation.
His hand took her higher and higher. A fever spread over her skin. “Oh God, Robbie,” she begged helplessly.
He held her there. Right at that perfect place, until she couldn’t take it anymore and broke apart. “That’s it, mo ghrá. Let me feel your pleasure.”
The spasms rocked her, pulsing through her body in sharp wave after wave. His hand was still holding her when the last ebbs had flowed from her body.
She glanced over her shoulder and lifted her hazy gaze to his. His blue eyes were hot and penetrating, his face a hard mask. “What does mo ghrá mean?”
He was holding her so closely, she swore she could feel his heart stop. For a moment she thought he actually looked ill, but then his features once more schooled into hard impassivity. “It means ‘my beautiful one.’”
The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 25
