To her surprise, he let her go. To her even greater surprise, she didn’t fall to the ground in a boneless pool. “What about…Are you not…?” Her cheeks flushed hot.
His face was drawn so tight, he almost looked to be in pain. “What you want is impossible, Rosalin. I’ll not take your virginity to prove it. You wanted pleasure; I gave it to you. Do not make anything more of it.”
Rosalin stared at him, stunned and more hurt than she would have thought possible. For a moment she felt a flicker of doubt. Was lust truly all this was to him? Was she imagining things that weren’t there? Or was he just being stubborn and intentionally cruel to push her away?
Perhaps she should let him. Heaven knew it would be easier. She did not delude herself. A future for them seemed unlikely, even if they both wanted it. But she wouldn’t let him go without a fight. Not this time.
“I see,” she said softly. “Thank you for clarifying it for me. Now I shall know the difference.”
His hands clenched. “What difference?”
“To compare. When I return home.”
The pulse below his cheek jumped. He was furious, but determined not to show it.
She smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed. “When am I to leave?”
“As soon as your brother delivers the silver. A week, maybe two.”
She feigned concern, a small frown gathering between her brow. “And should I feel this desire again before I go, what then?”
“What the hell do you mean, ‘what then’?”
Rosalin knew she really shouldn’t take such pleasure in angering him, but then again, he’d hurt her. “Should I seek you out or someone else?”
He stiffened. His dark gaze rested on her for a long, angry pause before flickering to the bed. Rosalin suspected she was one nudge away from being tossed on that bed and very thoroughly ravished.
A proper, gently born lady really shouldn’t be feeling such a wicked thrill at the prospect.
But when his gaze landed on hers again, it was narrowed with understanding. “It won’t work, Rosalin. You will not goad me into changing my mind.”
He turned and ducked out of the tent before she could reply.
We’ll see about that, Rosalin thought smugly. She intended to goad him into quite a lot. It seemed she, too, could be quite merciless when fighting for the right cause.
Robbie walked away while he still could. Before he did something rash like toss her down on that bed and give her exactly what she’d asked for. The lass trusted in his honor more than she should. He wasn’t one of her damned knights.
Someone else. Bloody hell! The goading words still set primitive fires roaring through his blood.
He pushed a branch out of the way, snapping it, as he made his way through the forest to what was fast becoming his new favorite haunt: the ice-cold burn that ran behind the camp. He needed to cool off. One part of him in particular.
He was furious—not with her, but with himself. In his effort to prove that she meant nothing—that all he felt was lust—he’d only served to prove her point.
He couldn’t do it, damn it. He couldn’t even pretend. He’d tried to be crude and rough, but the moment he touched her something came over him. A powerful feeling that drugged his senses and dragged him into some kind of sensual haze, where all he could think about was bringing her pleasure.
Her responses hadn’t helped any. Damn it, she was an innocent, proper English lady. She was supposed to be shocked by his playacting from behind. Shocked as in horrified, not shocked as in awakened with far-from-maidenly curiosity.
She wasn’t supposed to dissolve against him, arching into his hand, pressing her sweet little bottom against his sorely abused cock and making soft, breathy whimpers of pleasure to egg him on. She wasn’t supposed to be so damned hot. He’d been one wiggle of those shapely buttocks away from unmanning himself and coming along with her.
Young, innocent, and English did not apparently mean meek and easy to maneuver. Nor did they seem to preclude enjoyment in the baser pleasures. Someone should have warned him.
The whole thing had left him in the unusual position of feeling distinctly overmatched. As if he’d shown up to battle with a pike to find out he was facing a siege engine.
He’d expected her to take his word for it—not to press. He sure as hell hadn’t expected a perfectly executed counterattack that would have made Striker proud. The lass had developed an uncanny ability to identify and take advantage of his weaknesses. All of which seemed to be related to her.
Wasn’t she supposed to be the one who was inexperienced? Yet he seemed to be the one left flailing in the dark, ill equipped to navigate the intricacies of a lady’s mind. Truth be told, he’d never gotten that far before. He’d had many relations with women, but never a relationship.
He stopped suddenly, as if he’d run into a wall. Was that what this was? How the hell had that happened?
He didn’t know, but it had. She’d insinuated herself into his tent, his thoughts, his life, and somehow along the way, she’d begun to matter.
Nay, he realized. She’d always mattered. He’d been doomed from the moment she’d opened the door to the pit prison. Not that it would change a damned thing.
As he was only a few feet away from the burn, he quickly divested himself of his armor and clothing and dove in.
He tried not to shriek like a five-year-old lass as the cold water closed in around him, driving icy needles into his skin. Robbie might be from the west coast of Scotland, but he didn’t seem to possess the inhuman ability to acclimate to the cold water that his brethren from the Isles did. MacSorley, MacRuairi, and MacLeod could swim in this shite for hours. Robbie did what was necessary and then got the hell out.
Having effectively chilled the unspent lust from his body, he washed quickly and climbed up the rocky banks.
With the roaring in his ears quieted, he could finally hear the other voice—the far quieter one—whispering in his ear. The one that told him he’d acted badly. That she hadn’t deserved to be treated like a whore. Nor had she deserved the harsh words uttered in an attempt to push her away.
She’d told him that she loved him, for Christ’s sake. He might not have wanted to hear it, but he should have shown some consideration for her feelings. Lasses were fragile, emotional creatures. Not cold, unfeeling bastards like him.
He owed her an apology.
He’d just finished strapping the baldric he wore across his shoulder for his sword when he heard a sound. He tensed, instantly primed for battle. But then, recognizing the footsteps, he moved his hand from the hilt of his sword.
“You’re supposed to whistle,” Robbie said with annoyance as his partner came into view. “I could have taken your damned head off.”
Seton shrugged. “You knew it was me. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were alone.” He gave him a pointed look. “What in the hell was that show in the Hall all about? Fraser said Clifford agreed to the truce.”
“He did.”
“Then why were you so angry with Lady Rosalin?” Robbie didn’t say anything. “Does it have to do with Sir Henry de Spenser by any chance?”
Robbie shot him a warning glare. “Leave it, Dragon.”
But the young knight had never heeded caution. That was part of the problem. “Not this time. I won’t let you hurt that poor girl. What you are doing to her isn’t right. She’s young and fancies herself in love with you, and you are confusing her with your…whatever the hell you want to call it. When you send her away you are going to break her heart. So leave her be.”
Robbie wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell Seton to bugger off, but he couldn’t. His partner wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. His chest was squeezing so tightly his lungs were burning. He could barely get the words out. “What if I care about her?”
Seton held his stare, and for once it felt like their positions were reversed. It wasn’t without sympathy that his partner gave him the cold, unflinching truth. “If you care a
bout her, you’ll leave her be. Unless you are prepared to throw away your chance for a truce and the king’s two thousand pounds?”
Robbie’s mouth clenched in answer. Never.
“Even if you were, are you prepared for what would come after? If you think Clifford wants your head now, how do you think it will be if you try to take his beloved sister? He’ll never let you have her. Christ, Raider, you should know better than I that what you want is impossible.”
He did, which was why he’d never let himself consider it.
Even if he could put aside the fact that she was English and Clifford’s sister—which he wasn’t sure was possible—a connection with him would be too dangerous. Anyone close to him was a target. Hell, look what had happened to his sister. He wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger.
“If it means anything, I’m sorry,” Seton said.
Surprisingly, it did. Robbie nodded in acknowledgment.
“Are you sure it is wise to keep her here until Clifford arranges the payment?”
Wise? Nay, but he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “I don’t trust Clifford. What’s to prevent him from reneging on our deal as soon as we return her?” Robbie stopped his partner before he could speak. “And don’t say ‘honor’—we both know how far that goes with Clifford.”
Seton didn’t argue. He’d done all his arguing years before, and it had resulted in their being taken.
They started to walk back, and had just reached the farthest tent when they saw Malcolm running toward them. Immediately Robbie’s gaze went to his tent, but it appeared undisturbed.
“What is it, lad?” he asked.
“The Douglas said to come quickly. There’s something wrong with one of the horses.”
Not understanding the urgency, Robbie and Seton nonetheless made haste to the old bothy on the opposite side of camp that served as a barn for their few horses and livestock.
No sooner had they entered the old stone-and-turf building than Douglas turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground near Fraser’s horse, who appeared to be in distress. “Did you feed the horses oats when you were in Melrose?”
Robbie frowned. “Of course not,” he said. They barely had enough grain to feed their people, let alone the horses. Their mounts subsided on dried grasses for the most part.
“Well, someone did,” Douglas said, pointing to a pile of dung.
Robbie took a step closer and saw that he was right. Mixed into the normal manure he could see the telltale sprinkling of the light tan-colored groat about the size and shape of a maggot. There weren’t many—only a few—but enough to…
Ah hell. Enough to track.
Some horses—often older one’s like Fraser’s—had trouble digesting whole oats. In this case, they were fortunate or they might not have discovered the ruse.
He swore and met Douglas’s gaze. “Ready the men.”
“Where are you going?” Douglas yelled after him.
Robbie didn’t take the time to respond. A minute later, when he was standing in his empty tent, his heart, which had been somewhere near his throat, dropped soundly to the floor.
Rosalin was gone.
Nineteen
Rosalin barely stifled the scream that rose to her throat when the armed knight appeared in front of her.
Not long after Robbie left, she’d gone to the garden to think. There had to be some way to make this work, assuming that she could get Robbie to admit there was a “this.” Also assuming that he could accept her being English. And being the sister of his greatest enemy. And her being English. She knew she’d already said that, but it probably bore mentioning twice.
And then there was her brother and the king. Edward was fond of her, but he wouldn’t sanction a match between the butter girl and Robbie Boyd, let alone the sister of one of his leading barons. There was no hope for it. Robbie would just have to forcibly marry her. That would be the story at least.
But could she convince Cliff? Aye, it wouldn’t be easy, but she knew he loved her more than he hated Boyd.
She would just have to make sure Robbie didn’t give him cause otherwise. The raiding and personal war between them would have to stop. She would not make friends of enemies, but surely they could come to some sort of agreement with her serving as surety?
When the war ended something more might be possible, but right now a fragile peace was all she could hope for. Perhaps more than she could hope for.
It was in the midst of this planning—or probably more accurately, fantasizing—that the soldier appeared. He slipped silently from behind the foliage to stand before her, his mail glimmering in the fading sunlight behind him. Fortunately, he’d raised his helm, and his face (and a moment later the red-and-white check arms he bore on his tabard) identified him, preventing her from alerting the rest of the camp to the presence of Sir Henry de Spenser’s top household knight.
“Sir Stephen!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
It was a silly question. She could guess exactly what he was doing here, but the shock had not yet left her, and it was all she could manage under the circumstances.
“We’ve come to rescue you, my lady.”
“We?” She looked around.
“Sir Henry and the rest of the army are not far behind. I was sent ahead to scout, but when I saw you…” His voice dropped off as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I can’t believe the rebels left you alone like this!”
Her mouth went dry. Dear God, she couldn’t let this happen! Men would die. Men like Sir Stephen.
Sir Stephen de Vrain was one of Sir Henry’s closest friends, and her favorite among his men. He was a handful of years older than she—closer to Sir Henry’s age of six and twenty—and though not classically handsome, he had a pleasing countenance with sandy-brown hair, rich hazel eyes, and an easy smile. It was the smile that had charmed her.
Robbie would kill him if he found him here. She could not let that happen. “You must leave. If they find you here, they will kill you.”
He glanced around uncomfortably. “Aye, you are right. Let’s go.”
“But I…” Her voice fell off. She didn’t want to go. “I cannot leave yet.” He looked at her as if she were half as crazed as she felt. “I gave my word not to escape when they permitted me free roaming of the camp.”
He smiled then. “’Tis admirable of you, my lady. But there is no dishonor in breaking a promise to a rebel.”
Rosalin cringed. The statement was so in keeping with what Robbie had told her, she was ashamed for her countrymen.
The sound of raised voices put a swift end to their conversation. “Come, my lady,” he said, taking her by the arm. “We must away.”
She tried to pull her arm back. “Wait! I don’t want to go.”
But Sir Stephen wasn’t listening to her protests. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred him to action. He hauled her against him and started to drag her off through the trees.
Rosalin tried to dig in her heels and push away, but it was no use. He wasn’t as tall and muscular as Robbie—few men were—but he was strong. She put up as much of a struggle as she could without screaming, knowing that to do so would be a death knell for the knight. As soon as they were out of immediate danger, she was certain she could convince him to let her go.
She hadn’t counted on the horse waiting a few yards away.
She was leaving him.
Robbie wasn’t thinking about losing his hostage—and the means to bring Clifford to heel—or the fact that the English had managed to outwit him and discover their camp, or that God-knew-how-many men were probably trying to surround them right now. All he could think about was that the woman who told him she loved him not two hours ago was leaving him. Walking away—just as she’d taunted him—as if what had happened between them meant nothing.
It was what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected it to feel as if an iron claw were ripping a gaping hole across his chest. As if his insides were being torn out and twisted on
a rack. As if the last flicker of light had just gone out inside him.
His jaw hardened with the sharp edge of bitterness. Of the betrayal that he had no right to feel.
But God’s blood, if she thought to escape him so easily, she would learn differently.
His men had already been alerted and were readying for battle. He called for a horse, and a minute later he plunged through the trees and shrubs after them.
The knight had a head start, but Robbie held the far greater advantage: he knew the terrain.
In his haste to get away, the Englishman had made a wrong turn that ended in a ravine and had to backtrack, enabling Robbie to catch up with him. He pulled up alongside them at a full gallop.
Fresh rage surged through him when he saw how hard Rosalin was fighting to hold on to her seat behind the knight. If she fell off at that speed…
Damn it.
The gaze that met his was full of terror, but also something else. A desperate plea that echoed the words she shouted to him above the din of thundering hooves. “Don’t…h-hurt…please!”
It was far too late for mercy, if he’d ever had any. He lifted his sword.
The knight was concentrating on trying to get away but must have caught the glint of the blade out of the corner of his eye. He turned. Beneath the helm, his eyes widened with fear. The knight reached for his own sword—almost knocking Rosalin off—but it was too late.
Robbie started to bring his hand down, and would have cleaved the bastard in two if Rosalin hadn’t done something that took ten years off his life. Minimum.
His blade had barely begun its descent when she screamed, “No!” and launched herself toward him.
He had to make a split-second decision: kill the knight or let her fall and be trampled underneath the pounding hooves.
He didn’t hesitate. His sword clattered to the ground as he caught her around the waist and pulled her to safety in front of him.
The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Page 26
