The Raider (12 page)

“Almost,” Malcolm said. “Another inch or two.”

Robbie clenched harder and lifted. His arms burned against the weight. But Malcolm was able to slither his way out. Very carefully, Robbie lowered the beam back into place.

And not a moment too soon. The flames were only a few feet away now. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“But what about the man?” Rosalin said. “We can’t just leave him.”

Robbie clenched his fists, fighting the anger and fear that made him want to lash out. “Where?” he said tightly.

“Behind that wall.” She pointed to a space that had obviously been built into the wall as a hiding place. Suspecting for what, and exactly why the man was there, Robbie was tempted to leave him for being so reckless. But a few moments later, he’d moved the debris out of the way enough to drag him out. Not wanting to tell her that it was too late, he lifted the dead man over his shoulder with one arm, and with the other wrapped around her waist tucking her up tightly against him—trying not to notice how good she felt—he led them out of the burning trap.

As soon as they hit the fresh air, Malcolm collapsed on the ground coughing. Rosalin stayed on her feet but bent over to do the same, while Robbie let his arm slide from her waist and dropped the body of the villager, then grabbed on to the nearest tree so he didn’t topple over. His lungs and arms were on fire.

Seton, Fraser, Callum, and two more of his men were almost on them. The lad had obviously managed to alert them to the danger. Seton immediately rushed forward to assist Lady Rosalin, as did Callum with Malcolm. “What happened?” his partner asked.

For once, Robbie wasn’t annoyed by his solicitousness. The lass needed tending, and he could barely stand.

It took a few stops and starts for the story to come out. But between Malcolm, Roger, and Rosalin, the details began to emerge. It was hard enough to believe she’d raced in to try to help someone she didn’t know, but when Lady Rosalin reached the point where Malcolm became stuck behind the debris, the men looked at each other in astonishment.

Robbie voiced what all of them were thinking. “You could have left him there and escaped.”

She met his gaze. “He would have died,” she said, as if the explanation were obvious.

For her, he realized it was. She wouldn’t leave a man behind to die, not even an enemy. He should know that better than anyone. Something inside his chest shifted. It was as if a big rock had been pushed out of the way, revealing a small opening.

Callum looked at him as if the world had just been declared round. “But she’s
English
,” he said in Gaelic.

“I know.” Robbie was at just as much of a loss for an explanation. It didn’t make any sense to him either. This one small lass seemed have more honor in her than the entire English army put together.

Yet the more he watched her, the more he believed it wasn’t an act. She was just as sweet and kind as she looked. He’d noticed how she’d distracted her nephew earlier to keep his spirits up and her natural friendliness toward his men—even in the face of their brusqueness (in most cases, outright rudeness). When she’d demanded to come see what could be done in the village, he thought it was a trick. But it wasn’t. It had obviously been motivated by honest concern. For
Scots
. She’d run into that burning building to help someone who was her enemy.

It defied belief.

But it was more than that. Beneath the sweetness he detected a fierce sense of right and wrong that reminded him of someone, although he couldn’t put his finger on who.

When she reached the part where he arrived, he tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t let him. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said. “I don’t know how you lifted that by yourself.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d heard admiration and awe in a lass’s voice, but it was the first time he felt his face growing hot. Bloody hell, he was blushing!

“You should see him at the Highland Games, my lady,” Malcolm offered. “The captain can throw a stone three times as heavy as anyone else. No one has ever come close to beating him. Why, he can defeat ten Englishmen using just his hands—”

“That’s enough, Malcolm,” he said sharply. “The lady doesn’t want to hear about all that.”

She looked like she was about to disagree, when she glanced to the man lying on the ground at his feet. Her eyes filled with tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

He nodded.

She looked up at him. “Why would he have done something so dangerous?”

Robbie reached down and pulled a purse from the man’s clenched fingers. “For this. He had it hidden in a space in the wall, along with some grain and other goods. He’d probably put it there when the English came and then tried to get to it once he thought it was safe.”

“All this for a few coins and some grain?” she asked incredulously.

Robbie’s jaw hardened. “Aye, it was foolish, but it was probably all he had to feed his family. These people will have nothing left.”

The realization affected her. There was no denying the real compassion and sadness in those too expressive eyes of hers.

“But you saved some of them,” she said. “The fires are almost out.”

The way she was looking at him…

For a minute, he felt like he’d donned some of Seton’s shining armor.

Bloody hell.

Robbie glanced over to where the rest of his men and the villagers were throwing the final buckets of water. But she was right. They had.

Something had changed. Rosalin didn’t know what, but over the next hour, while Robbie and his men helped the villagers put out the last of the fires and see what could be salvaged from the rest, she detected a difference in the men’s attitude toward her.

Once they’d stopped staring at her as if she had suddenly grown a second head, they actually spoke to her. And not just in grunts and unintelligible words in Gaelic. Men who she didn’t think knew a word of English were suddenly addressing her as “my lady.”

Even Callum. Well, perhaps
especially
Callum. Just as personally as he’d taken her tricking of Malcolm, it seemed he’d seen her refusal to leave his son in the burning building as the establishment of some kind of bond between them. She couldn’t tell whether he was pleased about it or not, but he’d taken his son’s place in guarding her and seemed to have nominated himself as her protector.

When some village children cautiously approached and started touching her soiled but very fine gown, he’d shooed them away and told them not to get the lady’s gown dirty with their grubby hands. Considering how inelegantly she’d been handled the past twenty-four hours and how filthy she was already, such admonishments were quite laughable. But cognizant of how serious he seemed to be, and his Scot pride, she smothered her smile and told him she didn’t mind just this once.

The children had been entranced with her and had asked some of the most humorous questions, at which she’d struggled hard not to laugh. They must have asked her ten times if she was
truly
English. That she didn’t have the face of a gorgon, or devil’s horns and tail, was apparently incomprehensible.

It was when talking to the children—a few of whom had lost everything—that she’d had an idea.

Callum hesitated, giving her that strange look again. “You want to give them our food?”

“Aye, do you think some could be found that might be spared?”

He stared at her for a long time, his ruddy, weathered features inscrutable. “I’ll ask the captain.”

From their post by the river, Rosalin watched the older man walk over to where Boyd stood with some of the villagers. Boyd’s head turned in her direction, and even from the distance the intensity of his gaze made her shiver. A few moments later, he nodded, and Callum strode toward the trees where the horses had been tied and started to go through the bags.

With Callum occupied and Roger conscripted to help the other men with the cleanup, Rosalin kept herself busy answering the children’s questions while trying not to let her eyes stray to the man who seemed the center of attention in the village.

She frowned. For one small village, there certainly were a disproportionately large number of young women. And every one of them seemed to be traipsing after Robbie Boyd like he was some kind of hero.

To them, he was, she realized with a start. This man reviled as a devil on one side of the border was lauded as a hero on the other. It was strange what a difference perspective made.

The women were practically tripping over each other trying to get him to notice them. Good gracious, had they never seen a handsome man before? She could see the stars shining in their eyes from here.

Why did she care, anyway? She’d outgrown barbarians, hadn’t she? Besides, he’d made his feelings toward her perfectly clear: they were enemies. She would not forget it.

Escape was what she should be thinking about. Not tall, broad-shouldered brutes with excessively muscled bodies.

Tearing her gaze away from the man commanding so much feminine admiration, she focused her attention on the children. When they moved off, she asked Callum if she might wash up before they left. After a quick glance to where Roger stood with Malcolm and another young warrior (he knew she wouldn’t try to escape without her nephew), he nodded and told her to be quick about it.

She hurried down toward the river, heading to the left, where it bent and a copse of trees would protect her from view and give her the privacy she needed.

She hadn’t lied. She
did
want to wash and soak her hands in the cold water, but she also needed to replenish her supply of ribbon for the trail she was leaving for Cliff. The last few strands of pink were in her purse, but her chemise was decorated on the neck and sleeves with small, light-blue bows of satin ribbon. The costly garment imported from France had raised even her indulgent brother’s eyebrow, but she didn’t think he’d mind its destruction under the circumstances.

Indeed, most of her once luxurious clothing was in shambles. Removing the plaid and cloak, she shook them out as best she could, set them down on a log, and then brushed the dirt and soot off her dark blue wool
cotehardie
edged at the hem, neckline, and cut sides with gold embroidered ribbon. But she feared not even a good brushing and hanging would save the pretty garment after such abuse.

She grimaced, lifting her skirt up to examine the rest. The lighter blue wool kirtle underneath was in much better shape, except for the muddy hems where it hung below the
cotehardie
. But she didn’t think to remove her over-gown; she needed every layer for warmth.

The fashion for both gowns was tight in the sleeve and bodice, and it wasn’t without some difficulty that she was able to loosen the laces of the
cotehardie
on the front and the kirtle on the side to reach the chemise underneath.

After pulling off as many of the ribbons as she could reach, she tucked them into the purse still at her waist. Then, kneeling beside the river, she dipped her hands into the icy water and cupped it to her face. It was cold but invigorating. She washed and scrubbed until the water came back clear and not gray with soot.

It felt so good to be clean that she considered dunking her head in and washing her hair, but she didn’t want to risk the chill of wet hair while they were riding. She did, however, take the opportunity to wash her upper body as best she could with the loosened garments. She was so engrossed in her task, she didn’t hear him approach.

“It’s time to go. The men are…”

His voice dropped off. It took her a moment to realize why. She’d jumped up when he startled her and turned without thinking. His gaze had fallen on her chest and appeared to have become stuck, along with his tongue.

A quick glance down told her why. Her chemise was soaking wet from her washing. Her very thin, very transparent, very revealing chemise, which was now molded to her breasts, revealing every curve, every contour, every point in perfect detail. She might as well have been naked.

She sucked in her breath, which was a mistake, as it only made her breasts rise to even more prominence.

He made a sound low in his throat that was almost pained, but it made every inch of her skin blaze with heat.

She made a move to cover herself, but he grabbed her wrist. “Don’t. God, please don’t.”

Heat blasted her again. It poured off him in a hot, molten wave, making her nipples tighten.

He groaned, a deep, intensely masculine groan that sent a rush of something hot and damp between her legs. It pooled there, growing warm and achy.

His face was harder than she’d ever seen it—sharper—more dangerous somehow. It was as if all the civility had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the fierce, primitive male underneath.

He stared at her breasts as if he had never seen anything more desirable. As if he could barely hold himself back from touching them. From
ravishing
them.

Their eyes met, and she felt the shock of it radiate like a bolt of lightning up her spine. No one had ever looked at her with such raw lust, possession, and heat.

The air was charged with something she didn’t understand. The fierceness of the emotions crackling between them was too overwhelming.

Men had wanted her before, but never like this. This was different. This was wild, dangerous, and uncontrollable. This was desire unlike anything she’d ever experienced before and, for a moment, it scared her.

He
scared her. She might have thought she knew him, but Robbie Boyd, hardened warrior, was not the noble rebel she’d watched as a girl. She was alone with one of the most feared men in Scotland. A man who by all accounts was a scourge, brigand, and barbarian. She was completely at his mercy, and the precariousness of the situation—and her vulnerability—slid down her spine in a terrified chill.

It took Robbie a minute to realize he was scaring her.

Before that he was lost. From the moment she’d turned, with every inch of that damp linen molded to her chest, he hadn’t had one rational thought in his head. With all the lustful thoughts swirling around, there hadn’t been room for anything else.

Hell, there hadn’t been room for much else since the moment he’d first laid eyes on her. Even his dreams had been filled with her. Images that had made him wake up hard and restless this morning. Images that had come back to him during the day, too many times to count. Images that it turned out were nowhere near as spectacular as reality.

This
image was going to haunt him for the rest of his life. Every pair of breasts he saw from now on would suffer from the comparison.

The funny part was that she didn’t even fit what he’d thought of as his ideal. To be blunt, he liked them big and lush, with sweet, juicy nipples. He liked to bury his head between the soft mounds of flesh, to watch them bounce, jiggle, and sway as he drove in and out. He liked them to pour over his hands as he gripped from behind (aye, he especially liked that), to suck the hard peak of a substantial nipple into his mouth and draw it between his teeth and tongue.

Not that he opposed variety. But if he’d had an ideal, that would have been it.

Until now. The two perfectly rounded mounds of flesh before him were not generously proportioned by any means. They would fit in his hands with nary an ounce of flesh spilling over. But the shape was exquisite—masterful in its detail—putting any Grecian sculptor to shame.

They were high, round, and firm, and perfectly proportioned to her slim ribcage and waist. Her nipples were small and a dusky shade of pink. When they hardened under the heat of his gaze, they weren’t much bigger than two pearls. Not much to pluck between his teeth, but he could still practically taste the tiny points on his tongue, and it took everything he had not to reach out and rub one under his thumb. To circle the wrinkly edge and pinch the delicate tip gently between his fingers and see if it felt as perfect as it looked.

It would be. God, he knew it would be.

He felt like a child who’d just opened a door and found a room full of sugary confections waiting for him to gorge on. And God, she was sweet. Sweet and so damned ripe, it took his breath away.

Her skin was like freshly poured cream, smooth and velvety white. In God’s way of devising the perfect torture for a man, he’d matched the naughty little freckle on her lip with one above her left breast. He didn’t know which he wanted to put his mouth on first. But it was all he could think of.

Blood pounded through his veins. He throbbed hard with need. Seeing her like this had stripped away all pretense of control. His attraction to the lass went beyond rationality. His body didn’t care if she was English, if she was Clifford’s sister, if touching her would be the biggest mistake he ever made in his life. All his body wanted was to smooth his hands over every inch of her soft skin until it was just as hot as his, until her cheeks flushed and lips parted with pleasured breaths, until her hips pressed against his in silent entreaty, until he opened her with his fingers—and maybe even his mouth—and made her slick and wet for his entry. And until he came into her with a hard thrust and made her his. He wouldn’t stop thrusting until she came, until she screamed his name and every last shudder of her release had ebbed from her spent body.

He’d never felt anything like this, and the force of it overpowered him, dulling everything else around him.

Until he saw her eyes widen. The effect of that was like a dousing of ice water. He was brought back to reality with a hard jolt.

“Christ, I’m sorry.” He took a step back. “I don’t know what—” He stopped and cleared his throat, trying to let the strange tangle of emotions in him calm before he said something he shouldn’t. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He turned away, giving her a chance to fix her gown and his blood time to cool. Only then did he allow himself to look at her again.

She couldn’t seem to cover herself quickly enough. She’d donned not only her gowns, but her cloak and plaid, and was still eyeing him warily.

He didn’t blame her. What the hell had come over him? He’d never so completely lost himself. He’d never allowed himself to lose focus of what was going on around him. He’d never allowed himself to be that distracted by a woman. Never. He was always in control. But something had come over him, and she’d seen it.

But damn it, no matter what had come over him, he would never force himself on any woman, and he needed her to know it. “I am many things, but a rapist is not one of them, Rosalin. Believe what you will of what they say about me, but know that. I will never force you and would kill any man who tried.”

The latter came out with a ferocity that surprised him, provoking questions he didn’t want asked. Such as why the hell did he feel so protective toward her?

She lifted her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it again. “All right.”

“I mean it.”

She looked up at him again, this time meeting his gaze. He could see that some of her fear was gone, but not all of it.

His mouth tightened with anger. Not at her, but at the subject he was about to broach. He hated talking about the past. Hated thinking about what had happened to his sister. He couldn’t recall ever talking about it—even to his Highland Guard brethren who knew what had happened. But he would raise the vile specter this one time to make her understand. “My only sister was raped.”

She gasped. Her eyes locked on his, as if she knew the flat matter-of-factness of his tone hid a deep, searing pain—a wound that would never be healed.

She put her hand on his arm, and he stared at it, feeling his chest tighten.

“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible. But she is lucky to have a brother who cares for her so deeply.”

Cared
. She meant it as a kindness but didn’t know how much pain her words caused. He’d loved his sister more than anyone else in the world. Pretty and vivacious, always with a smile on her face, she hadn’t been much older than Rosalin the last time he’d seen her. “A hell of a lot of good it did her. I wasn’t there to protect her when the English garrisoned the King’s Inch castle in Renfrewshire and invaded our village. When the captain learned she was the sister of the rebels Robbie and Duncan Boyd, he decided to make an example of her. He didn’t use her once, but over and over. He made her his whore and raped her until she couldn’t bear it anymore and threw herself off a cliff into the sea to end her suffering.”

She covered her mouth with her hand in horror. “Oh God, Robbie, I’m so sorry. But the fault lies with the soldier, not you. If you could have helped her, you would have.”

Her confidence in him did nothing to ease his guilt. His help had come too late for Marian. But the soldier had paid for his deeds. Slowly, painfully, and ultimately with his life. Robbie’s fists clenched at the memory.

“I tell you this not to earn your sympathy or your pity,” he said, “but so you understand that I would never hurt a woman like that.”

Her eyes met his, this time without a trace of wariness. “I see that now. Thank you for telling me. No wonder…” Her voice dropped off. “You’ve lost so much. I’m sorry about your father and sister. And about your friend.”

His brother Duncan and his mother, as well. She’d died of a broken heart not long after his sister’s death. He frowned. “My friend?”

“Thomas.” She must have noticed his stiffening, because she hurried to explain, her hands twisting in front of her. “Sir Alex told me he died not long after you left Kildrummy. I understand why you would blame me for it—it was my fault he was beaten for leaving the food.”

He grabbed her arm to put a stop to the anxious hand twisting. “I don’t blame you. As I told you that night, what you did was a kindness. The food gave him a chance.”

Her breath hitched at his touch. He shouldn’t be touching her. Men didn’t simply go around touching ladies whenever they felt like it. But his impulses with her had never been normal. He dropped his hand, oddly unsettled.

“Then why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve your hatred?”

He frowned. This wasn’t about her, it was about her brother. “I don’t hate you.”

He didn’t, he realized. That was part of the problem. The war was black-and-white for him. The English were the enemy, and they deserved his hatred. But she…she made him see gray.

“Well, you are certainly doing a wonderful job acting like it. All these years that I wondered what it would be like if we ever met again, I never imagined it would be like this.”

The touch of sarcasm in her voice sparked some of his own. “Did you think I’d be happy to learn that my rescuer was the sister of my worst enemy? The man I despise above all others? The man who was responsible for our capture and the execution of many of my friends?”

It wasn’t until her eyes widened that he realized he was shouting.

He swore and raked his fingers back through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration and anger at the situation out on her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something about this lass made him want to pull her into his arms at one moment and lash out like a lion in a cage the next.

“My brother was only doing his duty. He—”

He stopped her again, taking her by the arm and turning her to face him. “Don’t, Rosalin. Don’t attempt to defend your bastard of a brother to me. He is a subject upon which we will never agree.”

Rather than be put off by his anger, she seemed amused. “Do you know he says the same thing about you?”

He let her go, some of his anger dissipating. “I can imagine.” Robbie was sure Clifford had plenty of choice things to say about him. He eyed her speculatively. “He doesn’t know what you did?”

She shook her head. “The food, but not the rest. If he ever found out…” Her voice fell off, and he could see her distress. “I couldn’t bear his disappointment.”

Her brother’s opinion obviously meant a lot to her. Apparently Clifford’s well-known affection for his only sibling wasn’t one-sided.

“He will never hear of it from me.” He supposed it was the least he could do. But if Clifford’s opinion mattered so much, why would she have risked so much to help him? She’d admired him, he knew. But was there something else? “Why did you do it?”

“It was wrong,” she said simply. “And I couldn’t stand by and watch my brother put men to death for something that wasn’t right.”

He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Clifford has never let something like right and wrong get in his way of killing Scots.”

It was her turn to stiffen, that patrician English beauty turning sharp and icy. “Are you accusing my brother of being a
murderer
?”

His gaze turned just as hard. “I suppose it depends on your definition. He operates under the color of law—
English
law, which I assure you has very little justice for Scots.” Before she could attempt to defend her brother again, he said, “Come, they will be waiting for us.”

She was quiet for a moment as they walked through the trees. When she finally spoke, he wished that she hadn’t. “Did you ever think of me?”

Her voice sounded small and uncertain. He should have said no, but he found himself answering honestly. “I wondered who you were.” He thought about the kiss and found himself adding with a wry grimace, “And I wondered how old you really were.”

He glanced over in time to see a soft flush spread over her cheeks. But then she bit her lip, and he felt a surge of heat to his groin and had to look away. “Why did you kiss me?”

Robbie stopped in his tracks, but he recovered quickly and increased their pace. Christ, of all the questions to ask. She hurried alongside him, casting him expectant glances.

He sighed and answered slightly exasperatedly, “I have no bloody idea.”

The answer seemed to please her. A small smile turned her mouth and he realized he could stare at that smile for hours. A smile like that could be distracting.

But it disappeared quickly as they walked through the village to where the men were waiting, and he returned the wave of one of the women.