The Raider (22 page)

It was a testament to their long partnership that the explanation not only satisfied him, it also seemed to make Seton nearly as anxious to return as he.

Robbie wasn’t like Campbell. He didn’t get feelings about things. The implicit trust of Seton’s reaction surprised him. It probably shouldn’t have, but it did.

The closer they drew to camp, the worse the feeling grew. By the time they passed the first sentry it was probably two or three in the morning, and Robbie was stretched to the breaking point. Every rustle of leaves, every gust of wind, every hoot of an owl or sound of nightlife grated against nerves that were already frazzled and on edge.

“Everything looks all right,” Seton said in a low voice.

It did. The sentries were at their posts. The camp was dark and quiet. The faint scent of peat from the fires wafted through the air.

Then why the hell did he feel like he was about to jump out of his damned skin? Why did he have to fight the urge to race through camp like a madman and tear open the flaps of the tent to assure himself that she was all right?

When they turned the corner around the Great Hall and the second row of tents came into view, he was about to heave a sigh of relief when he caught the flicker of something in the trees.

“What’s that?” Seton said.

Robbie didn’t take the time to answer. He snapped the reins and kicked his mount forward, plunging into the darkness toward the light. A moment later he heard the sound of a soft cry that sent a torrent of ice rushing through his veins.

The man came out of nowhere.

After hours of tossing and turning, telling herself there was no reason to be scared, and certainly no reason to hold her breath like a terrified child every time someone walked past the tent, Rosalin finally found sleep only to wake up a few hours later with a pressing need that could not be ignored.

Everyone is abed
.
There is no reason to worry
.
No one will harm you
. But just knowing that Robbie wasn’t here lent a new vulnerability to her situation. She hadn’t realized how much his presence reassured her. How instinctively she knew that he would protect her. Without him, she felt like she was sitting in a den of hungry lions without a sword and shield.

After attending to her business in a matter of a couple of very relieved minutes, she was making her way back to the tent when a man stepped out from behind a tree to block her path.

Her heart jumped, and she let out a startled cry that strangled in her throat. The candle dropped to her feet.

He loomed over her, a dark, forbidding shadow. He wasn’t exceptionally tall, but he was thick and heavily built. The pungent scent of drink accosted her as he bent down and picked up the candle.

“What do we ’ave ’ere,” he slurred, holding it up to her face, “a new whore?” The burr of his accent was so deep, it took her a moment to realize he was speaking English—the Northern English common at the Borders.

Her blood turned to ice. She opened her mouth to protest, but he’d already slid his arm around her waist and jerked her up against him.

“Let me go,” she said, trying to push away.

“What the ’ell?” He pushed her up against a tree and lodged his forearm against her throat. “You’re fucking English.”

Holding the candle close to her face, he gave her the first clear look at him and the cold, black eyes that looked at her murderously. It was the face of nightmares. A thick scar sliced through his heavy brow across a squashed nose and disappeared beneath the edge of a thick beard. The legacy of a sword or battle-axe blade, it gave a menacing edge to an already brutish appearance. When he opened his mouth and sneered, his big, yellow teeth reminded her of a boar’s tusks. That was what he looked like—a big, ugly boar, with thick, wiry black hair and a flat squashed nose.

But it was his heavily lidded eyes and the way he was looking at her that sent chills racing through every corner of her body. She struggled to free herself, but it only made him lean in harder, pressing the forearm laid across her neck and cutting off her breath.

His face was so close, she could smell the sour scent of whisky on his breath. “Who the ’ell are you?”

“Hostage,” she managed to get out in a soft breath. “Boyd.”

She wasn’t sure whether her words had penetrated the drunken haze.

They had, but not in the way she’d hoped. His mouth curled in an ugly sneer. “An English bitch as a hostage? A whore, more like.” His hand covered her breast and she tried to cry out as fear stiffened every inch of her body. “I hope the cap’n taught you something. Let’s see ’ow much yer worth.”

She could see the intent in his eyes and renewed her struggles. She clawed at the arm across her neck. “He’ll kill you,” she managed.

He caught her hands and pinned them up over her head, the soft skin of her wrists digging into the bark. But it was nothing compared to the pain and horror of having his body pressed against hers. She twisted against him, trying to break free, wanting to retch nearly as much as she wanted to breathe.

“Boyd?” he laughed. “He hates the English as much as I—”

A noise behind him made him turn. A dark figure plunged out of the shadows on a horse. As he leaped down, his cloak flying like the wings of a demon behind him, Rosalin caught a glimpse of his face and nearly fainted. Beneath the darkened nasal helm there seemed to be only emptiness.

Her scream was strangled even though the man’s arm was no longer at her throat. He’d turned to defend himself, but he could barely get his hands up before the battering ram of a steel-gauntleted fist came crashing into his jaw with enough force to send him flying through the air a few feet before landing with a thud on his back.

The dark, cloaked figure was standing over him a moment later, pounding him into the ground with powerful blow after powerful blow.

She’d seen something like it once before. “Robbie!”

The word escaped from between her lips as if in answer to a prayer.

He paused long enough to glance at her. Beneath the shadow of the terrifying mask she could just make out his familiar features. But his expression was one she’d never seen before. It was fierce and menacing, without a hint of mercy. It was the face of a warrior in the heat of battle, the face of one of the most feared men in Scotland.

He turned back to finish what he’d started.
He’s going to kill him!
Despite what the man had been about to do, Rosalin didn’t want the brute’s death on her soul—or on Robbie’s.

She knew she should try to stop him, but someone else did it for her. Another cloaked figure emerged from the darkness on horseback. As he wasn’t wearing a helm, however, the blond hair identified him.

Sir Alex jumped down and swore. Crossing the distance toward the men, he pulled Robbie off. “Christ, Raider, you’ll kill him. He’s one of ours.”

Sir Alex had Robbie’s arms pinned back. Robbie twisted, attempting to break free with a quick movement of his arm that might have had Sir Alex on his back, too, if he hadn’t managed to block it.

Robbie said something to Sir Alex in Gaelic, but Rosalin didn’t need to translate that particular curse. “He deserves it,” he said, breathing hard. “He was going to hurt her.”

Sir Alex looked at her and when their eyes met, she knew he didn’t need to ask how the man was going to hurt her. The graveness of Sir Alex’s expression made her think he also knew about Robbie’s sister.

The commotion had alerted the occupants of the next tent, and Rosalin didn’t need to see his face to know that the Black Douglas was one of them.

“What is going on out here?” Douglas said, two of his men coming up behind him with a torch.

If Sir Alex hadn’t still been holding him back, Rosalin knew that Robbie would have launched himself at his friend. “This is how you watch over her? You fucking bastard, I should kill you for letting this happen.”

The man with the blackest heart in Scotland seemed taken aback by the vehemence of Robbie’s anger. His gaze shifted to her—still crouched up against the tree and undoubtedly pale and terror-struck—and then to the man lying still on the ground behind Robbie. His expression changed to one of grim understanding.

The Black Douglas swore, repeating one of the words Robbie had just used, and dragged his hand through his sleep-rumpled hair. “Uilleam just arrived with a missive from my wife. I didn’t think to tell him about the lass. He didn’t know who she was.” He turned to address her. “I’m sorry, my lady. That should never have happened. If you were hurt it’s my fault, and I shall take full responsibility for the mistake.”

She was so stunned that the Black Douglas was apologizing to her that it took her a moment to respond. She shook her head. “He didn’t hurt me.” Her voice came out scratchy, and she rubbed her bruised throat unconsciously.

Robbie growled like a ferocious wolf and surged forward with such power and force that Sir Alex couldn’t hope to hold him back.

Instinctively the Black Douglas squared to meet the attack, but by this time Rosalin had collected herself enough to intervene. She rushed forward to intercept Robbie, putting a gentling hand on his arm.

She swallowed hard through the pain to clear her throat. “Really, I’m fine.” He looked down at her, and the deep emotion burning in his gaze made her heart flip high in her chest. “Please,” she whispered. “It was a mistake.”

Though her brother would undoubtedly like nothing more than for these two men to beat each other to a pulp, Rosalin just wanted it over. She wanted to curl up against the black leather-clad chest, bury her head against his shoulder, and feel safe again.

She didn’t know who moved first, but one minute she was leaning against him and the next, he’d swooped her up into his arms and started to carry her back to the tent.

“You and I are going to talk tomorrow,” he said to Douglas as they passed.

The big man nodded grimly. “I’ll see to Uilleam—and your horse.”

The conversation sounded far away. Rosalin had already burrowed her head against him, closed her eyes, and let the relief of being safe in his arms overtake her.

Robbie didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Cradling her in his arms, her soft body warm against his chest, was unlike anything he’d ever imagined. The wave of emotion that rose inside him, crashed over him, and threatened to drag him under resembled tenderness, but it was bigger and far more powerful.

This was his fault. He never should have brought her here. It was his job to protect her, and if she’d been hurt, he never would have forgiven himself.

God, when he thought of what could have happened, it made his stomach turn. Bile climbed up the back of his throat. His sister’s face passed before his eyes.

He squeezed Rosalin closer, the pain of his broken ribs nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest. God, she smelled good. He pressed his mouth against the silky softness of her hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender.

Not ready to relinquish her yet, he entered the tent and carried her toward his bed. Sitting with his back against the wall, he held her so that her head was resting against his chest like a pillow. He pulled off his helm and tossed it at the foot of the bed.

The movement caused her eyes to open. He watched her brow furrow as she took in his face. “You’ve been fighting,” she said, reaching out to brush a cut on his cheek. His body reacted to the soft touch, tensing. She tried to wipe the smudges from his face. “How did you get all this soot on your face? When I first saw you, I thought you were a ghost.” She glanced at the helm and shuddered. “Or a demon.”

Knowing she was treading close to dangerous waters, he took her icy fingers in his hand and brought them to his mouth. “Go to sleep, Rosalin. It’s been a long day. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Her eyes met his with a look that cut right through his chest. “You won’t leave me?”

He shook his head. The word “never” rose to his lips, but he pushed it back. That was a promise he could not make. “Not tonight. Now sleep, sweetheart.”

She did as he bade, falling asleep with a contented smile on her face that made him feel like not the strongest but the luckiest man in Scotland. Slowly, it warmed the coldness that had been burning inside him since the moment he’d seen her pressed up against that tree, until he, too, slept.

Rosalin drew the needle through the linen for the final time, made her knot, and used the scissors she’d borrowed from Deirdre to cut the thread. Holding the tunic up to the sunlight (that she’d begun to lose hope of ever seeing again) streaming through the Hall window, she admired her handiwork. Although not quite as good as new, there was no longer a large, gaping tear across the upper sleeve. From the rust-colored staining around the tear that remained even after washing, she suspected it had come from a sword blade.

“’Tis a fine job,” the woman sitting beside her said.

Rosalin smiled, pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, Jean. The light in here is a vast improvement to the tent.”

Ironically, despite the closeness she’d shared with Robbie a few nights ago when she’d fallen asleep in his arms, she’d made greater inroads with the women of camp than she had with its leader. Robbie had already gone when she woke that next morning, and their conversations since had been brief and mostly in passing. The women, however, were slowly starting to include her in their conversations.

The mending had helped. The first bundle of clothing that had arrived from Deirdre she’d attempted to mend in the tent. But after a long day by candlelight, she’d sought out natural light the next day—and company.

Rosalin had walked into the Hall three days ago, pulled up a bench in a corner near a window, and quietly went to work on the basket of mending. The women ignored her for the first day, but by the second, curiosity got the better of a few of them. By the third day, she’d begun to learn something of them as well. Though she wouldn’t exactly call them friendly, they were for the most part polite, and one or two of them had even taken to sitting beside her while she worked—like Jean.

The girl couldn’t be much older than eight and ten, but her natural dark-blond prettiness had already begun to dull under the ravaging weight of struggle and strife. Like Rosalin, most of these women had lost their parents at a young age. Unlike her, however, they hadn’t had the fortune of a generous guardian to take care of them. With the men in their life either off to war or killed by the destruction around it, they’d been left to fend on their own.

As fallen women weren’t exactly a subject of polite conversation, Rosalin had never given much thought to how or why someone would choose a life of sin. It was deeply distressing to learn that for many of them, choice was not a part of it. When the men in your family had been killed, your village had been razed, and there was little work to be found (and even less if you were a woman), you did what you must to survive. Worse were the girls like Jean, who’d been forced into the life by rape.

In truth their stories were heartbreaking. As was the matter-of-fact way they were told, as if the unfairness wasn’t only expected, but accepted. No matter what the church might say, Rosalin couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn them. Indeed, she couldn’t help but feel grateful that fate had not forced her to have to make a similar “choice.” Birth, rank, and a caring brother had afforded her the protection these women did not have. It was humbling to think how easily their fate could have been hers.

It was a hard life. From what Rosalin could see, the women worked all day keeping the camp running smoothly and stayed up most of the night pleasing the men. Different men. A few fortunate ones like Deirdre and Mor had been “claimed” by one of the leaders, but the other women like Jean moved from bed to bed each night.

“I don’t know what we will do when you go, my lady,” Jean said with a shy smile. “You have saved us about two weeks’ worth of mending in a few days.”

Rosalin felt a strange pang in her chest at the thought of leaving, but she knew it could be any day. It had been over a week since they’d arrived in the forest, and the envoy that had been sent to her brother to negotiate for her release could return at any time. “I have been happy to do it,” Rosalin said. “It has given me a way to pass the time.”

“Aye, well I suspect when word gets out of your fine work, you will have plenty to keep you busy while you are here.”

Suddenly, the smile fell from the girl’s face and a troubled look crossed it. Rosalin turned to see what had caused the reaction and noticed that two of the other women had come into the Hall to start preparing for the midday meal.

Agnes was one of the older and more experienced of the women, and from what Rosalin could tell, closest in rank to Deirdre. The second woman, Mary, had a sad, empty-eyed look to her and drank enough ale and whisky to put a man of Robbie’s size on his back, but she never appeared drunk. Except for Agnes, the other women at camp seemed to avoid her. If there was a rank among the women, Rosalin would put Mary at the bottom of the heap.

It was only when she turned in their direction that Rosalin realized what had caused Jean’s reaction. A large, angry-looking bruise covered Mary’s right cheekbone.

Suspecting what might have been the cause of the injury, Rosalin felt outrage spark inside her. She turned to Jean. “Who did that to her? Did one of the men strike her?”

Jean shook her head and put her finger up to her mouth to quiet her. “Please, my lady, do not say anything. You will only make more trouble for her. It’s Mary’s own fault. We tried to warn her. Fergal gets a little rough when he’s drunk, but she wouldn’t listen and went with him anyway. He’s the only one who will take her now.”

“What do you mean?”

Jean’s mouth hardened with distaste. “Last time we went to the village at Corehead for supplies, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers in the nearby garrison. Fancied herself in love with the Englishman, she did. Until she got herself with child and he kicked her out of his bed.”

Rosalin gasped, her eyes widening with alarm. “She’s pregnant?”

Jean shook her head. “Nay, she lost the child not long afterward. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her now, but she used to be quite a favorite among the men.” She shrugged. “But no one wants an English whore.” She blushed. “Meaning no disrespect, m’lady.”

Rosalin didn’t care about that. “That is no excuse for someone to hit her.”

Jean looked at her as if she were either the most naive person in the world or the stupidest. “Fergal isn’t so bad, my lady. Not when he’s sober, at least. I’m sure he’ll make it up to her—which is why she’ll not thank you for interfering.”

Reluctantly, Rosalin took Jean’s advice and returned to her mending. She understood the precariousness of Mary’s position and didn’t want to do anything to make it worse for her, but the unfairness of it ate at her. The woman had lost a child. Must she now endure a beating in silence? How long must she serve penance for the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man?

If the question resonated a little too loudly, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it.

Rosalin was still fuming an hour later when she carried the stack of linens back to her tent to prepare for the midday meal. It was wrong to hit a woman—
any
woman—and Mary needed someone to stand up for her, even if she would not herself.

The brute should be punished, and it went against Rosalin’s nature to stand aside and do nothing—say nothing—when she saw someone treated so unfairly.

Not paying attention to her surroundings, she startled at the sound of a loud roar coming from the other side of the building where the men practiced. Curious, she backtracked a little, following the sound of the cheers and yells. Once she’d turned the corner, she saw a large gathering of men—what appeared to be nearly all the forty or so men in camp—in a small clearing. They were standing in a loose circle watching something.

She scanned the area for Robbie but didn’t see him. Suddenly second-guessing the wisdom of her current pursuit, she started to turn around when she caught a glimpse between two of the men of what had them so riveted.

She froze. Everything froze—her heart, her breath, her step. Indeed she was rooted to the ground with…shock? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the display in front of her. It wasn’t just that Robbie was naked to the waist—although that alone would probably have been enough—he was also being attacked by a half-dozen men wielding swords, coming at him from different directions. And he was winning without a weapon or even a shield to defend himself—only his hands.

She must have walked forward, because she found herself edging between two of the men to get a closer view.

Sweet heaven, she’d never seen anything like it! Highland wrestling she’d heard of, but this was different. She didn’t know how to describe it except that he was tossing grown men—seasoned warriors all of them—around as if they were pesky gnats. They couldn’t get close to him. As soon as they made their move, he’d evade them with a twist of his body, a block of his hand, a jab of his knee, even a kick of his foot. They ended up keeled over in pain or on their backs.

It wasn’t until the men chanted for “Seton” that anyone gave him a contest. Sir Alex had obviously been trained in the same fighting style, because he matched the strange moves with nearly equal precision. It was brutal, but strangely fascinating to watch—almost like a vicious, violent dance.

Rosalin felt as if her heart was in her throat, as if she were a hairsbreadth from raising her voice to tell them to stop as they exchanged blows and blocks, jabs and twists, kicks and flips. It seemed as if it could go on forever, even though both men were obviously tiring. Finally, Sir Alex made a quick move toward Robbie, trying to land a jab of his elbow in Robbie’s ribs. She gasped when she realized why: a large part of Robbie’s left side was black and mottled with bruising.

But Robbie had anticipated the move. He twisted, taking the blow with his right side, jabbed Sir Alex hard under the chin with his elbow, and cut behind his feet to land him on his back.

The crowd erupted in a roar.

Robbie grinned and reached his hand down to help his friend up.

Sir Alex stared at it for a minute, cursed prodigiously, but eventually took it.

Their interaction was so much like that of brothers that she almost laughed.

“You’re too impatient,” Robbie said in a way that made Rosalin think it hadn’t been for the first time. “And predictable. I knew the ribs would be too much for you to resist.”

“It’s your only damned weak spot,” Sir Alex muttered in frustration.

Robbie just grinned. But looking at that broad, chiseled chest, Rosalin had to disagree. Even with the bruising, there wasn’t a weak spot on him.

Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he turned and saw her standing there. It seemed that everyone else saw her standing there as well, because the raucous laughter suddenly stopped with all the sublety of a clap of thunder.

A blush rose to her cheeks. Robbie frowned but walked over to her. “Did you need something?”

Being confronted by well over six feet of half-naked man seemed to tie her tongue. After a flustered moment of staring at his chest, which seemed to cover most of her field of vision, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. But not before noticing the cut on his arm. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing.”

Suddenly aware that everyone was watching them—and listening—she said, “I need to speak with you.”

He frowned. “Did something happen?”

She looked around self-consciously, shifting the stack of linens in her arms. “Please, it’s important.”

He held her gaze for a moment before turning to his men. “We will resume after the midday meal.” He glanced at a few of the men, who wore proof of their time on the ground in the layer of mud covering their backsides. “Some of you look as if you need time to wash.”

The men laughed and started to hurl insults at one another as they dispersed.

Plucking his shirt and
cotun
from a nearby rock, Robbie donned the first and tossed the latter over his arm.

As much as Rosalin was reluctant to see that spectacular, gleaming chest all covered up, it did clear her head.

He offered to carry her bundle as well. She thought about it before handing it over. “You might as well. I believe the top one belongs to you anyway.”

He ignored the pointed reference to the injury he had not told her about and took a quick glance at her work. A brow lifted as he examined the stitches. “Christ, how did you do that? It looks as if the cloth was rewoven on the loom. I can barely see the stitches, they are so tiny.”