The Raider (8 page)

It was a role he’d been cast in before, so there was no reason it should bother him. There was no reason he should want to rip that shiny shield from his partner’s hand and hold it up himself. There was no reason he should care if she looked at Seton with gratitude.

Except it wasn’t Seton she was looking at, it was him—with the oddest expression on her face. “Please,” she said softly. “Don’t do this. I’m asking you to release us.”

The look made him feel uneasy. It was that feeling that she knew him again. That she was searching for something in his face, but it wasn’t there. That she was waiting for something.

“Why the hell would I do that?”

Her eyes never left his. “Because you owe me.”

He tried to laugh, but it didn’t ease the tension coiling inside him. The feeling that something was very wrong, and that whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it. “What could I possibly owe Clifford’s sister?”

She lowered her voice, but he heard the one word that changed everything. “Kildrummy.”

The blood drained from Robbie’s face.
Kildrummy
. A memory stirred. His heart started to pound.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

It couldn’t be…

But he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. The knowledge of what that ghostly voice had been trying to tell him. Of why she was looking at him as if she knew him and expected him to know her as well.

He swore and closed the distance between them in one long stride. With the back of one gauntleted finger—gauntlets designed to protect him from blades in battle, not silky-soft skin, although right now he was rather glad of the latter—he tilted her face back and forth in the misty twilight.

She didn’t shirk from his touch or try to pull away, holding her finely carved features up to his scrutiny, almost daring him to deny the truth.

Dread churned like a portent of doom in his gut. But he
knew
. The shadowed lines of her chin and nose left no doubt: it was the young lass who helped free him from prison all those years ago. The lass who from behind her hooded cloak he’d assumed to be a servant. The lass whom he’d tried to find for years so he could repay her. Though it seemed inconceivable, the sweet, young girl whose velvety lips had trembled under his with a chaste kiss had been Clifford’s sister.

The truth slammed like a hammer across his chest, the blow powerful enough to fell even the strongest man in Scotland.

Suddenly, it all fit. He recalled overhearing some of the guards discussing the girl’s unexpected arrival with Hereford’s party, and how she’d been locked up tight in one of the towers like some bloody princess who would be sullied by just breathing the same air as the vile Scots.

It had never crossed his mind that their guardian angel might be Clifford’s precious sister. No wonder Robbie’s enquiries hadn’t turned up anything. He’d asked about the half-dozen young serving women in the Earl’s party, not the ladies.

Their eyes met. “You said you would repay me if we ever met again,” she said.

Seton being the only one close enough to overhear, and the only one who would understand of what she spoke, he uttered an expletive under his breath.

For once he and his partner were in agreement. Robbie dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, not trusting himself. Something was building inside him that he didn’t recognize. A different kind of anger. A wild, frenzied maelstrom harnessed by the barest of tethers.

It wasn’t right, damn it! Why did it have to be her?
The one good memory he had of that godforsaken time was now destroyed by the knowledge that his angel of mercy, the sweet young girl who’d freed him from that hellhole, was sister to the man who’d put him there.

“Release us,” she entreated, her soft voice tugging on a part of him long forgotten.

His conscience, damn it.

Damn her for doing this to him! For ruining everything. For making him indebted to a bloody
Clifford
. His mouth fell in a hard line, his fists clenching against the storm of emotions surging inside him.

He needed to think. But he couldn’t do it standing here with her looking up at him. Turning away from that expectant gaze, he started back to his horse. “Get them mounted up,” he said to Seton. “We’ll need to ride hard if we are to reach the gathering place in time.”

Norham wasn’t the only raid this day. Douglas and Randolph were waiting for them near Channelkirk.

He didn’t need to look at her. Her harsh gasp of disbelief said it all.

Seton was just as astonished but not as restrained. “You mean you aren’t going to release—”

Robbie stopped him with a glare that was probably as black as he felt inside. Just once he wished his partner didn’t have to question everything he did—or didn’t do. “Damn it, not now. Clifford’s men are probably right on our tails. If we don’t get out of here right now, we’ll be the ones who need releasing.”

How could I have been so wrong?

Rosalin watched him stride away and felt the last flicker of uncertainty in her go out. All the doubts fostered by years of stories and rumor had proved true. The cold expression on his face when he realized her identity, and his refusal to release them, left her no doubt that whatever good she’d once imagined in Robbie Boyd was long gone.

It was her worst fear realized. She’d made a mistake in releasing him, and her shame knew no end. She couldn’t bear to think about how many of her countrymen might have died because of her misplaced compassion. Because she’d thought she was righting a terrible wrong and couldn’t look away. The noble rebel that she’d created in her mind was nothing more than a merciless brigand without any semblance of honor.

After what she’d done for him and all she’d risked, he’d turned his back on her—literally.

Whatever vestiges remained of her foolish young girl’s heart crumbled to dust. Had she really thought the connection forged by one reckless act somehow bound them? Had she really expected him to release them because of some debt he’d probably never thought to have to repay?

She had. She’d never believed the man she’d watched could be so ruthless.

“What were you saying to that rebel, Aunt Rosalin? It almost looked like you knew him.”

Malcolm had released Roger, and he’d come up to stand beside her as the blond-haired warrior sorted out their riding companions. Rosalin hated lying to him, but she could hardly explain. “How would I know him?” How indeed. “I simply asked him to release us.”

“But don’t you know who that is? That’s the Devil’s Enforcer, Robbie Boyd. One of the most ruthless men in Scotland—and said to be the strongest. Father had him imprisoned at one time, and he would have been executed if he hadn’t managed to escape. He and Father hate each other. The Devil’s Enforcer won’t release us without exacting payment from Father.”

“I see that now,” she said quietly. “But I had to try.”

They didn’t have the opportunity to talk further, as the brigands had decided on their riding arrangements and they were separated. Roger’s hands were tied, and he was forced to ride with the warrior who’d first captured him at Norham. Fraser, she thought someone had called him. If he was part of that great patriotic family, she knew she would find no sympathy from him. She was placed in the charge of a stony-faced, red-bearded older warrior—apparently named Callum, although he’d not spoken a word to her—who bore a strong resemblance to young Malcolm. If it was his father, as she suspected, he’s apparently taken her tricking of Malcolm personally.

Within a few minutes, she was plopped up on the saddle before him, and they were on their way. To where, she could only guess. She wished she’d paid more attention on the journey south from Kildrummy with Sir Humphrey. Her head had been filled with romantic fantasies (which seemed especially cruel in light of what had just happened), and she hadn’t taken note of many landmarks. She’d seen so many churches and castles, they’d all started to blur. She knew the general location of the major burghs and cities, but she doubted the rebels would go anywhere near those. By her best estimation, they were northwest of Norham and Berwick in the hills and forests, headed west into more of the same.

She knew Bruce and his men controlled the countryside and operated from their base in the Ettrick Forest…

Her heart dropped. Good God, was that where they were going? Rosalin didn’t believe in ghosts, but the stories of Bruce’s phantoms who reputedly had their lair in the vast Royal Forest made her wonder. Her brother’s men would be hard-pressed to follow them into such hostile and dangerous territory.

Which made the need to escape as soon as possible even more imperative. But as she could not do so without Roger, she would have to bide her time. They could not ride halfway across the Borders to Ettrick without resting.

She hoped. But these men looked tough and rugged, and used to riding bone-jarring and bottom-numbing distances. They’d probably pick up the horses and carry
them
when they got tired.

Although she was considerably more comfortable than she had been when she was strewn over Boyd’s lap in a sack, as the day faded and became swallowed up by the mist, she increasingly suffered the effects of her walk through the river. Her wet slippers had turned to ice, and her feet along with them. Soon, her shivering became uncontrollable.

Not that anyone noticed. The gruff old warrior behind her barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead, he completely ignored her. The other warriors did as well.

Boyd and the handsome blond-haired warrior, who also looked familiar, had stayed behind initially (presumably to scout for any soldiers who might be pursuing them) and had only just reappeared.

Not that she would expect sympathy from
him
. He hadn’t looked in her direction once. So much for the special connection. If she needed proof of how one-sided that connection was, she had it. What had she expected—one look and somehow he would know her? That he would fall on his knees and pledge his undying devotion to her for what she’d done?

He hadn’t seen her face, so how could he know her? And he wasn’t a knight in a faerie tale; he was a rebel. A brigand. A scourge. A man who fought without rules or honor.

And she was a fool.

Rosalin wrapped the plaid around her tighter and tried not to think about how tired she was, or how cold she was, or how miserable she was.

Unsuccessfully. Her throat tightened and a hot sheen of tears burned behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter that she’d been abducted, manhandled, hunted, nearly crushed to death, found out a man she thought was a hero was no more than a merciless brigand, and was probably being taken into what undoubtedly was the most terrifying place in Christendom. She had to stay strong for Roger.

Perhaps she wasn’t completely without sympathy. The blond-haired warrior glanced in her direction, but he was careful not to meet her gaze. From their tense conversation, she wondered if it might be about her. Whatever the two men were talking about, it was clear they weren’t in agreement.

She was so cold, she was about to break down and ask the recalcitrant old warrior for something warm to wrap around her feet, when Boyd swung his mount around and glowered in their direction. Ripping the plaid off from around his shoulders, he threw it toward them. “Damn it, Callum, wrap her in this. She’ll bring the entire English army down on us with all that chattering.”

Callum caught the plaid and draped it over her, tucking it under her feet, which were slung to one side. Rosalin burrowed into its heat with a contended sigh.

Apparently, Boyd did not want or expect her thanks, because he’d already turned around.

Considerably more comfortable, she told herself not to read anything into the less than graciously made gesture. But there was a strange intimacy to being wrapped in his plaid. The thick wool fibers still held the warmth of his body, and if she inhaled just a little, she caught the faint edge of pine and heather and something distinctly masculine. It felt like he was surrounding her and made it difficult for her not to think about foolish things.

She tried instead to think about Sir Henry. He would be arriving at Berwick soon. She shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about her abduction. She hoped he didn’t do something rash. Her nose scrunched up. Strange that although she didn’t know him that well, that was her first thought.

The sky was as black as pitch by time they finally stopped. Though they’d been riding for a few hours, with the rough terrain, heavy loads, and having to slow their speed with the horses over the hills, she guessed they hadn’t gone more than ten or fifteen miles.

Callum dismounted and helped her down without looking at her.

Despite his less than friendly expression, she asked, “Where are we?”

“Ask the captain,” he replied, already walking off.

She intended to. Right after she checked on Roger. But seeing her nephew standing with “the captain” a few feet away, she marched over toward them both. After a quick glance to assure her Roger was all right, she turned to Boyd. Not without reluctance, she unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders and handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said.