The Raider (21 page)

MacKay shook his head. “I tried, damn it, I tried. But I think Arrow’s mother dipped it in the same water that Achilles’s mother used. He heals without a scratch.”

Robbie laughed and went off to fetch his things. A mission was exactly what he needed to remind him of what was important. Rosalin Clifford may have distracted him, but it wasn’t going to get in the way of what he had to do.

Rosalin had her freedom, but she was too scared to use it. After coming face-to-face with the Black Douglas, she’d scurried back to her tent like a frightened mouse. Three hours of waiting later—with no Robbie appearing to reassure her—she decided that she was being ridiculous. Robbie had told her Douglas wouldn’t harm her; she would believe him. She was also hungry. The removal of her guards meant she would have to fetch her own food.

Mustering her courage, she wrapped her plaid around her shoulders and headed out of the tent into the cool evening mist. From her experience so far in Scotland there seemed to be little else: morning mist, midday mist, and evening mist. Today, the gloom was heavier than usual, almost seamlessly switching back and forth between a drizzling, dreary rain.

Remembering the reaction her arrival in the Hall had caused earlier—and the discomfort of being stared at by so many—Rosalin decided to seek out a smaller number of curious-wary-angry gazes and headed toward the camp kitchens, which had been set up against the back wall of the Hall. A wooden roof protected the pots and fires from the rain and snow, but the walls that enclosed the area were only on three sides and didn’t go all the way up, offering little insulation from the cold and wind.

It was a crude but efficient setup. In addition to the pots hanging in fires, there were a few tables to prepare the meals and a large bread oven constructed of stone.

Apparently, the women at camp weren’t here just to be companions for the men. They were also serving maids for the meals. One woman looked up as she approached and whispered something to the dark-haired woman standing beside her.

Rosalin’s foot seemed to stutter mid-step, and she nearly stumbled. It was the woman who’d kissed Robbie. Deirdre.

A pit of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach, and her courage faltered. The last thing she wanted to do was be confronted by an angry mistress. After years at court, Rosalin was under no illusions about women. They could be every bit as cruel and ruthless as men. Perhaps more so.

But she forced her feet forward and her chin up. She was Lady Rosalin Clifford, sister of one of the most important barons in England. She did not cower and run.

Usually. But she was painfully aware that none of that mattered here. Her rank would afford her little protection with these women. They didn’t care who she was, they only knew
what
she was: English, a hostage, and the sister of the man who was probably the most hated in Scotland.

A third woman had joined the first two by the time Rosalin drew close enough to hear them. Of course they were speaking in Gaelic, so she couldn’t understand a word. From the way the two other women deferred to Deirdre, however, Rosalin guessed that she must be in charge.

She was older than she’d appeared at first glance. At least a good handful of years beyond Rosalin and the other two girls, who appeared closer to her own two and twenty. She was prettier, too, than she’d realized, possessing the kind of bold sensuality that Rosalin could never hope to emulate. With her dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and wide mouth, Deirdre’s features were sharp—almost exotic-looking—making Rosalin suddenly feel drab and uninteresting by comparison.

And then there was her figure. Rosalin wrapped her plaid around her chest self-consciously. She could never hope to compare in that arena. Buxom and curvaceous were putting it mildly.

The two younger women were also brown-haired, albeit lighter in complexion and eye color, but not as fair of face. There was a sullen, downtrodden look to them that spoke of hardship. Deirdre had it as well, but hers was better hidden behind the sharp edge of maturity. There was little this woman hadn’t seen, and Rosalin didn’t know whether to pity or envy her for it.

The three women must have been clearing the dishes, as a stack of used trays, trenchers, goblets, and pitchers had been deposited on one of the worktables. Two large tubs of water set out next to it suggested that they were about to start washing.

Rosalin came to a stop in front of the table opposite them. She looked down at the dirty dishes, a wry smile turning her mouth. “It seems I’ve missed the meal.”

She assumed they would speak English, but the blank expressions and awkward silence that followed made her wonder.

Finally, Deirdre responded. “Fetch the lady something to eat, Mor,” she said to one of the girls at her side. Then to Rosalin, she said, “The cook has just taken in a few more trays. If you like, I will have Mor bring it to you there.”

Her tone was more matter-of-fact than friendly or deferential, but free of the malice or resentment Rosalin had feared.

Rosalin shook her head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I will take it back to my tent.” A loud roar emitted from the Hall behind them. “I should not wish to disturb their celebration.”

“They are not celebrating—no more than any other night when ale and whisky are plentiful.” She studied Rosalin’s face with a scrutiny that made her wish she could read minds. “But you are probably right. They are not the most reasonable in this state.” Rosalin took that to mean her Englishness would not be appreciated—or rather, would be even less appreciated than normal. Deirdre eyed her askance. “Iain is not fetching your meals?”

Rosalin shook her head. “Robb—” She blushed, and quickly corrected, “The captain has given me permission to move around the camp.”

Deirdre lifted a brow at that. “He has? Hmm.”

Rosalin didn’t know what that “hmm” meant, but it didn’t seem as if she agreed with Robbie’s decision.

Rosalin tried to explain. “I threatened to die of boredom, which would make me quite useless as a hostage.”

The faint hint of a smile lifted one corner of the other woman’s mouth. “You do not need to defend him to me, my lady; the captain makes his own decisions. I would not think to question them.”

Rosalin was aware of a subtle undercurrent and realized Deirdre was probably referring to other decisions as well—such as the one that had taken him from her bed.

Feeling a tightening in her heart, Rosalin was suddenly anxious to leave. In spite of the woman’s unexpected equanimity, she was painfully aware of the man who was between them. The man Deirdre had had, but Rosalin…never would.

The truth hit her with a blow. She understood what Deirdre must have known from the first. Deirdre didn’t resent her because she didn’t fear her.
I’m not a threat to her
. Rosalin might have distracted him temporarily, but eventually she would go, and when she did…

Rosalin saw her thoughts mirrored in the woman’s eyes. When she did, he would go back to Deirdre’s bed.

Her stomach turned, and it took everything she had to hold back the hard press of tears that sprang to her eyes. It had taken Robbie’s mistress to make her see what was so obvious. There could never be anything meaningful between them. She was
temporary
. A means to an end. When he’d exacted what payment he could from her brother, she would be sent back and undoubtedly never see him again.

Fortunately, the girl—Mor—chose that moment to return with a small tray of food. Rosalin took it from her and recovered her composure enough to thank her. “I will return the tray when I am finished.”

“The morning will be soon enough,” Deirdre said absently, already turning her attention back to the stack of dishes in front of her.

Rosalin started to walk away with her tray, but then turned back. “I should like to help while I am here. If you think of anything I can do.”

The girl who had been silent while Rosalin spoke with Deirdre said something to the other women in Gaelic. By her tone, Rosalin guessed that it wasn’t very nice. Mor covered her smile with her hand, but Deirdre said something sharply back that sobered both girls quickly.

Again, Rosalin was aware of being scrutinized and assessed.

“I presume you are good with a needle.”

Rosalin nodded. Most noble ladies could be counted on to have the skill.

“Well, it isn’t tabards or tapestries, but there is always a stack of linens to be mended.”

Rosalin smiled for the first time since she’d left her tent. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Whether it was her smile or her gratitude, something seemed to make Deirdre uncomfortable. She brushed off her thanks. “Aye, well, the captain will have to agree to it when he gets back.”

The smile fell from Rosalin’s face; she stilled. “The captain is gone?”

Her distress was so obvious even Deirdre must have felt sorry for her, as there was pity in her eyes. “Aye, he rode out a few hours ago.”

“When will he be back? Where did he go?”

The other woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I should think a day or two.”

“Is Sir Alex here?”

“Nay, he left as well.”

Panic started to crawl up inside her. The goblet on the tray started to rattle. He wouldn’t have left her
alone
with…

“Then who is in charge?” she asked, her stomach twisting as she anticipated the answer.

“The Douglas.”

Blood was no longer dripping down Robbie’s arm, but each hard fall of his horse’s hooves jarred his ribs and sent a blast of pain through his side, serving as a visceral reminder of the dangers of distraction. For nothing else could explain the uncharacteristic mistakes he’d made that had enabled the enemy to get in two clean blows: the first, a blade across the shoulder that had struck with enough force to slice through his steel-studded leather
cotun
to the skin below, and the second, the crushing blow of a mace across his side that had broken more than one rib.

He would like to say that it was because the mission had been more difficult than any of them expected—the fifty men they’d faced had been a highly skilled combination of English soldiers and hardened mercenaries who hadn’t given up their silver easily—but he knew that wasn’t the reason.

It was Rosalin. She was the distraction. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about. He’d left Douglas in charge and made it damn clear that if any harm should befall her, if she even complained of a quiver of fear, he would hold him accountable. He was fairly sure he’d threatened Douglas with enough bodily damage to deny his new wife any pleasures in the marital bed by removing certain necessary parts with a dull spoon, but Robbie couldn’t remember his exact words.

Rosalin would be fine, he told himself. He’d been gone only half a day.

Which didn’t explain why he and Seton were currently galloping through the forest in the middle of the night, and not celebrating their successful mission with the rest of the Guard by sleeping and tending their injuries in a cave not far from where they’d won their hard-fought victory.

I should have told her I was leaving
. He didn’t know why he hadn’t, except that he’d been trying to convince himself after the uncomfortable conversation with his brethren that she didn’t meant anything to him. That he wasn’t beholden to her.

Seton swore behind him. Robbie heard the sound of a branch snapping as he turned with the torch.

“Christ, that almost took my head off,” Seton said. “Either slow down or hand me the bloody torch.”

“Or you could try to keep up.”

Seton threw him a black glare. “It’s pitch-black out here, thick with mist, and well past midnight. After nearly twelve hours of riding, with only a few hours’ break to fight a damned battle, my horse is a little tired. Hell,
I’m
a little tired. Are you going to tell me why we are killing ourselves to get back to camp tonight rather than enjoying a much deserved rest with the others?”

Robbie set his mouth in a hard line. “I want to get back.”

“That’s bloody obvious; the question is why. Are you worried about the lass?”

“Douglas won’t let anything happen to her.” He said it almost as much to himself as he did to Seton. Robbie trusted Douglas with his life—and had done so more than once. But it was Robbie’s responsibility to see to Rosalin’s safety, and he didn’t like delegating it to anyone else. Even a trusted friend.

“But?”

Seton knew him too damned well. “But hell if I know. Something just doesn’t feel right.”