The Raider (24 page)

Robbie had been waiting for this moment for six years. But the long aisle of Melrose Abbey was not the battlefield he’d had in mind in which to face his enemy.

Clifford was waiting with three of his men near the carved wooden screen and altar, beyond which only monks were permitted. Robbie started down the south aisle with three of his own men flanking him. He’d brought a dozen men, but only Fraser, Barclay, and Keith had accompanied him inside the abbey. A few more waited outside, while the rest were spread out around the village keeping an eye out for any sign of a trap, and readying for their escape should it be necessary.

Robbie didn’t expect anything, but with the English he’d learned to be cautious.

By agreement, both parties had left their weapons at the door. Though drawing swords in the holy place would be sacrilege, Clifford had insisted, with a not-so-subtle reference to Bruce’s killing of the Red Comyn six years before in a church. The “barbarous” act had begun Bruce’s bid for the throne and had also served to get him excommunicated.

Robbie didn’t object. He wasn’t the one who would need a weapon if their parley took a bad turn.

Besides, as long as Robbie held Rosalin, he had everything he needed to win this particular battle.

The tables had been turned. Robbie was no longer a prisoner under the yoke of his jailor’s bidding or a rebel supporting a king on the run. This time Robbie held all the power, and they both knew it.

He had dreamed of the day he would have the pompous bastard under his heel. The English and their bloody superiority! For too many years they’d treated the Scots like serfs in their own kingdom, like recalcitrant subjects and scurrilous rebels. Seeing a little humility on any English lord’s face—especially Clifford’s—was something Robbie had been looking forward to for a long time.

One day soon the English king would be forced to recognize Scotland as an independent nation, but for now Clifford’s acquiescence would satisfy.

The fall of their footsteps on the tile floor echoed in the cavernous nave of one of Scotland’s greatest abbeys. Built in the shape of St. John’s cross, the abbey’s thick stone pillars and walls rose more than forty feet above him, limned and decorated with brightly colored paintings they complemented the thousands of small pieces of glass stained and meticulously cut and fitted into lead to fill the enormous arched windows, of which there must be fifty.

It was impressive. Awe-inspiring. A modern marvel of architecture. The kind of place you wanted to crank your neck back and look around, picking out the different saints and scenes from the Bible.

But Robbie’s gaze was fixed right in front of him. On one man.

Lord Robert Clifford looked much the same as the last time they’d met face-to-face. His blond hair had darkened, there were a few more scars on his face, and he was a few pounds heavier with muscle, but the patrician features, cold eyes, and shimmering chain mail and spotless tabard with the red stripe and blue-and-yellow checks of the Clifford arms were all the same.

One thing was different. This time Robbie noticed the resemblance to his sister.

When their eyes met, Robbie felt as if someone had landed a fist in his gut. Christ, they were the same color. He might have been looking into Rosalin’s eyes.

Shite
. He had to look away. Mouth clenched tight, he came to a stop a few feet away.

The two men faced off in silence. This moment had been a long time in coming. Much had changed, and they had six years of fighting between them, but they were both keenly aware of what had happened the last time they’d met. Robbie could still hear the condemning words.
“Take him to the pit
.
”

He’d been so damned surprised. Maybe that was what had angered him the most. He’d actually let himself believe Clifford. He could have killed Clifford’s men while defending his friend, but he hadn’t. He’d expected justice—or at least the pretense of it.

Blood rushed through him at the memories, and the heat of anger flared through his veins. Anger, but not the hatred that usually roared through him at the mention of Clifford. Hatred that had become as much a companion to Robbie as the armor he wore.

By all that was holy, he should want to smash his fist through that perfectly straight set of teeth and wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat until the breath strangled from his lungs. Clifford’s treachery had led to the death of many of Robbie’s comrades, including Thomas, and he’d been only hours away from taking the rest of them. Clifford had been a thorn in Robbie’s side, a symbol of his hatred of the English, for a long time.

But he felt no such urge. What the hell was wrong with him?

Still, they did not shake hands, and the tension in the air was palpable.

Boyd realized he was being subject to just as much scrutiny, but the cold eyes—the cold
green
eyes, damn it—gave no hint to Clifford’s thoughts. It was one thing he didn’t share with his sister, although in this case, Robbie wished he did. Rosalin’s expressive eyes gave her thoughts away—

Damn it, he had to stop thinking about her. But it seemed all he could do. “…
care about you
.” Christ, why the hell had she said that? He didn’t want her to care about him, and hearing the words had forced him to acknowledge something he wanted to ignore.

He’d reacted badly and regretted his harsh words. But she’d caught him off guard. What the hell was he supposed to do? She knew the circumstances as well as he did. There were few things less insurmountable than the sister of an English baron—an English
overlord
, no less—and a Scot “rebel,” fighting for Bruce. Hell, climbing the highest peak of the mighty Cuillins in the winter with his hands tied behind his back might be easier.

The best thing for them both would be getting this over as quickly as possible.

To that end, he broke the standoff. “Clifford,” he said with a sharp nod. “As you insisted on this meeting, I assume you have something to say.”

Clifford’s icy demeanor cracked. “Damn right I have something to say. As if burning people out of their homes and stealing their goods aren’t enough, you abduct my son and my sister? What the hell kind of barbarian are you?”

Robbie felt a flicker of the familiar rage. “The kind that holds your sister, so if I were you I’d give caution to my words. Need I remind you of the cages where the Countess of Buchan and a fourteen-year-old girl spent a couple of years of their lives thanks to your king? If you want to talk barbarians, perhaps you should look closer to home.” The knight’s flush told him his barb had been well aimed. “Your sister and son were my
hostages
—and have been treated with every consideration. Too much consideration, it seems, as it enabled your son to escape. As for the raids, you have only yourself to blame. My envoy came to you with terms, which you refused.”

“I hardly call two thousand pounds terms. I call it bloody robbery.”

“Call it whatever the hell you want, but it’s the cost of peace—and of getting your sister back. Two thousand pounds is a pittance compared to the wealth the English have plundered, looted, and pillaged from
my
country.”

Clifford’s mouth fell in a hard line. Robbie could see the anger he was forcing himself to contain, see the frustration, and finally see the acknowledgment that Robbie had been waiting to see for a long time. He had no choice but to submit.

“You will have your truce,” Clifford said, every word pulled through clenched teeth.

Although the result had been a foregone conclusion, hearing the words felt good. At least it should, but for some reason Robbie didn’t feel the satisfaction or the sense of victory he wanted. Because beneath Clifford’s anger, beneath his frustration, beneath his acknowledgment, Robbie also saw something else: his helplessness. Helplessness born of the love he had for his sister and the fear he couldn’t quite hide. It made Robbie uncomfortable. Uneasy.
Unsatisfied
.

He also knew what it meant, and that thought—the knowledge that he had to give her back—made him feel something that he feared was dangerously close to what Clifford was feeling.

The gaze that met his wasn’t cool at all, but pained. “Rosalin is safe? She has not been harmed?”

Robbie should torture the bastard and let him think the worst. God knew, he deserved it. But he found himself telling him the truth. “She will be returned to you exactly as I found her—without even a bruise. I give you my word.”

“Roger said as much, but damn it, she’s a gently reared lady, unused to such harsh conditions.” Robbie didn’t like thinking about it any more than Clifford did. “When?”

“As soon as—”

But Robbie’s words were cut off when another man—a knight, by the look of him—pushed his way forward. “Your word? What kind of assurance is that?” He looked down his nose at Robbie with an expression so dripping with condescension and disdain, it could have filled a slop bucket. “Why should we believe the word of a man who is no better than a brigand? How do we know he hasn’t had his vile hands all over her?”

Clifford looked more annoyed by the man’s interruption than Robbie. “I told you I will handle this.”

The knight persisted. “I must have assurances—”

“Sir Henry,” Clifford said. “Shut up.”

Robbie stared at the man Clifford had identified as Sir Henry with cold calculation. Though the knight’s words and attitude had angered him, Robbie had heard them too many times before to let it show. But there was something about this man that set his teeth on edge. He was nearly Robbie’s height and only slightly slimmer in build, though he was at least a handful of years younger. He reminded him of someone. But with his dark hair and light eyes, it could be half the members of the Highland Guard—including himself. The thought should have amused him, but for some reason it only made him frown.

“Have we met?” Robbie drawled with an indifference that he knew would grate.

It did. The knight flushed angrily. “If we had, you would not be standing here, but rotting in a grave somewhere.”

Robbie quirked a brow. “Bold words. Care to prove them?”

Sir Henry stepped toward him. “Aye, any time. Just as soon as you return my betrothed.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, no amount of training could have hid Robbie’s shock. He probably wore the look of a man who’d been shot in the back with an arrow. He might as well have been.

It gave the other man the advantage—the momentary advantage. He sneered knowingly. “I’m not surprised she did not tell you. Probably thought you’d try to exact your payments from me as well. We are to be married at the end of the month, and I will have assurances that you have not touched her.”

Robbie wasn’t containing his anger any longer. It was snapping through him dangerously, ready to explode. She’d lied to him—or as good as lied to him.
Betrothed
, damn it? While she’d been lying in his arms, letting him put his hands on her—putting her hands on him—she was going to marry another man.
Care about you
. God, he felt like a fool.

He was tempted to tell Sir Henry exactly what they’d done—and exactly where his hands had been.

“What if I’ve had my hands all over her?” Robbie couldn’t resist taunting. “What will you do then?”

The other man’s eyes flared with rage. “You bastard, I’ll kill you.”

He would have launched himself at Robbie, but Clifford wisely held him back. “These men are here under truce, de Spenser. You will not break it.”

“What’s the difference this time, Clifford?” Robbie said. “Age give you a sense of honor?”

The slight flush on the other man’s face was the only sign that the barb about what had happened at Kildrummy had found its mark. “I have agreed to your terms. Your word that Rosalin is unharmed will satisfy. Robert Bruce will have his truce and his two thousand pounds.”

“And as soon as he gets it, you will have your sister.”

Clifford’s face went white. “But that could take weeks. I will need time to get that coin together. You said as soon as I agreed—”

“That was before you insisted on this little meeting,” Robbie said. “Now I think I will need more surety to ensure that you keep the terms of our bargain.”