The Raider (26 page)

She moaned, arching against him, pressing her hips back to meet his feigned thrusts. “Aye,” she whispered between bated breaths. Surprisingly it was. No matter how hard and rough he wanted to make it, there was an inherent tenderness to his touch that he could not hide.

He swore angrily, as if he, too, knew the truth. His movements slowed, his strokes becoming softer and more drawn out, as he, too, succumbed to the pleasure of the intimate touch. “God, you feel so good,” he groaned, rubbing some of her dampness with soft little circling motions of his thumb. “So warm and wet for me. But I’m going to make you even hotter—and wetter.”

Any embarrassment she might have felt was lost in the cacophony of other emotions swirling inside her. Her breath—her whimpering moans—quickened at a frantic pace in keeping with the plunging of his fingers. She felt her body lift in expectation as passion took hold. As her desire and love for this man entwined in the perfect whirlpool of sensation.

His hand took her higher and higher. A fever spread over her skin. “Oh God, Robbie,” she begged helplessly.

He held her there. Right at that perfect place, until she couldn’t take it anymore and broke apart. “That’s it,
mo ghrá
. Let me feel your pleasure.”

The spasms rocked her, pulsing through her body in sharp wave after wave. His hand was still holding her when the last ebbs had flowed from her body.

She glanced over her shoulder and lifted her hazy gaze to his. His blue eyes were hot and penetrating, his face a hard mask. “What does
mo ghrá
mean?”

He was holding her so closely, she swore she could feel his heart stop. For a moment she thought he actually looked ill, but then his features once more schooled into hard impassivity. “It means ‘my beautiful one.’”

To her surprise, he let her go. To her even greater surprise, she didn’t fall to the ground in a boneless pool. “What about…Are you not…?” Her cheeks flushed hot.

His face was drawn so tight, he almost looked to be in pain. “What you want is impossible, Rosalin. I’ll not take your virginity to prove it. You wanted pleasure; I gave it to you. Do not make anything more of it.”

Rosalin stared at him, stunned and more hurt than she would have thought possible. For a moment she felt a flicker of doubt. Was lust truly all this was to him? Was she imagining things that weren’t there? Or was he just being stubborn and intentionally cruel to push her away?

Perhaps she should let him. Heaven knew it would be easier. She did not delude herself. A future for them seemed unlikely, even if they both wanted it. But she wouldn’t let him go without a fight. Not this time.

“I see,” she said softly. “Thank you for clarifying it for me. Now I shall know the difference.”

His hands clenched. “What difference?”

“To compare. When I return home.”

The pulse below his cheek jumped. He was furious, but determined not to show it.

She smiled, as if she hadn’t noticed. “When am I to leave?”

“As soon as your brother delivers the silver. A week, maybe two.”

She feigned concern, a small frown gathering between her brow. “And should I feel this desire again before I go, what then?”

“What the hell do you mean, ‘what then’?”

Rosalin knew she really shouldn’t take such pleasure in angering him, but then again, he’d hurt her. “Should I seek you out or someone else?”

He stiffened. His dark gaze rested on her for a long, angry pause before flickering to the bed. Rosalin suspected she was one nudge away from being tossed on that bed and very thoroughly ravished.

A proper, gently born lady really shouldn’t be feeling such a wicked thrill at the prospect.

But when his gaze landed on hers again, it was narrowed with understanding. “It won’t work, Rosalin. You will not goad me into changing my mind.”

He turned and ducked out of the tent before she could reply.

We’ll see about that
, Rosalin thought smugly. She intended to goad him into quite a lot. It seemed she, too, could be quite merciless when fighting for the right cause.

Robbie walked away while he still could. Before he did something rash like toss her down on that bed and give her exactly what she’d asked for. The lass trusted in his honor more than she should. He wasn’t one of her damned knights.

Someone else
. Bloody hell! The goading words still set primitive fires roaring through his blood.

He pushed a branch out of the way, snapping it, as he made his way through the forest to what was fast becoming his new favorite haunt: the ice-cold burn that ran behind the camp. He needed to cool off. One part of him in particular.

He was furious—not with her, but with himself. In his effort to prove that she meant nothing—that all he felt was lust—he’d only served to prove her point.

He couldn’t do it, damn it. He couldn’t even pretend. He’d tried to be crude and rough, but the moment he touched her something came over him. A powerful feeling that drugged his senses and dragged him into some kind of sensual haze, where all he could think about was bringing her pleasure.

Her responses hadn’t helped any. Damn it, she was an innocent, proper English
lady
. She was supposed to be shocked by his playacting from behind. Shocked as in horrified, not shocked as in awakened with far-from-maidenly curiosity.

She wasn’t supposed to dissolve against him, arching into his hand, pressing her sweet little bottom against his sorely abused cock and making soft, breathy whimpers of pleasure to egg him on. She wasn’t supposed to be so damned
hot
. He’d been one wiggle of those shapely buttocks away from unmanning himself and coming along with her.

Young, innocent, and English did not apparently mean meek and easy to maneuver. Nor did they seem to preclude enjoyment in the baser pleasures. Someone should have warned him.

The whole thing had left him in the unusual position of feeling distinctly overmatched. As if he’d shown up to battle with a pike to find out he was facing a siege engine.

He’d expected her to take his word for it—not to press. He sure as hell hadn’t expected a perfectly executed counterattack that would have made Striker proud. The lass had developed an uncanny ability to identify and take advantage of his weaknesses. All of which seemed to be related to her.

Wasn’t
she
supposed to be the one who was inexperienced? Yet he seemed to be the one left flailing in the dark, ill equipped to navigate the intricacies of a lady’s mind. Truth be told, he’d never gotten that far before. He’d had many relations with women, but never a relationship.

He stopped suddenly, as if he’d run into a wall. Was that what this was? How the hell had that happened?

He didn’t know, but it had. She’d insinuated herself into his tent, his thoughts, his life, and somehow along the way, she’d begun to matter.

Nay, he realized. She’d always mattered. He’d been doomed from the moment she’d opened the door to the pit prison. Not that it would change a damned thing.

As he was only a few feet away from the burn, he quickly divested himself of his armor and clothing and dove in.

He tried not to shriek like a five-year-old lass as the cold water closed in around him, driving icy needles into his skin. Robbie might be from the west coast of Scotland, but he didn’t seem to possess the inhuman ability to acclimate to the cold water that his brethren from the Isles did. MacSorley, MacRuairi, and MacLeod could swim in this shite for hours. Robbie did what was necessary and then got the hell out.

Having effectively chilled the unspent lust from his body, he washed quickly and climbed up the rocky banks.

With the roaring in his ears quieted, he could finally hear the other voice—the far quieter one—whispering in his ear. The one that told him he’d acted badly. That she hadn’t deserved to be treated like a whore. Nor had she deserved the harsh words uttered in an attempt to push her away.

She’d told him that she loved him, for Christ’s sake. He might not have wanted to hear it, but he should have shown some consideration for her feelings. Lasses were fragile, emotional creatures. Not cold, unfeeling bastards like him.

He owed her an apology.

He’d just finished strapping the baldric he wore across his shoulder for his sword when he heard a sound. He tensed, instantly primed for battle. But then, recognizing the footsteps, he moved his hand from the hilt of his sword.

“You’re supposed to whistle,” Robbie said with annoyance as his partner came into view. “I could have taken your damned head off.”

Seton shrugged. “You knew it was me. Besides, I wanted to make sure you were alone.” He gave him a pointed look. “What in the hell was that show in the Hall all about? Fraser said Clifford agreed to the truce.”

“He did.”

“Then why were you so angry with Lady Rosalin?” Robbie didn’t say anything. “Does it have to do with Sir Henry de Spenser by any chance?”

Robbie shot him a warning glare. “Leave it, Dragon.”

But the young knight had never heeded caution. That was part of the problem. “Not this time. I won’t let you hurt that poor girl. What you are doing to her isn’t right. She’s young and fancies herself in love with you, and you are confusing her with your…whatever the hell you want to call it. When you send her away you are going to break her heart. So leave her be.”

Robbie wanted to be angry. He wanted to tell Seton to bugger off, but he couldn’t. His partner wasn’t saying anything he didn’t already know. His chest was squeezing so tightly his lungs were burning. He could barely get the words out. “What if I care about her?”

Seton held his stare, and for once it felt like their positions were reversed. It wasn’t without sympathy that his partner gave him the cold, unflinching truth. “If you care about her, you’ll leave her be. Unless you are prepared to throw away your chance for a truce and the king’s two thousand pounds?”

Robbie’s mouth clenched in answer. Never.

“Even if you were, are you prepared for what would come after? If you think Clifford wants your head now, how do you think it will be if you try to take his beloved sister? He’ll never let you have her. Christ, Raider, you should know better than I that what you want is impossible.”

He did, which was why he’d never let himself consider it.

Even if he could put aside the fact that she was English and Clifford’s sister—which he wasn’t sure was possible—a connection with him would be too dangerous. Anyone close to him was a target. Hell, look what had happened to his sister. He wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger.

“If it means anything, I’m sorry,” Seton said.

Surprisingly, it did. Robbie nodded in acknowledgment.

“Are you sure it is wise to keep her here until Clifford arranges the payment?”

Wise? Nay, but he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “I don’t trust Clifford. What’s to prevent him from reneging on our deal as soon as we return her?” Robbie stopped his partner before he could speak. “And don’t say ‘honor’—we both know how far that goes with Clifford.”

Seton didn’t argue. He’d done all his arguing years before, and it had resulted in their being taken.

They started to walk back, and had just reached the farthest tent when they saw Malcolm running toward them. Immediately Robbie’s gaze went to his tent, but it appeared undisturbed.

“What is it, lad?” he asked.

“The Douglas said to come quickly. There’s something wrong with one of the horses.”

Not understanding the urgency, Robbie and Seton nonetheless made haste to the old bothy on the opposite side of camp that served as a barn for their few horses and livestock.

No sooner had they entered the old stone-and-turf building than Douglas turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground near Fraser’s horse, who appeared to be in distress. “Did you feed the horses oats when you were in Melrose?”

Robbie frowned. “Of course not,” he said. They barely had enough grain to feed their people, let alone the horses. Their mounts subsided on dried grasses for the most part.

“Well, someone did,” Douglas said, pointing to a pile of dung.

Robbie took a step closer and saw that he was right. Mixed into the normal manure he could see the telltale sprinkling of the light tan-colored groat about the size and shape of a maggot. There weren’t many—only a few—but enough to…

Ah hell
. Enough to
track
.

Some horses—often older one’s like Fraser’s—had trouble digesting whole oats. In this case, they were fortunate or they might not have discovered the ruse.

He swore and met Douglas’s gaze. “Ready the men.”

“Where are you going?” Douglas yelled after him.

Robbie didn’t take the time to respond. A minute later, when he was standing in his empty tent, his heart, which had been somewhere near his throat, dropped soundly to the floor.

Rosalin was gone.

Rosalin barely stifled the scream that rose to her throat when the armed knight appeared in front of her.

Not long after Robbie left, she’d gone to the garden to think. There had to be some way to make this work, assuming that she could get Robbie to admit there was a “this.” Also assuming that he could accept her being English. And being the sister of his greatest enemy. And her being English. She knew she’d already said that, but it probably bore mentioning twice.

And then there was her brother and the king. Edward was fond of her, but he wouldn’t sanction a match between the butter girl and Robbie Boyd, let alone the sister of one of his leading barons. There was no hope for it. Robbie would just have to forcibly marry her. That would be the story at least.

But could she convince Cliff? Aye, it wouldn’t be easy, but she knew he loved her more than he hated Boyd.

She would just have to make sure Robbie didn’t give him cause otherwise. The raiding and personal war between them would have to stop. She would not make friends of enemies, but surely they could come to some sort of agreement with her serving as surety?

When the war ended something more might be possible, but right now a fragile peace was all she could hope for. Perhaps more than she could hope for.

It was in the midst of this planning—or probably more accurately, fantasizing—that the soldier appeared. He slipped silently from behind the foliage to stand before her, his mail glimmering in the fading sunlight behind him. Fortunately, he’d raised his helm, and his face (and a moment later the red-and-white check arms he bore on his tabard) identified him, preventing her from alerting the rest of the camp to the presence of Sir Henry de Spenser’s top household knight.

“Sir Stephen!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

It was a silly question. She could guess exactly what he was doing here, but the shock had not yet left her, and it was all she could manage under the circumstances.

“We’ve come to rescue you, my lady.”

“We?” She looked around.

“Sir Henry and the rest of the army are not far behind. I was sent ahead to scout, but when I saw you…” His voice dropped off as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I can’t believe the rebels left you alone like this!”

Her mouth went dry. Dear God, she couldn’t let this happen! Men would die. Men like Sir Stephen.

Sir Stephen de Vrain was one of Sir Henry’s closest friends, and her favorite among his men. He was a handful of years older than she—closer to Sir Henry’s age of six and twenty—and though not classically handsome, he had a pleasing countenance with sandy-brown hair, rich hazel eyes, and an easy smile. It was the smile that had charmed her.

Robbie would kill him if he found him here. She could not let that happen. “You must leave. If they find you here, they will kill you.”

He glanced around uncomfortably. “Aye, you are right. Let’s go.”

“But I…” Her voice fell off. She didn’t want to go. “I cannot leave yet.” He looked at her as if she were half as crazed as she felt. “I gave my word not to escape when they permitted me free roaming of the camp.”

He smiled then. “’Tis admirable of you, my lady. But there is no dishonor in breaking a promise to a rebel.”

Rosalin cringed. The statement was so in keeping with what Robbie had told her, she was ashamed for her countrymen.

The sound of raised voices put a swift end to their conversation. “Come, my lady,” he said, taking her by the arm. “We must away.”

She tried to pull her arm back. “Wait! I don’t want to go.”

But Sir Stephen wasn’t listening to her protests. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred him to action. He hauled her against him and started to drag her off through the trees.

Rosalin tried to dig in her heels and push away, but it was no use. He wasn’t as tall and muscular as Robbie—few men were—but he was strong. She put up as much of a struggle as she could without screaming, knowing that to do so would be a death knell for the knight. As soon as they were out of immediate danger, she was certain she could convince him to let her go.

She hadn’t counted on the horse waiting a few yards away.

She was leaving him.

Robbie wasn’t thinking about losing his hostage—and the means to bring Clifford to heel—or the fact that the English had managed to outwit him and discover their camp, or that God-knew-how-many men were probably trying to surround them right now. All he could think about was that the woman who told him she loved him not two hours ago was leaving him. Walking away—just as she’d taunted him—as if what had happened between them meant nothing.

It was what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected it to feel as if an iron claw were ripping a gaping hole across his chest. As if his insides were being torn out and twisted on a rack. As if the last flicker of light had just gone out inside him.

His jaw hardened with the sharp edge of bitterness. Of the betrayal that he had no right to feel.

But God’s blood, if she thought to escape him so easily, she would learn differently.

His men had already been alerted and were readying for battle. He called for a horse, and a minute later he plunged through the trees and shrubs after them.

The knight had a head start, but Robbie held the far greater advantage: he knew the terrain.

In his haste to get away, the Englishman had made a wrong turn that ended in a ravine and had to backtrack, enabling Robbie to catch up with him. He pulled up alongside them at a full gallop.

Fresh rage surged through him when he saw how hard Rosalin was fighting to hold on to her seat behind the knight. If she fell off at that speed…

Damn it.

The gaze that met his was full of terror, but also something else. A desperate plea that echoed the words she shouted to him above the din of thundering hooves. “Don’t…h-hurt…please!”

It was far too late for mercy, if he’d ever had any. He lifted his sword.

The knight was concentrating on trying to get away but must have caught the glint of the blade out of the corner of his eye. He turned. Beneath the helm, his eyes widened with fear. The knight reached for his own sword—almost knocking Rosalin off—but it was too late.

Robbie started to bring his hand down, and would have cleaved the bastard in two if Rosalin hadn’t done something that took ten years off his life. Minimum.

His blade had barely begun its descent when she screamed, “No!” and launched herself toward him.

He had to make a split-second decision: kill the knight or let her fall and be trampled underneath the pounding hooves.

He didn’t hesitate. His sword clattered to the ground as he caught her around the waist and pulled her to safety in front of him.

She sagged against him, looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his leather-clad chest. From the way her back was shaking, he knew she was crying. From terror or relief, he didn’t know. Probably both. Hell, he didn’t blame her.

His hand went to her back. He rubbed and muttered soothing words as he drew his horse to a stop, while the soldier galloped away. He was forced to let him go. For now. Crushing her to him, he inhaled her, taking her in and trying to assure his still-thundering heart that she was all right.

It wasn’t long, however, before the memory of her walking away intruded.

The hammering in his chest came to an abrupt stop. He unlatched her from his chest and pulled her back to look at her. Swollen, tear-stained eyes stared up at him, and he felt his lungs clench. Aye, his
lungs
, damn it. But he forced the sensation away, hardening his expression as well as whatever the hell else he’d been clenching.

“Were you so anxious to get away that you would kill yourself to do so?”

Her eyes widened a little at his tone. “I wasn’t trying to get away. I just didn’t want you to hurt him.”

His hold tightened on her, his anger going black. Who was she protecting? “God’s blood, was that de Spenser?”

She shook her head. “Nay, one of his household knights. Sir Stephen has always been kind to me—”

“Enough.” He cut her off, swinging the horse around to retrieve his sword. “You gave me your word, though why I should be surprised a Clifford did not keep it, I don’t know. I don’t have time for this. I’m sure
Sir Stephen
did not come alone.”

She bit her lip and nodded. “He said the others were not far behind.”

That put a swift end to the conversation. He raced back to camp at an only slightly slower speed than upon which he’d left.

The camp was in a state of organized upheaval. Douglas, Seton, and Fraser had already taken charge, gathering what supplies and belongings they could and seeing to the men and the handful of women.

Robbie immediately went to work alongside them, duty and experience temporarily quieting the tempest of divergent emotions storming inside him. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. He focused on the anger. It was easiest to understand.

Fraser would see to the women’s safety, while Douglas and Robbie led the attack against the Englishmen. Seton would have charge of Rosalin. Robbie gave his instructions in Gaelic to forestall any protests from Rosalin, who watched him anxiously with big, accusing eyes that made him feel as if
he
were the one to blame. Surprisingly his partner didn’t argue, but just gave a grim nod in response.

He left Rosalin under Seton’s watch, while he returned to his tent to retrieve what he could. The tents could not be saved—there wasn’t time enough—but he packed his books and as many garments as he could from his trunk in leather bags. They would be hidden nearby and retrieved later. Seton had already gathered anything that could connect him to the Highland Guard, including his armor.

No more than five minutes after they’d arrived, Robbie was ready to leave.

He could no longer avoid those hurt eyes. “Seton will see you safely away.”

The color faded from Rosalin’s face. “You are leaving me?”

“Ironic, isn’t it.”

She frowned. It took her a moment to understand. “I told you I wasn’t trying to leave—”

“Do not worry.” His mouth curved in a semblance of a smile. “I don’t imagine this will take long.”

She gazed up at him, apprehension making her face look pale and frightened. He forced himself to be immune. She’d made a fool of him enough already.

“What are you going to do?”

“Give them the battle they came for.”

Fear leapt to her eyes. “No! You mustn’t—”

“Take her,” he said to Seton, her pleas for her countrymen falling on deaf ears. Or maybe not so deaf. They had drawn the battle between them again. How could he have forgotten which side she stood on?

He didn’t look back as they rode off. All of his attention was once again focused where it should be: on the war and killing any Englishman who got in his way.

Rosalin was silent for most of the journey. The speed at which they were traveling didn’t leave much opportunity for questions. In addition to Sir Alex, Callum, Malcolm, and one of her former jailors, Archie (dour Douglas brother number two), made up the party of men who had been charged with the task of seeing their hostage to safety.

As best she could tell from the position of the setting sun, they rode east for the first few miles—crossing a deep corrie thick with trees and brush that looked impassable until a narrow path was revealed—and then headed north for hours in the darkness.

For once she welcomed the hair-raising speed, stomach-knotting terrain, and bone-deep exhaustion of the journey, as they kept her mind from dwelling all night on the grim countenance she’d left behind.

The way he’d looked at her, the change in his expression, the change in
him
had been dramatic. Cold, merciless, impenetrable. It was a glimpse of the ruthless enforcer, the heartless raider, the man who’d laid scourge across the Borders. The man she’d convinced herself no longer existed.

Her pleas, her attempts to reach him, had slid off him like water on steel. The connection and deepening emotions she’d put so much store in had been unable to penetrate the shield that had gone up around him.

He’d been furious. He’d refused to believe that she hadn’t left voluntarily. Given how it had looked, perhaps she could understand. She’d tried to explain, but clearly he wasn’t in any mood to listen to her.