The Raider (7 page)

She gasped with all the air she had left in her lungs. Dear God, it
was
him! Robbie Boyd. The Scot she’d released from prison all those years ago. The handsome, strapping young rebel who’d so captured her young girl’s heart. She was certain of it. Even from a tower window, the strong lines of his face had been burned indelibly on her consciousness. His dark hair was shorter, and his eyes were blue, not brown as she’d assumed from his dark coloring, but God in heaven it was him.

Her heart leapt. In that one instant of recognition, all the youthful fantasies came rushing back to her in a crashing romantic wave. If she’d secretly dreamed of meeting him again, it seemed her dreams had come true. “It’s you,” she whispered.

The softly spoken words seemed to break the strange spell that had momentarily entranced them both. Recognition was clearly one-sided. His gaze hardened and his mouth pulled into a tight, angry line. Suddenly, the veil of her memories cleared, revealing not the young warrior of her memories but the cold, merciless man before her now.

The romantic wave crashed, taking her heart to the ground with it.

If she’d ever doubted the stories she’d heard of Robbie Boyd, one look told her they were all true. He appeared every inch the ruthless enforcer. Every inch one of the most feared men in England. Every inch the black-hearted devil who’d laid scourge across the Borders.

He’d changed. She wouldn’t have thought it possible, but he looked even more imposing. The distinctive height and muscular build was the same, but six years of war had honed it to a razor-sharp edge, erasing any vestiges of youth. There was a hardness, a solidness, an imperviousness to him that hadn’t been there before. He looked like a man who did nothing but fight.

His features were the same, though she would no longer call him handsome. It was far too gentle and civilized a word. And there was nothing gentle or civilized about the terrifying-looking barbarian staring down at her. From the bone-chilling ice-blue gaze to the line of dark stubble that shadowed his blunt jaw, he exuded wild and untamed menace. Fiercely good-looking—perhaps that was more apropos.

He was older than she’d initially thought—probably close to Cliff’s two and thirty—and he wore the years of battle in every line and scar on his face. And in the fierceness of his expression. It was as if every bit of good humor had been leached out of him.

Her eyes slid to the mouth that was hovering only inches above hers. It seemed impossible to believe that the wide, sensual lips that had so briefly touched hers in her first kiss could have become fixed in such a cold, hard line.

But she did remember, and in spite of the circumstances, a flush of awareness ran through her. A flush that turned to a full-fledged shudder as she became aware of the intimacy of their embrace, especially the part of him that was wedged between her legs.

Over the years of battle, Robbie had been hit on the head a few times by a war hammer. The stunned, discombobulated, slightly dazed feeling was about the same as when he first saw the face of the woman beneath him.

“Beautiful” seemed too pedestrian a word for the masterful perfection of her delicate features. Big, dark-green eyes framed by long, feathery lashes, porcelain-white skin as flawless and powdery as freshly fallen snow, high cheekbones tinged a delicate shade of pink, a slight, straight nose, a softly pointed chin, and a mouth so cherry-red and sweet it took everything he had not to taste it.

Long, wavy tresses of softly spun silk were splayed out in a golden halo behind her head. He’d never made a poetical allusion in his life, but this woman could inspire even the most prosaic of men to think of angels and goddesses descending from the heavens.

When their eyes met, he actually startled. The force of the connection had all the subtlety of a lightning rod prodding at the base of his spine.

There was something about the way she was looking at him that made him feel as if she knew him. But hers was a face he would have remembered, even in the crowds of women who thronged around him at the Highland Games.

Then she spoke, and he was reminded why he didn’t know her: she was English.

His head cleared just enough to make him aware of other things. Such as the warm softness of the body underneath him, the fullness of the breasts crushed against his chest, and most significantly, the opportune placement of his cock nestled in that sweet little juncture between her legs.

Ah hell.
Now that he was thinking about it, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. How good it felt. How good she felt under him. How it had been over a week since he’d had a woman.

The wave of desire that hit him was so hot, so powerful, so intense that it took him aback. It rushed up between his legs, lengthening a part of him that was far too big to hide.

Apparently, his previous reaction to the lass hadn’t been an aberration.

Damn, Fraser was right. This lass made him reconsider some of his preconceived notions about being attracted to an Englishwoman. He stood corrected. He stood very hard and very thickly corrected.

She made a sound—a gasp of shock that reminded him of the less-than-appropriate circumstances for him to be stiffening like a lad with his first maid. He didn’t want to terrify the chit. And the sudden paling of her skin and widening of her eyes told him that she was terrified. But he could have sworn he’d also glimpsed a flicker of awareness on her part that mirrored his own.

Before he could disentangle himself and assure her that she wasn’t in any danger—especially
that
kind of danger from him—he felt a hard poke in his back that skidded off to the side.

“Get off my aunt, you cursed barbarian!”
Bloody hell
, he realized, his head clearing. That wasn’t a poke, it was the stab of a blade! Robbie barely managed to twist his body out of the way before the boy could strike again. “I’ll kill you if you touch her.”

Robbie sprang to his feet just as Malcolm was pulling the lad off. “Sorry,” the young warrior said. “He got to you before I could stop him.”

Robbie wasn’t about to chastise Malcolm for his own mistake. A mistake that could have cost him his life. It was a good thing Robbie had been wearing his thick, leather
cotun
and the lad wasn’t more adept with a dagger. Christ, the strongest man in Scotland could have been killed by a squire! If Hawk heard about this, Robbie would never hear the end of it.

But he’d been so struck by the lass, an army could have come galloping up behind him and he wouldn’t have heard it. Glimpsing Seton and his men only a few feet away, he realized they practically had. The lass—

All at once the truth struck him cold.
Aunt
.

Bloody hell
. Any flash of desire he might have experienced was quickly doused when he realized that not only had he taken Clifford’s heir, he’d also taken his sister.

His mouth tightened as he stared at the woman slowly getting to her feet and shaking the dirt and leaves off her skirts.

“
Aunt?
” he demanded, as if she’d somehow tricked him.

“Lady Rosalin?” Seton asked in a slightly stunned voice that told Robbie he’d seen her face and had been similarly affected.

Ignoring Robbie’s question, she looked at Seton and nodded.

Of course. Robbie should have guessed. The beauty of Clifford’s sister was well known. The English called her the Fair Rosalin, alluding to Clifford’s illustrious ancestor.

For once, Robbie was forced to acknowledge that the English stories that he’d assumed were exaggerations were true—perhaps even understatements. The lass was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen. The quintessential English Rose. His jaw tightened. But there was enough resemblance to Clifford to remind him of exactly who she was: the sister of the man bent on destroying them, conquering their land, and seeing them subjugated.

Clifford’s sister, bloody hell! He felt his face darken as blood surged through his veins in a hot rush. Somehow his attraction to the lass made it worse. It felt like a damned betrayal. In this case, his own.

God knew she was probably as arrogant and condescending as her brother. Aye, no doubt she was a spoiled, cosseted brat who’d never suffered a moment of hardship or strife in her life.

Beautiful or not, how could he have forgotten—even for an instant—that she was
English
? She might look sweet on the outside, but she was undoubtedly just as ugly as her brother on the inside. Beauty, in this case, was surely deceiving.

He stared at her coldly, calculatingly, forcing himself to see not the perfection of her features but the resemblance to his enemy and the added benefit she would bring him. Their raid had reaped far greater bounty than he could ever have dreamed.

“It seems fortune has shined on us twice today,” he said, as much for her benefit as that of his men’s who’d gathered around them. “Not only have we caught Clifford’s heir, but his beloved sister as well.” Clifford’s affection for his only sibling was well known. Apparently the bastard had a weakness for the women in his life. At one time Robbie had, too. But unlike Clifford’s sister, his hadn’t escaped the brutality of war. His mouth fell in a hard, unrelenting line as the familiar anger stirred inside. “I’d wager we have double the means to ensure a truce, don’t we, lads?”

He was answered with a flurry of “ayes” from all his men except for Seton, who managed to shake off his stunned trance for long enough to turn on him. “I thought—”

“The situation has changed,” Robbie said, cutting him off with a look of warning. If Seton was going to insist on voicing his objections—not that it would make a difference—it wasn’t going to be now. He wasn’t going to give up a boon like Clifford’s sister without consideration. A whole hell of a lot of consideration.

“What do you mean to do with us?” she asked. Her voice trembled, although he didn’t miss the way she angled herself in front of the lad as if to protect him.

Something about that voice bothered him. It wasn’t just that having a woman—even if she was Clifford’s sister—scared of him didn’t sit well, it was something else. Something he couldn’t put his finger on that made him feel as if a ghostly voice were whispering a warning in his ear, but he couldn’t make out the words.

He pushed the odd feeling aside and answered her question. “You and the lad will be taken someplace safe to wait while a messenger is sent to your brother.” He shrugged. “Whatever happens after that is up to him.”

Her eyes widened, and despite her obvious fear she managed, “You can’t do that!”

He would admire her courage later, but right now all he could see was the slight stiffening of the spine and offended lift of the chin that reminded him too much of her condescending brother. He leaned toward her threateningly. He was trying to emphasize his point. It wasn’t because she smelled so damned good. Although that was what hit his senses, engulfing him in her soft floral scent. Roses, of course. A big, heady, blooming bouquet of them. He managed not to inhale—just.

“I assure you,
my lady
, I can. Your brother’s authority does not run here. If I were you, I would remember that.” Her eyes widened further, and he had to force himself to stand his ground.
Clifford’s sister
…He quashed whatever foolish impulses were leaping inside him. But bloody hell, he wished she would stop looking at him like that. “Consider yourself fortunate that you are not being punished for attempting to escape.”

Her eyes scanned his face with an intensity that made him uneasy. She almost looked close to tears. “What happened to you?”

His brow furrowed. It was an odd comment to make, but he’d never understood the English. “War,” he said simply, turning away. She’d delayed him long enough. “Tie up the lad and separate them,” he said to Malcolm, who was still holding Clifford’s whelp.

That should prevent any further problems.

“No!” she shouted, grabbing his arm and swinging him back around to face her. He ignored the slam in his chest and spike in his temperature caused by her touch. His skin tightened. Actually, all of him tightened.

Fear forgotten, her eyes flashed angrily. “You can’t do that. He’s only a boy. I won’t let you hurt him.”

The fierceness of her voice made him smile. This was more like it. He liked her better like this. It made it easier to remember her brother.

The source of her impassioned defense, however, didn’t look as pleased. The boy was too old to have a woman defending him, and the red in his cheeks suggested he knew it. “Let them tie me up, Aunt Rosalin. I don’t care. They won’t hurt me. Father will kill them if they dare harm either one of us.”

Not a complete whelp, at least. After watching him wield that sword at Fraser earlier and the attempt he’d squandered with a bad plunge of his dagger, Robbie had wondered. But he had no more patience for the lad’s bravado than he had for the aunt’s. “Your father wants to kill us anyway. I assure you it is not the threat of Clifford that will keep you safe.”

“Then what will?” she demanded.

Steeling himself, he met her gaze again. Not that it helped. Every muscle in his body still squeezed. What the hell was wrong with him? It wasn’t as if he’d never seen a beautiful woman before. His eyes dipped. And noticed a spectacular set of…He forced his gaze up and schooled the lust from his body. This lack of focus wasn’t like him.

“My good humor,” he replied. “So I suggest you do not try it again.” Her hand dropped and he felt his pulse return to normal. “But a word of caution about attempting to escape. Your brother’s raids have not exactly endeared him to the people around these parts, and you might not like who finds you. But as long as you are under my protection, no one will harm you.”

“Is that supposed to ease my mind?”

Sarcasm. He liked that, too. He was really seeing Clifford now. “I don’t give a damn whether it eases your mind or not.”

“You have nothing to fear,” Seton interjected gallantly. “You and the boy will be safe for the short time you are here. I will see to it personally.”

Seton might as well have stepped between them and lifted his shiny shield—the effect was the same. He’d just declared himself their champion and made Robbie the enemy.