Her first effort had the unexpected benefit of irritating her captor. “Again?” he demanded, glaring at her as if she were a child. “You just went before we left—thirty minutes ago.”
The blush staining her cheeks wasn’t feigned. How like him to be ungallant enough to question her! She lifted her chin. “I must have had too much ale to drink while breaking my fast.”
Grumbling the entire time, he called for a stop. After Sir Alex helped her down, she took her time finding a bit of privacy in which to pretend to relieve herself. By the time she returned, Boyd’s irritation had turned to full-fledged chomping-at-the-bit impatience. He didn’t say anything, just glared at her. She smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”
He grumbled something unintelligible about “lasses,” and they were off again. She wondered how many times she’d be able to get away with the ploy before he became suspicious and put an end to it. If she could get past the embarrassment, the next time he questioned her, she planned to plead her woman’s curse. Surely that would properly mortify him. Maybe she’d top it off by asking him to go find some rags for her to use?
She smiled, thinking the embarrassment would almost be worth it to see the formidable countenance pale with male horror.
By all rights she should be terrified of the man, certainly not thinking of ways to irritate him—even if it was for a good cause, to slow them down. But for some reason, despite his reputation, his harshness toward her, and his intimidating physicality, she sensed he would not hurt her.
Her attempts at conversation with the other men were brusquely cut off by all except Sir Alex. He was no more forthcoming than Boyd, but at least he curtailed her questions with a smile.
She spent most of her time keeping an eye on Roger, and when the opportunity arose, attempting to keep his spirits up. “Just think of the stories you will have to tell when this is all over,” she said. “I’m sure the other squires will be hanging on every detail.”
Her nephew seemed to consider this, and after a moment his sagging shoulders lifted just a little. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you think they will be impressed?”
Rosalin tried not to smile, knowing how important it was for boys of his age to impress their peers—boys of any age, she might add. “I should think so. Not many English squires have come face-to-face with the Black Douglas and the Devil’s Enforcer. Not to mention nearly plunging your dagger into his back and drawing your sword against a knight of Sir Alexander Fraser’s stature. Aye, you will have quite the stories to tell. I daresay, you will have the young lasses at the castle interested as well.” She gave him a sidelong look. “Although you probably aren’t interested in the lasses?”
His red face told her differently. He hesitated, looking as if his surcoat were tied too tight. “Actually, there is a lass at Norham who might be interested.”
She lifted a brow. “I thought there might be. Cliff wasn’t much older than you when he first met your mother.”
Roger looked at her in surprise. “Really?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking it was so romantic.” Then she added for Boyd’s benefit, as she suspected he was listening to every word, “Of course I was young and prone to silly romantic fantasies at the time. Your father and mother were very fortunate; most youthful romances only lead to disappointment.” She saw Boyd stiffen and knew her barb had struck. Suddenly, remembering who she was really talking to, she turned back to her nephew with a smile. “But you shall have plenty of time for that, and unless I’ve missed my mark you are very much like my brother in another way. He seemed to have every young girl in the Marches half in love with him.”
Roger blushed, and the opportunity for further conversation was lost when Boyd—not coincidentally, she suspected—quickened their pace. Every now and then, Boyd or one of his men would break off to scout ahead or behind to make sure they weren’t being tracked.
Rosalin was making more of an effort to remember identifying landmarks for their next opportunity to escape, but as they seemed to stick to the forests and hills and avoid any size village, only the occasional church or house in the distance provided any break in the monotony of rusty heather-covered hillsides and ghostly gray forests. In the spring it would undoubtedly be beautiful, but right now it just looked cold and forbidding.
God in heaven, she wanted to go home!
She was just about to demand another stop to tend her needs when she glimpsed black billows of smoke in the trees to the east a few furlongs in the distance. “Hold,” she said, pulling back on her reins.
Boyd, who was riding right in front of her at the time, swung his horse around and glared at her. “I don’t know what your game is, my lady, but if this is another one of your breaks, you’re going to have to wait.”
Despite the fact that he was glowering at her again, and she was just as angry at him, something caught in her chest when she looked at him. He might have tried to blame it on her, but invitation or not, he’d been about to kiss her last night, and every time their eyes had met since, she couldn’t forget it. There wasn’t a pretty bone in him, but he was gorgeous enough to make her stomach drop. His masculine appeal was undeniable. Looking at him made her heart flutter just as frantically as it had when she was sixteen. Apparently, she was still attracted to oversized barbarians.
Usually she preferred clean-shaven men, but rough and stubbly was beginning to grow on her. There was something about the shadow of whiskers darkening his already formidable jaw that made her feel shivery and a little wicked.
Realizing he was waiting for her to respond, she had to shake off the daze. “I don’t have to stop again. It’s just that I saw smoke.” She pointed. “Over there.”
He didn’t even glance over. “I saw it.”
“And you are not going to investigate?” she said incredulously. “It looks like a building could be burning.”
His expression darkened. “Probably more than one. There is no need to investigate. Given the proximity to the garrison at Thirlestane, I’d say it was more English looking to fatten their stores by raiding the local villagers.”
She paled, understanding now why her question had angered him. But she didn’t let it deter her. “Should we not go and see if they need help?”
“It’s too late for that. Given the color and thickness of the smoke, the English are long gone by now.”
“Perhaps so, but fighting English isn’t the only reason to stop—they may still need our help. We cannot just ride by and do nothing.”
He gave her a long look. “Why do you care? These are not your people. Hell, the order for the raid probably came from your brother.”
She flushed indignantly. “It most assuredly did not.” She hoped. “And they might not be ‘my people’ as you say, but they are people and thus deserving of compassion.” She lowered her voice and met his gaze, daring him to deny her. “I would not turn my back on anyone in need, even starving rebel prisoners.”
He did not take the dare. “Very well, but do not blame me if you do not like what you find.”
Seven
Rosalin didn’t like what she found at all. It was horrible—every bit as devastating as what she’d witnessed at Norham. How could people do this to one another? But war and the horrors committed in its name were something that she’d never understood. Her brother was right. Her heart was too soft for this.
Perhaps it might be different if she hadn’t been raised so far away. In London, she didn’t have raids, devastation, and suffering with which to contend. The kind of hatred Boyd possessed was foreign to her, but perhaps also justified if what he’d said was true.
Had his father really been killed so treacherously? Though Cliff had tried to keep her insulated from the war, she recalled hearing a story about the Barns of Ayr, which sounded much like what Robbie described. She also recalled the brutal retaliation by Wallace and the Scots.
But it was his reminder of the fate of the Countess of Buchan and Mary Bruce, who’d been imprisoned and hung in cage
s from Berwick and Roxburgh castles, that made her realize what a naive view she’d had of chivalry. Barbaric acts had been done by both sides—knight or brigand.
From the crest of the hill looking over the small valley below, she could see the burned-out shells of two stone houses, with a third still burning. Four wooden outbuildings had been reduced to a black skeleton of charred posts and fallen beams. A fifth was burning, with two more in danger of catching fire. At least three dozen people—mostly women and children—were racing back and forth to the river, frantically filling buckets to put out the roaring flames in what seemed to be a task of Herculean proportions.
Boyd was already shouting orders in Gaelic as they charged down the hillside. From what she could discern, half the men were put to the task of helping the villagers put out the fires, while he and the other half-dozen men went to work clearing the dead grasses and shrubs from around the handful of buildings, presumably to stop the flames from spreading farther.
She and Roger hadn’t been forgotten. In English, which she suspected was for her benefit, Boyd ordered Malcolm to take them down by the river where it was safe and to not let them out of his bloody sight. Unlike his father, Malcolm did not appear to harbor any bad feelings toward her. She’d apologized for taking advantage of his gallantry, which seemed to surprise him as much as embarrass him.
For what seemed like hours, but was probably only a fraction of that, they watched from a safe but frustrating distance as the men worked tirelessly and efficiently to put out the fire and stop it in its tracks. It was an impressive sight to behold. The same fierce intensity she’d noticed in the Scots’ fighting was displayed in their well-coordinated and strategic attack on the flames.
Unbidden, her eye kept straying to the captain of this pack of unlikely heroes. It was clear the single-minded determination that she’d noticed earlier to win the war at any cost helped to make him an exceptional leader. He was focused, decisive, and confident. Watching him like this, she could almost believe that he hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought. That there were still vestiges of the noble warrior for whom she’d risked so much. That maybe she hadn’t been completely wrong about him.
The Scots appeared to be well on their way to winning the battle when disaster struck. The wind, which to that point had been a light breeze, shifted and started to gust, whipping up the flames with renewed frenzy.
A handful of villagers screamed as one of the walls of what appeared to be a barn started to fall back on them. They were saved only when some of Boyd’s men rushed forward to hold it back long enough for them to get out of the way.
“We should do something to help,” Rosalin said.
“The captain said to stay here,” Malcolm replied dutifully, although it was clear he agreed with her and would much rather be with the other men than guarding them—apparently his punishment for allowing them to escape.
The sound of another crash, this one much closer, caused Rosalin to jump.
“What was that?” Roger asked.
Malcolm pointed to the burned-out stone house closest to them. As it was the largest of the buildings by far, it probably belonged to the reeve—the most important man in the small village. “The last bit of roof has collapsed. One of the beams must have fallen.”
She was about to turn away, when she heard something. “Do you hear that?”
“What?” Malcolm said.
“Listen.” They stood silently for a moment, but with the wind, the roar of the fire, and the shouts of the villagers and men fighting the flames, it was hard to pick anything out.
Malcolm frowned. “If this is another one of your tricks—”
“There!” she said. “Did you hear it? Someone is crying for help.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
But Rosalin was already racing toward the burned-out cottage where the roof had just fallen.
“Wait, my lady! You can’t go in there. The captain said to wait here.”
“Hurry!” she said, not listening. “It sounds like someone is hurt.”
Without waiting to see whether they were behind her, Rosalin raced into the building. What appeared to be a hollowed-out shell of stone from the outside was a dark, smoldering maze of beams, posts, roof trusses, thatch, and furniture inside. She had to cover her mouth with the wool of her plaid to stop the smoke from choking her.
“Hello!” she cried out.
“Here!” a faint voice replied.
She followed the direction of the sound and in the farthest corner of the building came to a tangled pile of wood in front of a partially collapsed stone wall. Wedged in what appeared to be a space in that wall was a man who was penned in by rocks and still burning lumber. It was hard to see through all the smoke in the darkness, but he appeared to be barely alive under all the rubble.
“Here!” she shouted back to Malcolm and Roger, who she could hear calling for her. “He’s over here.”
The two made there way to her, their coughing growing louder as they drew nearer. They were both looking at her as if she were a madwoman. “He needs our help. He’s stuck.”
“What was he doing in here in the first place?” Roger asked.
It was a good question—one they could ask him when they got him out. “I don’t know,” she said. “Here, help me with this post—” She yelped in pain as her hands touched the hot wood.
“We’ll do it,” Roger said. “You don’t have gauntlets. Try to move some of the rocks out of the way.”
Rosalin nodded and went to work on some of the smaller rocks. Recalling a man who’d lifted rocks with much more ease, she couldn’t help wishing Boyd were here to help them. He would make quick work of—
She heard a loud creak as the boys moved one of the larger pieces of charred framing out of the way. She looked up just as what remained of the roof came crashing down on them, along with the main beam that formed its spine.
She screamed a warning, but it was too late. Malcolm wasn’t able to get out of the way in time and the beam crashed down in front of him.
“Malcolm!” She tried to lunge toward him but was prevented by a virtual wall of building material that had landed between them. She could no longer see the first man at all.
Fearing the worst, she was relieved when the ash and dust settled enough for her to see Malcolm move. “Are you all right?”
“I think so,” he said groggily. “Help get this off me.”
Protecting her hands as best she could with the wool of her plaid, she and Roger tried to lift the enormous beam, but it wouldn’t budge. It had probably taken a half-dozen men to move it into position when the building was constructed. “It’s no use,” she said to Roger. “We’ll have to fetch help.”
Their eyes met. She could see what he was thinking, probably because the thought had quickly crossed her mind as well. She shook her head. They might not get another chance to escape, but she wouldn’t leave Malcolm and the villager like this.
Roger nodded. “I’ll be right back.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something that made her pulse spike and every nerve ending in her body flare with panic. The fire was no longer smoldering. The falling beams and roof had stirred the embers and reignited the fire.
“Roger!” she shouted. He turned back. She glanced in the direction of the flames, which were no more than a twenty feet away. “Hurry!”
Robbie’s lungs were burning. He was hot and tired, and every inch of his skin felt gritty with soot and smoke, but he faced the fire with the same win-at-all-costs determination with which he faced the English. He was surprised how good it felt to be doing something to help that wasn’t fighting. It had been a long time since he’d lifted anything but his sword in the defense of his countrymen. But the English weren’t going to destroy this village today. Not if he had anything to say about it.
With the break line in the brush established, he was about to start helping Seton carry water when he glanced down by the river and stilled.
&
nbsp; Malcolm, Roger, and Lady Rosalin were gone. Letting off a string of oaths, he ran. If she’d tricked the lad again and tried to escape, he was going to tie her up for the rest of the journey and throw her back into that sack.
He was halfway there when he saw Roger Clifford emerge from the burned-out shell of a longhouse-style building. The boy’s eyes stuck out like two white discs in his soot-streaked face, and his golden hair that was so like his aunt’s was matted to his head. He was wheezing heavily as he stumbled toward him. “Hurry!” he managed in a cracked voice. “N-need help.”
Robbie grabbed him by the arm, more to hold him up than in anger. “What happened? Where are your aunt and Malcolm? Are they in there?”
The boy nodded and Robbie took off into the burning building, a flurry of expletives firing in his head. His ears were pounding with a sound he didn’t recognize. It took him a moment to realize it was his heart.
What the hell could have possessed her to go into that building? He was furious. Beyond furious. Out-of-his-mind furious. But most of all he was bloody scared. Enough to admit it.
He ducked through the doorway into the smoky cavern. Covering his mouth with his arm, he blinked through the black haze, his eyes immediately tearing.
“Rosalin! Malcolm!” he choked, trying to see through the maze of smoldering destruction. It looked as if one of Sutherland’s black powder explosions had gone off in here.
“Here!” a distinctly feminine voice replied. “We’re back here.”
Ploughing through the stacks of beams and posts as if they were twigs, he made his way toward them. It wasn’t difficult. All he had to do was follow the line of flames that seemed to be heading right for them.
For as hard as his heart was pumping, his voice came out remarkably calm when he looked down into her tear-stained, soot-streaked face. “What happened?”