He’d never felt anything like this, and the force of it overpowered him, dulling everything else around him.
Until he saw her eyes widen. The effect of that was like a dousing of ice water. He was brought back to reality with a hard jolt.
“Christ, I’m sorry.” He took a step back. “I don’t know what—” He stopped and cleared his throat, trying to let the strange tangle of emotions in him calm before he said something he shouldn’t. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
He turned away, giving her a chance to fix her gown and his blood time to cool. Only then did he allow himself to look at her again.
She couldn’t seem to cover herself quickly enough. She’d donned not only her gowns, but her cloak and plaid, and was still eyeing him warily.
He didn’t blame her. What the hell had come over him? He’d never so completely lost himself. He’d never allowed himself to lose focus of what was going on around him. He’d never allowed himself to be that distracted by a woman. Never. He was always in control. But something had come over him, and she’d seen it.
But damn it, no matter what had come over him, he would never force himself on any woman, and he needed her to know it. “I am many things, but a rapist is not one of them, Rosalin. Believe what you will of what they say about me, but know that. I will never force you and would kill any man who tried.”
The latter came out with a ferocity that surprised him, provoking questions he didn’t want asked. Such as why the hell did he feel so protective toward her?
She lifted her gaze for a moment, and then dropped it again. “All right.”
“I mean it.”
She looked up at him again, this time meeting his gaze. He could see that some of her fear was gone, but not all of it.
His mouth tightened with anger. Not at her, but at the subject he was about to broach. He hated talking about the past. Hated thinking about what had happened to his sister. He couldn’t recall ever talking about it—even to his Highland Guard brethren who knew what had happened. But he would raise the vile specter this one time to make her understand. “My only sister was raped.”
She gasped. Her eyes locked on his, as if she knew the flat matter-of-factness of his tone hid a deep, searing pain—a wound that would never be healed.
She put her hand on his arm, and he stared at it, feeling his chest tighten.
“I’m sorry. That must have been horrible. But she is lucky to have a brother who cares for her so deeply.”
Cared. She meant it as a kindness but didn’t know how much pain her words caused. He’d loved his sister more than anyone else in the world. Pretty and vivacious, always with a smile on her face, she hadn’t been much older than Rosalin the last time he’d seen her. “A hell of a lot of good it did her. I wasn’t there to protect her when the English garrisoned the King’s Inch castle in Renfrewshire and invaded our village. When the captain learned she was the sister of the rebels Robbie and Duncan Boyd, he decided to make an example of her. He didn’t use her once, but over and over. He made her his whore and raped her until she couldn’t bear it anymore and threw herself off a cliff into the sea to end her suffering.”
She covered her mouth with her hand in horror. “Oh God, Robbie, I’m so sorry. But the fault lies with the soldier, not you. If you could have helped her, you would have.”
Her confidence in him did nothing to ease his guilt. His help had come too late for Marian. But the soldier had paid for his deeds. Slowly, painfully, and ultimately with his life. Robbie’s fists clenched at the memory.
“I tell you this not to earn your sympathy or your pity,” he said, “but so you understand that I would never hurt a woman like that.”
Her eyes met his, this time without a trace of wariness. “I see that now. Thank you for telling me. No wonder…” Her voice dropped off. “You’ve lost so much. I’m sorry about your father and sister. And about your friend.”
His brother Duncan and his mother, as well. She’d died of a broken heart not long after his sister’s death. He frowned. “My friend?”
“Thomas.” She must have noticed his stiffening, because she hurried to explain, her hands twisting in front of her. “Sir Alex told me he died not long after you left Kildrummy. I understand why you would blame me for it—it was my fault he was beaten for leaving the food.”
He grabbed her arm to put a stop to the anxious hand twisting. “I don’t blame you. As I told you that night, what you did was a kindness. The food gave him a chance.”
Her breath hitched at his touch. He shouldn’t be touching her. Men didn’t simply go around touching ladies whenever they felt like it. But his impulses with her had never been normal. He dropped his hand, oddly unsettled.
“Then why are you doing this? What have I done to deserve your hatred?”
He frowned. This wasn’t about her, it was about her brother. “I don’t hate you.”
He didn’t, he realized. That was part of the problem. The war was black-and-white for him. The English were the enemy, and they deserved his hatred. But she…she made him see gray.
“Well, you are certainly doing a wonderful job acting like it. All these years that I wondered what it would be like if we ever met again, I never imagined it would be like this.”
The touch of sarcasm in her voice sparked some of his own. “Did you think I’d be happy to learn that my rescuer was the sister of my worst enemy? The man I despise above all others? The man who was responsible for our capture and the execution of many of my friends?”
It wasn’t until her eyes widened that he realized he was shouting.
He swore and raked his fingers back through his hair. He knew he shouldn’t take his frustration and anger at the situation out on her, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Something about this lass made him want to pull her into his arms at one moment and lash out like a lion in a cage the next.
“My brother was only doing his duty. He—”
He stopped her again, taking her by the arm and turning her to face him. “Don’t, Rosalin. Don’t attempt to defend your bastard of a brother to me. He is a subject upon which we will never agree.”
Rather than be put off by his anger, she seemed amused. “Do you know he says the same thing about you?”
He let her go, some of his anger dissipating. “I can imagine.” Robbie was sure Clifford had plenty of choice things to say about him. He eyed her speculatively. “He doesn’t know what you did?”
She shook her head. “The food, but not the rest. If he ever found out…” Her voice fell off, and he could see her distress. “I couldn’t bear his disappointment.”
Her brother’s opinion obviously meant a lot to her. Apparently Clifford’s well-known affection for his only sibling wasn’t one-sided.
“He will never hear of it from me.” He supposed it was the least he could do. But if Clifford’s opinion mattered so much, why would she have risked so much to help him? She’d admired him, he knew. But was there something else? “Why did you do it?”
“It was wrong,” she said simply. “And I couldn’t stand by and watch my brother put men to death for something that wasn’t right.”
He laughed; he couldn’t help it. “Clifford has never let something like right and wrong get in his way of killing Scots.”
It was her turn to stiffen, that patrician English beauty turning sharp and icy. “Are you accusing my brother of being a murderer?”
His gaze turned just as hard. “I suppose it depends on your definition. He operates under the color of law—English law, which I assure you has very little justice for Scots.” Before she could attempt to defend her brother again, he said, “Come, they will be waiting for us.”
She was quiet for a moment as they walked through the trees. When she finally spoke, he wished that she hadn’t. “Did you ever think of me?”
Her voice sounded small and uncertain. He should have said no, but he found himself answering honestly. “I wondered who you were.” He thought about the kiss and
found himself adding with a wry grimace, “And I wondered how old you really were.”
He glanced over in time to see a soft flush spread over her cheeks. But then she bit her lip, and he felt a surge of heat to his groin and had to look away. “Why did you kiss me?”
Robbie stopped in his tracks, but he recovered quickly and increased their pace. Christ, of all the questions to ask. She hurried alongside him, casting him expectant glances.
He sighed and answered slightly exasperatedly, “I have no bloody idea.”
The answer seemed to please her. A small smile turned her mouth and he realized he could stare at that smile for hours. A smile like that could be distracting.
But it disappeared quickly as they walked through the village to where the men were waiting, and he returned the wave of one of the women.
“Are you married?”
The question took him aback. “Hell—” He stopped. “Nay,” he said more calmly.
“Why not?” Her mouth pursed. “If those women are any indication, it certainly can’t be from lack of opportunity.” She sounded oddly annoyed by the observation. “And you must be over thirty.”
“By two saint’s days,” he provided. “I am not married because I do not wish to be. There is no place in my life for a wife or children.”
He hadn’t meant it as a warning, but it had come out as one.
They were nearly within hearing distance of the men waiting for them, but she asked, “You don’t want a family?”
Truthfully, he didn’t think much about it. That part of his life had never been important to him. He was too focused on the task at hand. Besides, look what had happened to his sister. A wife of his would be in danger. Aside from the threat were it ever to be known of his place in the Highland Guard, he was too well known.
“Maybe when the war is over. But until then, nothing else matters.” He paused and held her gaze so there would be no mistake. He wasn’t going to be distracted by anyone. “Nothing.”
Time was running out. Rosalin’s heart pounded anxiously, knowing that every mile they rode was bringing them closer to the forest that she’d come to think of as the place of no return. Though no one had as yet confirmed their destination, their southwesterly direction left her no doubt. She and Roger had to try to escape before they were swallowed up in the impenetrable Ettrick Forest, the dark and terrifying lair of thieves and phantoms.
After emerging from yet another hilly forest onto a track that might almost pass for a road by Scotland standards, she let another pale blue bow of ribbon slip from her fingers and had to resist the urge to glance over her shoulder. Was Cliff tracking them? Was that why Boyd was pressing them so hard? It seemed his urgency to reach their destination matched hers not to reach it.
She stared at the powerfully wrought back of the man who alternated between scouting and riding at the head of the band of warriors. Had he been as unsettled as she by what had nearly happened at the river? His desire for her had been so well hidden, she’d never imagined that kind of intensity. It seemed to have surprised even him. Clearly he wanted her, but it was equally clear that attraction wasn’t going to change anything. She was his hostage—a means to an end—that was all.
Her own attraction to him was just as confusing. The glimpse of the noble warrior that she’d seen today, and the insight into what drove him in what he’d revealed about his sister, didn’t change anything. He might not be the coldhearted devil she’d first thought, but he was focused and determined to win the war to the exclusion of everything else. He’d devoted his life to the fight for freedom. Dear Lord, he was the same age as her brother, who’d been married since he was eighteen and had six children.
“Nothing else matters,” Boyd had said. She believed him.
But it wasn’t just her unease about what had happened earlier and the realization that she was still ridiculously attracted to him that fueled her urgency to escape. Although she did not believe he would needlessly hurt her or Roger, she knew he would not hesitate to use them as a weapon against Cliff, and that she would not allow.
Nor would she risk her nephew’s life on “needlessly.” Just look at him! Poor Roger looked as if he were about ready to fall from his horse. He was exhausted after the travails in the village and the seemingly endless hours of riding over rough and brutal terrain. He wasn’t alone; she was exhausted as well. They weren’t hardened warriors. But every time she’d tried to raise the subject with Boyd on one of their infrequent stops, he dismissed her pleas and seemed to grow increasingly angry.
They’d been riding for a few hours when she glimpsed what appeared to be the parapet of a castle and surrounding village before Boyd once again led them into the trees and hills (which she’d become certain must cover ninety percent of this godforsaken countryside). What she wouldn’t give for a proper English road! Her backside was going to be bruised for weeks after the abuse. Fortunately, the pain in her hands had subsided.
A short while later, near dusk, Boyd called for them to stop. She watched him ride off with one of the other warriors, presumably for more scouting. His diligence made her wonder whether Cliff was close.
After Callum helped her down, she approached Sir Alex where he stood talking to Malcolm and Roger. Though the two boys were both tall and slim, with only a few years separating them, the differences between them could not be more glaring. Malcolm had the hard, wiry strength and endurance of a warrior. He looked like he could ride for another day or two, whereas Roger looked as if his legs might collapse at any moment, though he was fighting hard to hide it. Her heart went out to him, knowing how much the proud youth would hate the idea of looking weak in front of the enemy.
“Will we be camping here for the night?” she asked hopefully.
Sir Alex gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid not. We’ve only stopped to water the horses.”
Rosalin tried to ignore the disappointment on Roger’s face, not wanting to draw attention to it before the men. “But it will be dark soon. Surely we must take time to eat something?”
“But you gave all our food away,” Malcolm said, with obvious surprise.
Rosalin turned to him. “I did?”
The boy nodded. “Aye, back at the village.”
She hadn’t realized they’d been left with so little after the Black Douglas had taken the plunder from the raid. No wonder Boyd had looked at her so strangely when Callum had brought him her request.
“We wanted to travel lightly and didn’t anticipate the delay in the village,” Alex said, gallantly trying to ease her guilt. “We would have been back at camp by now.”
But Rosalin did not regret her actions. The burned-out villagers would need the food more than they did. She could go a night without food. Her belly rumbled. Even if her stomach protested.
“If we had time, we could hunt something,” Malcolm said helpfully. It seemed Sir Alex wasn’t the only brigand prone to gallantry; Malcolm was also concerned that she not feel guilty.
She gave him a grateful smile that made the lad turn as red as his hair, before turning back to Sir Alex. “We will reach camp soon?”
“Not for a few hours. Maybe longer in the dark.”
She couldn’t stop the groan. Roger, too, looked like a pup who’d just been kicked.
“Sir Alex, if you have a moment there is something I should like to talk to you about—in private.”
He nodded and sent Malcolm and Roger off to tend the horses. He motioned for her to take seat on a rock nearby, but she shook her head. As tired as she was, the prospect of sitting on hard rock was not appealing. “Do you mind if we walk a little? I should like to stretch my legs.”
They headed toward the stream, but instead of joining the other men, he led her in the opposite direction. When they reached the water’s edge they stopped. In addition to forests and hills, there were streams or burns, as the Scots called them, everywhere. They were pretty, she realized. Even in the barren bowels of winter, the dark waters cutting through the s
mall valleys of russet moorland, flanked by tree-covered hillsides, evoked a peacefulness at odds with the wild, war-torn countryside.
“I did not want to say anything in front of Malcolm, but you must see how tired my nephew is—though he’d die before admitting it. He’s not used to riding for this long over this kind of terrain. I don’t know how much longer he can take it.” She glanced up at him pleadingly. “I don’t know how much longer I can take it. Is there not a place nearby where we might stay for the night? An inn, perhaps?”
His mouth thinned. “I’m sorry, my lady. I would not have you forced to endure any of this. These are no conditions for a lady—or a lad.” He smiled, but it was without humor. “But you’ve seen how little sway my opinion holds around here.”
The bitterness in his tone was undeniable. She hadn’t been mistaken in identifying Sir Alex as a potential ally. She had, however, underestimated the level of his disaffection. Whatever disagreement there was between him and Boyd, it ran deeper than she’d realized.
She didn’t understand it. By all appearances the men were close companions who’d fought together for years. Half the time they didn’t even use words to communicate—just glances. So why the animosity and resentment?