“My father will kill you for this! He will see all of your rebel heads on spikes!”
She nearly sighed with relief, hearing Roger’s voice—even if she wished that indelible Clifford pride would show more discretion in issuing threats to large, menacing-looking barbarians with sharp swords. Her too confident, thirteen-year-old intent-on-being-a-fearsome-knight nephew was going to get himself killed.
Pushing her way past the last few fleeing villagers, she was at last able to see him. The Scot was still holding him by the neck, with Roger’s sword at his feet, having disarmed the youth rather than kill him. Thank God!
“Let me go, damn it!” Roger thrashed around, pulling on the hand of the man holding him.
“Let him go!” Rosalin shouted, echoing her nephew’s demands. Racing forward, she threw herself between them.
She didn’t know which one of them looked more surprised. Beneath the steel helms she could see both sets of blue eyes widen.
The rebel recovered first. “Get back, my lady,” he said, in the same surprisingly refined Norman French that she’d instinctively used. Although she was fluent in the English more typically used by people in the North and Borders, French was the language of nobles and the court. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
“Then let go of him!” she said fiercely, latching on to her nephew and trying to free him from the warrior’s hold.
Her appearance incited a renewed frenzy in her nephew’s effort to free himself. Together they fought against the much larger warrior and struggled to free Roger from his vise-like grip.
They almost succeeded. Roger saw just as she did that the warrior wasn’t going to draw his weapon, not with her there (apparently there was some vestige of chivalry even in barbarians), and they used it to their advantage.
A fierce Viking game of tug-of-war ensued, with Rosalin trying to insert herself between Roger and the warrior. If his frustrated swearing was any indication—at least she assumed it was swearing from his tone, as it was spoken in Gaelic—their efforts were taking a toll.
Finally, she freed Roger’s habergeon from the warrior’s grip (he’d been holding the mail shirt and not Roger’s neck as she’d thought) and was about to pull him free, when she heard a horse galloping up behind her.
She turned and caught the heart-stopping, blood-chilling flash of an enormous shadow looming over her right before darkness smothered her. Instinctively she cried out and raised her hands to claw at the thing covering her head. It was coarse and scratchy and smelled of grass. Nay, grain, she realized. Barley.
The vile beast had put a sack over her head!
She fought to rip it off, realizing her mistake too late. She’d let go of Roger. Only for an instant, but it was enough. The terrifying shadow barked some kind of order in Gaelic, presumably to the warrior who’d been holding Roger, and an arm circled around her waist. At least she thought it was an arm, though it felt more like a steel hook. With her as the fish!
She gasped, too shocked to scream, and in one smooth motion, he lifted her off the ground and none-too-gently slung her over his lap.
Her ribs and stomach met the rock-hard muscles of his thighs with enough force to jar the air from her lungs in a hard whoosh.
All at once the reality hit her. She was being abducted. Fear raced through her veins, setting off every primitive instinct inside her. To fight. To flee. To live.
She screamed and thrashed about wildly in his lap, trying to get free, not caring that they were riding faster than she’d ever ridden in her life. She’d take her chances with the ground. It would be more forgiving.
Her captor swore, the crude oath recognizable in any language, and one big hand covered her bottom to hold her more firmly against him.
The shock of a man’s hand on such an intimate part of her body made every muscle in her body still.
She forgot to breathe.
She could feel the size of his palm, feel the length of every finger, as his gauntleted hand held the soft flesh. His grip was firm, not rough or threatening in any way, but still her blood went cold with terror.
“Don’t move,” he warned in a low voice, the gravelly lilt of the Gael lending a shiver-inducing edge to his English. “You won’t be of much use to the boy if your head is splattered on the rocks.”
Roger! Oh God, he was right. As desperately as she wanted to get away, she could not do so without Roger.
But it wasn’t just the barbarian’s words that sucked the fight right out of her. It was also her sudden awareness of the part of him wedged against her stomach. The very big, very hard part of him that reminded her that for a woman, there were fates far worse than abduction.
Every scary story she’d ever heard about the Scots picked that moment—the very worst moment—to come back to her. Rape, torture, and God knew whatever other hideous manners of death they might devise filled her head with ghastly images and made her do as he bade. For now.
What the hell was wrong with him? Obviously, Robbie had neglected certain areas of late if the frantic wiggling of a woman—and an Englishwoman at that—was enough to get a rise out of him.
It was bloody embarrassing. Shameful even. He shuddered to think of the shite he’d hear from MacSorley if he ever found out. Erik “Hawk” MacSorley could always be counted on to lighten the mood during the tense, dangerous missions of the Highland Guard, but Robbie preferred when it wasn’t at his expense. And Robbie, who hated all things English, stiffening like a lad with an Englishwoman would be sure to qualify.
With so many willing Scottish women throwing themselves in his path, he had never considered looking south of the border. His reputation as the strongest man in Scotland fostered at the Highland Games over the years was not without its benefits. With the exception of Gregor MacGregor, whose war name of “Arrow” attested to his skill with a bow rather than his reputation as the most handsome man in Scotland, Robbie had more female admirers than anyone. Besides, if he’d ever seen an attractive Englishwoman (and right now he couldn’t recall one), as soon as she opened her mouth any spark of lust would surely die a cold, quick death.
Hell, the woman strewn over his lap was probably old enough to be his mother if, as he initially suspected from the simple plaid, she was one of Clifford’s servants.
His gaze fell to the hand that still gripped the surprisingly curvaceous and firm, plaid-covered bottom, peeking out from beneath the edge of the burlap sack he’d requisitioned from some of their spoils to drop over her head. He frowned, reconsidering. Perhaps not so old after all.
Guessing what it was that had stopped her wriggling, he removed his hand. He was tempted to tell her that her fears were unfounded. He did not abide the rape of women, and God help the man in his command who thought otherwise. But he doubted she would believe him. And as he’d learned from fighting this war, fear could be a powerful weapon. If it kept her still until he could be rid of her, it would be worth it.
And he planned to do exactly that—be rid of her—as soon as it was safe. Chancing a glance behind him, he saw that the English soldiers giving chase from the burning village were not too far behind. But that wouldn’t last.
With the woman secure, he urged his mount faster across the flat fertile valley of the Tweed River. It wasn’t long before the ground started to rise and they entered the altogether different terrain of the Lammermuir Hills. The hills and forests of the Borders—like those of the Highlands—were Bruce territory. The English might control the castles, but the Scots controlled the countryside. The light, agile, and sturdy hobby horses Robbie and his men used had been bred for this type of terrain, and it wasn’t long before their English pursuers faded into the distance behind them.
He slowed, but it wasn’t until another hour had passed, and they were deep in the forested hills, that he finally signaled his men that it was safe to stop.
They needed to water the horses, and despite the fact that she hadn’t moved an inch since his warning, he was damned uncomfortable and eager to rid hi
mself of the lad’s fierce protector. Fraser could take the woman for a while, as it was he who’d neglected to deal with her properly in the first place. Not that Robbie had fared much better, he had to admit. As much as he disdained all the chivalry shite, he had never struck a woman before. He supposed he could have left her standing there when she’d finally detached herself from the lad, but it had seemed more expedient just to take her. Hell, if she was that attached to the boy, she might even be of some use.
If Robbie’s eye had strayed a few too many times to that surprisingly taut bottom, he told himself it was only deprivation. Deprivation that would be dealt with as soon as he returned to camp. He’d neglected Deirdre of late, but would make it up to her. God knew he had reason to celebrate.
Clifford’s son…Nay, not just his son. From his size and age, the boy had to be his heir.
He still couldn’t believe the means of bringing Clifford to his knees had fallen right into his lap.
His gaze fell to that bottom again. Well, at least something had fallen into his lap.
Dismounting, Robbie would have pulled her off after him, but Seton grabbed him by the arm and swung him around to face him. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We’re making war on women and children now?”
Robbie shot him a warning glare, not just for the hand on his arm (which was quickly dropped), but also for speaking in English.
“Not here,” he replied in Gaelic. He motioned to Malcolm, who had ridden up beside them. “See to the woman and the boy.”
He headed toward the loch, his fists clenching tightly. He should have known his partner would object. But if Seton wanted a fight, Robbie would be damned happy to give him one.
After being bounced around on a horse for what seemed like hours, while simultaneously trying to keep her body from slamming against her captor’s (which was about as forgiving as a stone wall), Rosalin could have wept with relief when the brute finally called what she assumed was “halt” in Gaelic.
Every bone in her body ached—even her teeth, which were still rattling from the constant jarring. Her ribs had taken the brunt of the abuse, and if they weren’t broken they certainly felt like it. And her poor stomach seemed to have been turned permanently upside down. She was glad she hadn’t eaten anything at the fair, or the sack over her head could have been much worse. It was smothering enough without sharing it with the contents of her stomach.
Rolling her forward off his lap with all the consideration of a sack of flour, her captor dismounted.
Rosalin wanted to offer some kind of protest. She’d never been treated so ignobly in her life. But she was brutally aware that far worse could be yet to come. So she kept her protests to herself and lay still, waiting.
What would he do with her—with them?
Fear and apprehension tensed her already bruised and battered limbs. But instead of more manhandling, she heard the angry voice of a man who spoke in clean, clear, crisp English and seemed to be challenging her captor’s decision to take them.
She didn’t need to understand the harsh reply to know that the challenge was not a welcome one.
Something prickled at the back of her neck—and it wasn’t a scratchy thread of hemp from the sack. Without the buffering sound of the wind and pounding of hooves, she was able to hear her captor’s voice clearly for the first time. There was something about the deep, rough tones that made her ears prick and her spine tingle. Something that made a tiny warning bell ring inside her head. Something that tickled the fringes of a memory.
But then it was gone, and she realized it was probably just an innate sense of self-preservation. The primitive instinct of a hare who hears the flap of the falcon’s wing for the first time and senses danger. And there was no doubt that a man with a voice like that was dangerous.
She stiffened when hands grabbed her again. But it was clear they were not the hands of the same man who’d taken her. The grip was far less firm and confident, and the man seemed to struggle with her weight as he half lifted, half slid her off the horse.
The sack must have caught on part of the saddle, because it did not come with her. No sooner had her feet touched the blessed solidness of terra firma than she felt the welcome rush of fresh air into her lungs. She blinked as the darkness of the sack gave way to the light of day, or at least what remained of it. The short days of winter were not helped by the heavy gray mist, and though it was probably only a few hours past midday, the light had dimmed to an eerie twilight.
Still facing the horse, Rosalin’s legs nearly gave out when the man released her.
“Sorry, my lady,” he said, catching her arm to steady her.
She turned at the surprising sound of his voice and found herself gazing into the ruddy, freckle-faced countenance of a youth of no more than eight and ten. Compared to the terrifying-looking brutes she’d seen before, his friendly, boyishly handsome face and thin, nonthreatening build allayed some of her immediate fears of rape, death, and dismemberment.
From beneath his steel cap, his eyes widened in shock, and he took a step back.
It took her a moment for her to realize why. Rosalin had never cursed her face, but she did so now. Hastily, she drew on the hood that must have slipped off in the struggle with the sack and sank back into its dark woolen folds.
But the boy was still staring at her shadowed face, slack-jawed.
“Malcolm, what the hell’s the matter with you, lad? The captain told you to take care of the hostages.”
From beneath the safety of her hood, Rosalin glanced at the newcomer. But she had barely taken in the fierce-looking warrior before he thrust her nephew forward and all her attention shifted to the boy.
“Roger!” she exclaimed, rushing forward to catch him in her arms. “Thank God! Are you all right?”
After a relieved squeeze, she held him out to look at him, having to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Though only three and ten, he was already taller than she. She drank in ever inch of his dirty face and rumpled golden hair. He’d lost his helm and his surcoat was torn and heavy with mud, but he appeared unharmed.
“I’m fine,” he assured her. “Are you?”
She nodded, tears of relief squeezing her throat with emotion.
Thankfully, the warrior had moved off during their reunion, but she was conscious of the youth watching them. His mouth was now closed, but he was still staring at her with a slightly dazed expression on his face.
In other circumstances it might have been rather sweet, but right now all she could think about was if this was the boy’s reaction, what would the men do when they saw her? Ruffians. Outlaws. Men who lived beyond the law would not hesitate to…
She shivered. Dear God in heaven, she had to do something!
Glancing around, she saw that they were standing in a small clearing near a stream a few dozen yards from any of the other warriors. To her profound but grateful shock, none of the ruffians were paying them any mind while they tended their horses. Obviously, no one thought them a threat. She was sure Roger would be greatly offended, but she was thrilled with their good fortune.
Knowing they might not get another opportunity like this, and that the sooner they escaped the better (her brother’s men couldn’t be that far behind), she didn’t waste any time.
“Catch me,” she muttered under her breath to her nephew. She started swaying dramatically. “Oh!” she gasped. “I don’t feel…”
She let her words fall off and promptly swooned, crumpling like a poppet of rags.
Her startled nephew barely caught her before she hit the ground.
The young warrior rushed forward. “What’s wrong with her?” he said anxiously.
“I don’t know,” Roger answered. “I think she fainted.”
Rosalin moaned dramatically and fluttered her eyes open wide. “Water,” she croaked pitifully, looking right into the young warrior’s concerned gaze. “Please.”
“Here, have some whisky,” he said, holding out the skin he’d ripp
ed off from around his shoulders.
The shudder she gave was not feigned. It smelled horrible, like bitter peat. She shook her head and clutched his arm. “Please.”
Feeling ridiculous, she batted her lashes a few times.
It worked.
“I’ll be right back,” the young warrior said, running toward the edge of the stream just visible through the trees.
Rosalin took her nephew by the hand and quickly got to her feet. “Let’s go.”
Without a backward glance, they plunged through the trees in the opposite direction and ran as if the devil were on their heels. He was.
Four
Robbie moved far enough away to ensure they were not overheard, before stopping by the edge of the burn to deal with his irate partner. Seton had removed his helm, and Robbie did the same, tossing it down on the ground to run his hands through the itchy, damp waves that were plastered to his head in sweat and grime.
Not caring that his red-faced partner looked like he was hanging on to the last shreds of his control by a very thin string, and that it would only likely add to his irritation, Robbie knelt by the stream. With both hands, he cupped the icy water, splashing it on his face and over his head a few times. Damn, that felt good. He hated the suffocating full-faced helms he wore on regular missions, much preferring the nasal helms he wore with the Highland Guard. But the style had become associated with “Bruce’s phantoms,” and he wasn’t going to push his luck.
Shaking the water from his hair, he stood and faced Seton, whose expression had only grown darker at Robbie’s apparent nonchalance.
Crossing his arms, he eyed Seton intently. “You had something to say?”
Seton’s gaze narrowed and his mouth tightened white. Seven years of Highland warfare may have toughened up the young knight, but he still had a difficult time keeping a rein on his temper—or at least not showing it. “Damned right, I have something to say. I sure as hell didn’t sign up to make war on women and children.”