The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(14)

Rosalin tried to forge through the crowd that had slowed as people turned to watch—as she had—the unfolding battle happening just a short distance away. A few voices rang out around her, offering encouraging words, if a bit colorfully, to the English soldiers. She forced herself not to look as she concentrated on getting Meg to safety.

Meg, however, was still watching. They’d just reached the place where the road funneled into the village and headed up the hill to the castle when she let out a cry and tried to pull away.

Rosalin turned around. “What is it, Meg? What’s wrong?”

The little girl pointed toward the village. “The brigand has Roger.”

Rosalin’s heart dropped like a stone. Through the swarm of people still trying to fight their way out of the village, through the dust of battle, through the black smoke and flames now engulfing the village, she could see that Meg spoke true. Roger had been unhorsed, and he was being held up by the scruff of his neck like a pup by one of the rebels.

An eye for an eye. Clifford was going to lose his mind.

Robbie smiled from behind the cold steel of his darkened helm as he watched one of Northern England’s most important villages go up in flames. He felt nothing but satisfaction for a job well done. Pity had been burned out of him a long time ago.

Maybe it had been his sister’s rape, or his brother’s execution, or the miles and miles of Scottish scorched earth he’d seen left in the wake of an English army, the bodies of people who’d dared to disagree with their English overlords, torn apart by horses, the heads of his friends on gates, or any of the other countless atrocities he’d witnessed since the first, when he’d seen his father’s burned body hanging from the rafters. But somewhere in the past fifteen years, his hatred for all things English was complete.

And no one epitomized England for him more than Robert Clifford. Sir Robert Clifford, he amended. Clifford was just one more English bastard in a long line who wore his knighthood like a cloak of hypocrisy, as if he could hide the injustice of tyranny behind a shimmering shield of chivalry.

It wasn’t just the opportunistic attempt to conquer their land and usurp the throne of a sovereign nation—although that was enough. Never far from Robbie’s mind was the friend who’d lost his life under Clifford’s command. Thomas Keith, his kinsman and boyhood companion, had escaped from Kildrummy prison only to die two days later. For Thomas, their rescue had come too late. The beating that he’d suffered at the hand of Clifford’s soldier had proved too much.

Robbie frowned as another memory struck. He supposed there was one exception to his hatred of all things English. He could still remember his shock at looking up from that hellish pit where he’d thought to spend his last night and realizing that not only was his savior a woman, she was also English. He had assumed their guardian angel (what his men had taken to calling the person bringing them food) was one of the Scottish serving lasses who’d remained at the castle when it was taken.

Another memory followed. This one of the softest, sweetest lips he’d ever tasted. Lips that had been completely wrong for him to taste in the first place. Thanks to the cloak and the darkness he’d seen her face only in shadows, but if the lass had been eighteen, he’d drink the swill the English called brandy for a week.

Even after six years, he still couldn’t say why he’d done it. Maybe because she was so young and innocent, and he’d been living in hell for so long. Maybe because he’d realized why she’d helped him and had been unexpectedly touched. It wasn’t the first time a young lass had thought herself enamored, but it sure as hell had been the most opportune. He’d wanted to thank her. He still did. But after all these years of trying to find out who she was, he almost wondered whether he’d imagined her.

Strange that he still thought of her at all, especially when the memory invoked thoughts of what had been some of the darkest days of his life.

Thanks to Clifford.

But Robbie would bring the English baron to heel in the end, of that he was damned sure. The arrogant bastard wasn’t going to be able to ignore this. Such a bold attack right in the heart of his “realm” was a direct affront to Clifford’s authority and would prove to him there was nothing they wouldn’t dare. It would bring him to the table. He’d sign the damned truce and pay the two thousand pounds just like all the others.

Carrying off an attack of such magnitude in the shadow of one of the largest English garrisons in the Borders was a daring proposition even for one of the elite members of the Highland Guard. But Robbie had planned everything down to the smallest detail. He always did. It was part of why Bruce’s war had been so successful. They’d learned from Wallace’s successes and not only built on them but improved them. The terrifying, wild “pirate” raids of which the English accused them had become extremely disciplined and well-organized professionally waged attacks.

And so far everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. Well, except for the soldiers. But his men were dealing with the unexpected resistance. Quite quickly, it appeared—even though they were out-manned by at least two to one.

He smiled again. This might not be a mission dangerous enough for the Highland Guard, but the men Robbie had brought with him were his own, and he’d taught them well.

Though tempted to join the fun himself, he was in charge and had to stand back and make sure nothing went wrong.