The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(18)

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?”