The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(19)

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 ripped 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.”

Robbie refrained from asking him why he had signed up—other than the fact that his dead hero brother had been Bruce’s closest companion.

“That ‘boy’ is Clifford’s heir, and a squire old enough to wield a blade at Fraser. The woman got in the way and will be released as soon as it is feasible. As to why, I should think that would be fairly obvious. The taking of hostages is common enough on both sides.” He paused, unable to resist adding, “Even for English knights.”

It was the truth. Hostage taking, particularly of an heir to serve as surety, had been an established practice undertaken throughout Christendom for centuries. Both sides did it. Not even Seton could argue with that.

“Hostages are given, not taken,” Seton said stubbornly.

“As I did not feel like waiting around to ask someone, I’d say the distinction is meaningless. But feel free to return to Norham and wait for Clifford so you can negotiate. Although I would think from previous experience that you might not like the way those negotiations turn out.”

Seton knew better than to wade into that cesspit. The manner of their capture at Kildrummy was still a sore point even after all these years. His teeth clenched until the muscle in his jaw ticced. “I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it,” Boyd replied bluntly. “The king wants Clifford’s truce, and the boy will ensure that this time Clifford negotiates in good faith.”

His partner didn’t say anything, although it was clear he wanted to.