The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(21)

She quickly pushed the thought away. It couldn’t be. Her captor’s voice was deep, but hard and humorless, with a clipped, authoritative cadence. The prisoner’s—Boyd’s—had been softer. Kinder. He’d sounded like a man who knew how to smile, not a harsh, unforgiving brute.

“Do you think they crossed the river?” the second man asked.

“I don’t think so,” her captor replied. “We would see some dampness on the ground where they came out.”

“Unless they decided to swim farther downstream.”

“If they did, they won’t have gotten far—not if they don’t want to freeze to death. You take some men and go on the other side of the river. I’ll try down this way.”

“Captain, here!” she heard a shout, possibly from the young warrior whom she’d tricked. “Tracks!”

“Go,” her captor said. “I’ll see what Malcolm has found.”

He moved out of hearing distance for a while, and all Rosalin could hear was her heart pounding and the chattering of Roger’s teeth.

“Do you think they’re gone?” he whispered.

“Not yet,” she replied. She sensed her captor with the hard, uncompromising voice wouldn’t have given up that quickly.

A few minutes later, she heard footsteps and froze. Well, as she was actually already frozen, she just stopped breathing.

“Do you see anything?”

Now her heart stopped. It was the young warrior, and by the sound of it, he was standing right by the felled tree.

“Keep looking,” her captor shouted from farther away. “They’re here, damn it. I can feel it.”

The anger and frustration in his voice gave her an unexpected burst of hope. Sweet heaven, this might actually work!

From her place scrunched up under the log, Rosalin watched through the blanket of moss as one of the barbarians walked right by the tree on the opposite side of the hollow. Fortunately, he didn’t stop, probably assuming that no one could hide inside. “I don’t see anything. They must still be running.”

It was the young warrior. Malcolm, her captor had called him.

Her captor swore, and although it was a word rarely uttered in her presence, she was thrilled to hear it, as it only buoyed her hopes further.

“Let’s get back on the horses,” her captor replied from closer than before. “We’ll backtrack and see if we can find another set of tracks. They can’t have just disappeared.”

They’d done it! She couldn’t believe they’d actually done it.

A frantic scurrying sound from above, followed by a sharp “ouch” from Roger, put an end to her celebration. A moment later, Roger shot out of the tree and was quickly followed by a brown creature about the size of a cat with a bushy tail. Apparently, their log was already occupied—by a pine marten!

She rolled out from under the log after Roger, praying that the men chasing them hadn’t heard. But one peek over the log quashed that particular fantasy.

“There!” The young warrior shouted from about forty yards away. “There they are.”

Panic shot through her. Grabbing Roger’s hand, she started toward the woodland ahead. “Run!”

Racing over the uneven terrain, she had to release her nephew’s hand so she wouldn’t take him down the hillside with her if she slipped. It was also clear that she was slowing him down.

The footsteps behind them were closing in. Whatever chance they’d had of escape had disappeared with one angry pine marten, but she had to at least try. “The rocks,” she gasped, already breathing heavily. “Hurry.”

Roger shot off. Rather than follow after him, she stopped, hoping to slow their pursuers enough to give her nephew time to hide. She hadn’t anticipated the man right on her heels. He lunged for her, catapulting them both back into the dirt and mud.

She cried out from the force of the ground slamming against her back, and then, an instant later, from the big, solid leather-clad slab of granite that landed on top of her—the very big and very solid slab of granite.

The air was knocked out of her lungs with a hard jolt. She couldn’t breathe. But in that stunned moment her gaze locked on that of her captor’s, and she felt an altogether different kind of jolt. One of recognition.

She gasped with all the air she had left in her lungs. Dear God, it was him! Robbie Boyd. The Scot she’d released from prison all those years ago. The handsome, strapping young rebel who’d so captured her young girl’s heart. She was certain of it. Even from a tower window, the strong lines of his face had been burned indelibly on her consciousness. His dark hair was shorter, and his eyes were blue, not brown as she’d assumed from his dark coloring, but God in heaven it was him.

Her heart leapt. In that one instant of recognition, all the youthful fantasies came rushing back to her in a crashing romantic wave. If she’d secretly dreamed of meeting him again, it seemed her dreams had come true. “It’s you,” she whispered.

The softly spoken words seemed to break the strange spell that had momentarily entranced them both. Recognition was clearly one-sided. His gaze hardened and his mouth pulled into a tight, angry line. Suddenly, the veil of her memories cleared, revealing not the young warrior of her memories but the cold, merciless man before her now.

The romantic wave crashed, taking her heart to the ground with it.