The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(26)

Which made the need to escape as soon as possible even more imperative. But as she could not do so without Roger, she would have to bide her time. They could not ride halfway across the Borders to Ettrick without resting.

She hoped. But these men looked tough and rugged, and used to riding bone-jarring and bottom-numbing distances. They’d probably pick up the horses and carry them when they got tired.

Although she was considerably more comfortable than she had been when she was strewn over Boyd’s lap in a sack, as the day faded and became swallowed up by the mist, she increasingly suffered the effects of her walk through the river. Her wet slippers had turned to ice, and her feet along with them. Soon, her shivering became uncontrollable.

Not that anyone noticed. The gruff old warrior behind her barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead, he completely ignored her. The other warriors did as well.

Boyd and the handsome blond-haired warrior, who also looked familiar, had stayed behind initially (presumably to scout for any soldiers who might be pursuing them) and had only just reappeared.

Not that she would expect sympathy from him. He hadn’t looked in her direction once. So much for the special connection. If she needed proof of how one-sided that connection was, she had it. What had she expected—one look and somehow he would know her? That he would fall on his knees and pledge his undying devotion to her for what she’d done?

He hadn’t seen her face, so how could he know her? And he wasn’t a knight in a faerie tale; he was a rebel. A brigand. A scourge. A man who fought without rules or honor.

And she was a fool.

Rosalin wrapped the plaid around her tighter and tried not to think about how tired she was, or how cold she was, or how miserable she was.

Unsuccessfully. Her throat tightened and a hot sheen of tears burned behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter that she’d been abducted, manhandled, hunted, nearly crushed to death, found out a man she thought was a hero was no more than a merciless brigand, and was probably being taken into what undoubtedly was the most terrifying place in Christendom. She had to stay strong for Roger.

Perhaps she wasn’t completely without sympathy. The blond-haired warrior glanced in her direction, but he was careful not to meet her gaze. From their tense conversation, she wondered if it might be about her. Whatever the two men were talking about, it was clear they weren’t in agreement.

She was so cold, she was about to break down and ask the recalcitrant old warrior for something warm to wrap around her feet, when Boyd swung his mount around and glowered in their direction. Ripping the plaid off from around his shoulders, he threw it toward them. “Damn it, Callum, wrap her in this. She’ll bring the entire English army down on us with all that chattering.”

Callum caught the plaid and draped it over her, tucking it under her feet, which were slung to one side. Rosalin burrowed into its heat with a contended sigh.

Apparently, Boyd did not want or expect her thanks, because he’d already turned around.

Considerably more comfortable, she told herself not to read anything into the less than graciously made gesture. But there was a strange intimacy to being wrapped in his plaid. The thick wool fibers still held the warmth of his body, and if she inhaled just a little, she caught the faint edge of pine and heather and something distinctly masculine. It felt like he was surrounding her and made it difficult for her not to think about foolish things.

She tried instead to think about Sir Henry. He would be arriving at Berwick soon. She shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about her abduction. She hoped he didn’t do something rash. Her nose scrunched up. Strange that although she didn’t know him that well, that was her first thought.

The sky was as black as pitch by time they finally stopped. Though they’d been riding for a few hours, with the rough terrain, heavy loads, and having to slow their speed with the horses over the hills, she guessed they hadn’t gone more than ten or fifteen miles.

Callum dismounted and helped her down without looking at her.

Despite his less than friendly expression, she asked, “Where are we?”

“Ask the captain,” he replied, already walking off.

She intended to. Right after she checked on Roger. But seeing her nephew standing with “the captain” a few feet away, she marched over toward them both. After a quick glance to assure her Roger was all right, she turned to Boyd. Not without reluctance, she unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders and handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said.

“Keep it,” he said indifferently. “You’ll need it tonight.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

He gave her a long stare. “I didn’t go swimming in a river.”

It hadn’t been swimming, but given the subject was her attempted escape, she decided not to argue semantics. She looked around in the torchlit darkness, seeing what appeared to be a small sheltered corrie in the forest with a stream running between the two mist-shrouded hills. It would be hauntingly beautiful if she weren’t cold, abducted, and suspecting that it would serve as her bedchamber for the night. “Where are we?”

He waited a long beat before replying. “St. Cuthbert’s Hills.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

The way he shrugged suggested he was well aware of that, which was probably why he’d told her. It was probably a local way of referring to the place that would have no meaning to anyone not from the area.