The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(27)

“Is that near Edinburgh?”

His piercing blue eyes narrowed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the sharp contrast of his light eyes with dark hair, and she felt something like a shiver race over her skin. It was unsettling. He was unsettling.

“If you are thinking about attempting another escape, I would not advise it. These hills are dangerous, my lady. You never know who you might come across.”

As if to punctuate his words, a group of riders approached from the other direction. “Ah, here they are now,” Boyd said.

Apparently the newcomers were expected.

A few moments later a man jumped off his horse, pulled off his helm, and strode toward them. He was a big man. Maybe even an inch taller than Boyd, though not as heavily muscled. She doubted few men were as heavily muscled as Boyd. Not that Boyd was bulky. Just strong-looking. Not that she’d been staring at him. She was a woman of two and twenty now, not some impressionable sixteen-year-old to be taken by an impressive-looking physique. Even if it was the most impressive-looking physique she’d ever seen. There had to be an ounce of fat on him somewhere, although she certainly couldn’t see it.

She turned—not forced—her gaze back to the other man. He wore the same black leather warcoat and chausses as the other men, but it was as fine as anything Cliff might wear. Neatly shaved and free of dust and dirt, he appeared considerably more civilized than Boyd and his band of rough-looking brigands.

“You’re late,” Boyd said. “Any problems?”

The dark-visaged newcomer shook his head. “Nothing that couldn’t be handled.” Noticing her, he barely covered his surprise. He slowly lifted a brow and turned back to Boyd. “What about you? Your haul looks much more interesting than mine. Have you finally decided to take a wife? Your methods might be a little old-fashioned, but the results seem to have been worth it.” He let out a low whistle. “You’re fortunate I’m a happily married man, but don’t let Randolph see her—you know how partial he is to blondes.”

“Sod off, Sir James. The lass is a hostage, as is the lad.”

“Sir”? Thank goodness! At last, a knight! Perhaps she would find someone to champion their cause for release. Although something about the way Boyd had emphasized “sir” made her think there was more to it.

“This sounds even more interesting,” Sir James said. “Who are they?”

“Clifford’s sister and heir.”

Sir James’s expression changed so quickly, it was as if a dark thunderstorm had clapped down over them all. She took a step back, feeling the hot blast of menace directed toward them.

“Lady Rosalin. Young Roger,” Boyd said with mock formality. “Meet Sir James Douglas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s the rightful owner of the land Clifford has spent nearly fifteen years attempting to occupy.”

Rosalin gasped. Her blood turned to ice, and her heart slammed to the ground as fear crept over every inch of her skin. Instinctively she reached for Roger’s hand and pulled him back toward her and Boyd, whom she’d just as instinctively sought out. Only moments ago he’d seemed like their worst nightmare. But now they knew otherwise. Their worst nightmare was standing right before them. The Black Douglas. Her brother’s worst enemy, and the man who hated him more than anyone.

With one glance, Robbie told Douglas to back off. He’d experienced a strange thump in his chest when she’d unconsciously moved to him for protection, and had to fight an unexpected—and unwelcome—urge to put his arm around her. When Seton shot him an odd look, however, Robbie wondered whether he’d fought the urge as well as he thought he had.

Whether it was the shock fading or his warning glance, he didn’t know, but Douglas’s expression changed. A sly curve slid up his mouth. “By God, this is perfect. What a boon! We finally have the means to bring that English bastard to his damned knees. With his sister and heir in our possession, he’ll dance a damned jig atop the parapets of Berwick Castle if we want him to.”

It was the same reaction Robbie had had, but for some reason coming from Douglas it sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the effect the words had on the lass and the boy. They both visibly paled and huddled a few inches closer to him. That odd thump expanded in his chest.

He turned to Seton, and with a glance told him what he wanted him to do.

“Come, my lady,” Seton said, leading her away. “You must be hungry. Let’s find you and young Roger something to eat.”

The look of gratitude she gave his partner made Robbie almost wish that he’d voiced his order. He frowned at the odd reaction. Knight errant was Seton’s role, not his. But the lass seemed to be provoking all kinds of odd reactions in him. When he returned from scouting earlier, he’d felt like he was crawling out of his damned skin every time he saw her shiver.

“Seton,” he called out. His partner turned around questioningly. “Have Malcolm build a fire.”

Seton didn’t say anything, but Robbie read the speculation in his gaze and quickly put a stop to it with a hard stare. It wasn’t that unusual a request, damn it. It was a cold, misty night. Even if they were a little exposed for a fire, the English wouldn’t track them into the hills and forests at night—or in the day, for that matter. It was near villages and English garrisoned castles where they had to be careful.