The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(3)

The Scot—that is how she thought of the impressive warrior—did what he could to help him when the guards were not looking, by shouldering some of his rocks or taking his place in line to wield the hammer. She’d even seen the Scot pass the other man the precious few ladles of water they were allowed during their brief breaks. But the man was fading before her eyes.

She turned away from the window. She had to stop. She couldn’t do this. It made her feel so helpless. She knew they were rebels and deserved to be punished, but the man was going to die. That he would probably be executed anyway when the work was done didn’t matter. No one should suffer like that.

She picked up her needlework, but she put it down a few minutes later and returned her gaze to the window.

She couldn’t look away. She had to do something. But what? Her brother had warned her not to interfere.

The answer came to her the next morning after church. As she was leaving morning prayers, she caught sight of a serving woman carrying a large bowl and a few pieces of bread toward the prison—a paltry amount for so many men.

That was it! She would leave them extra food.

It took her a few days to come up with a plan, but eventually she was ready to put it in motion.

Sneaking extra bits of beef was the easy part. She wrapped them in the cloth she kept at her lap while she ate, and then tucked the bundle in the purse at her waist before she left. Getting the food to the prisoners, however, was the challenge.

She’d watched the prisoners enough to know their routine. Every morning the guards led them out through the small courtyard between the chapel and the damaged Great Hall to the main courtyard. They were lined up and given instructions before being permitted to collect the carts, which were stored on the side of the bakehouse. The carts were what she was aiming for.

That night, when the castle was quiet, she donned a dark cloak and snuck out of the tower. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way around the yard, careful to avoid any guards who might be on patrol. But it was remarkably quiet. With the rebel forces crushed, there was little threat of an attack. She quickly deposited her bundle in one of the carts and made her way back up to her chamber.

The next morning she watched from her window as one of the men returned with the cart, immediately went to the Scot, and surreptitiously passed him the bundle. The Scot looked around, as if suspecting a trick, but when one of the guards barked an order at him—presumably to get to work—she saw the faint twist of a smile.

That smile was all the encouragement she needed. Her nighttime excursions continued for a week, and she swore the dark red-haired man grew stronger. Many of the men seemed to walk a little taller.

She knew her brother would be furious if he discovered what she was doing—and she hated the idea of a secret between them—but she told herself it was but a small gesture and could do no harm.

But she was wrong. Terribly wrong.

Rosalin yawned as one of the attendants who’d accompanied her from London finished twisting her long plaits under the veil and circlet. “You look tired, m’lady,” the older woman said, a concerned look in her eye. “Are you not feeling well?”

After eight nights the loss of sleep was catching up with her, but Rosalin managed a smile. “Well enough, Lenore. Nothing a few extra hours of sleep won’t cure. I fear I’ve been staying up with my brother and the earl—”

A shout from the courtyard below made her stop what she’d been about to say.

“I wonder what that is all about,” Lenore said.

But Rosalin had already jumped from the chair and raced to the window. Her heart stopped, a strangled cry escaping from between her lips before she could smother it with her hand. The red-haired rebel was kneeling in the dirt, holding his side where one of the soldiers must have struck him. The cloth and pieces of beef and bread that she’d smuggled out to them last night were strewn on the ground in front of him. The soldier was shouting at him, using his fists and the back of his hand to punctuate his words.

It wasn’t hard to guess what he was asking.

The red-haired man shook his head and the soldier hit him again—this time with so much force his head snapped back and blood sprayed around him like a bubble that had popped.

He crumpled to the ground.

She cried out in horror, and Lenore tried to pull her away. “Come away, m’lady. Those vile beasts are not fit for your eyes. Brigands and barbarians, that’s what they are. I hope your brother draws and quarters every one of them!”

Rosalin barely heard her words. She shook her off, crying out again as she sensed—she knew—what the Scot would do. He roared forward, tossing off the two soldiers who’d been holding him as if they were poppets. His fist slammed into the jaw of the soldier who’d beaten his friend. The soldier had barely hit the ground when the Scot was over him, driving his powerful fist into him again and again like a battering ram until the soldier lay motionless on the ground.

It seemed there was a stunned pause before the courtyard erupted in chaos.

Lenore gasped in horror from behind her. “The prisoners are attacking!”

“No. Oh God, no,” Rosalin groaned softly as the melee ensued. What have I done?

The Scot fought like a man possessed, like one of those berserkers of Norse legend. Using nothing but his hands, he fended off half a dozen of her brother’s men. Each time one of them tried to get hold of him, he made some kind of quick maneuver and twisted out of the man’s grasp. Usually the soldiers ended up on their backs. The blond-haired prisoner had managed to grab one of the hammers used to take down the wall and had taken a position at the Scot’s flank. Together they were a two-man army.