The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(34)

Usually she preferred clean-shaven men, but rough and stubbly was beginning to grow on her. There was something about the shadow of whiskers darkening his already formidable jaw that made her feel shivery and a little wicked.

Realizing he was waiting for her to respond, she had to shake off the daze. “I don’t have to stop again. It’s just that I saw smoke.” She pointed. “Over there.”

He didn’t even glance over. “I saw it.”

“And you are not going to investigate?” she said incredulously. “It looks like a building could be burning.”

His expression darkened. “Probably more than one. There is no need to investigate. Given the proximity to the garrison at Thirlestane, I’d say it was more English looking to fatten their stores by raiding the local villagers.”

She paled, understanding now why her question had angered him. But she didn’t let it deter her. “Should we not go and see if they need help?”

“It’s too late for that. Given the color and thickness of the smoke, the English are long gone by now.”

“Perhaps so, but fighting English isn’t the only reason to stop—they may still need our help. We cannot just ride by and do nothing.”

He gave her a long look. “Why do you care? These are not your people. Hell, the order for the raid probably came from your brother.”

She flushed indignantly. “It most assuredly did not.” She hoped. “And they might not be ‘my people’ as you say, but they are people and thus deserving of compassion.” She lowered her voice and met his gaze, daring him to deny her. “I would not turn my back on anyone in need, even starving rebel prisoners.”

He did not take the dare. “Very well, but do not blame me if you do not like what you find.”

Seven

Rosalin didn’t like what she found at all. It was horrible—every bit as devastating as what she’d witnessed at Norham. How could people do this to one another? But war and the horrors committed in its name were something that she’d never understood. Her brother was right. Her heart was too soft for this.

Perhaps it might be different if she hadn’t been raised so far away. In London, she didn’t have raids, devastation, and suffering with which to contend. The kind of hatred Boyd possessed was foreign to her, but perhaps also justified if what he’d said was true.

Had his father really been killed so treacherously? Though Cliff had tried to keep her insulated from the war, she recalled hearing a story about the Barns of Ayr, which sounded much like what Robbie described. She also recalled the brutal retaliation by Wallace and the Scots.

But it was his reminder of the fate of the Countess of Buchan and Mary Bruce, who’d been imprisoned and hung in cages from Berwick and Roxburgh castles, that made her realize what a naive view she’d had of chivalry. Barbaric acts had been done by both sides—knight or brigand.

From the crest of the hill looking over the small valley below, she could see the burned-out shells of two stone houses, with a third still burning. Four wooden outbuildings had been reduced to a black skeleton of charred posts and fallen beams. A fifth was burning, with two more in danger of catching fire. At least three dozen people—mostly women and children—were racing back and forth to the river, frantically filling buckets to put out the roaring flames in what seemed to be a task of Herculean proportions.

Boyd was already shouting orders in Gaelic as they charged down the hillside. From what she could discern, half the men were put to the task of helping the villagers put out the fires, while he and the other half-dozen men went to work clearing the dead grasses and shrubs from around the handful of buildings, presumably to stop the flames from spreading farther.

She and Roger hadn’t been forgotten. In English, which she suspected was for her benefit, Boyd ordered Malcolm to take them down by the river where it was safe and to not let them out of his bloody sight. Unlike his father, Malcolm did not appear to harbor any bad feelings toward her. She’d apologized for taking advantage of his gallantry, which seemed to surprise him as much as embarrass him.

For what seemed like hours, but was probably only a fraction of that, they watched from a safe but frustrating distance as the men worked tirelessly and efficiently to put out the fire and stop it in its tracks. It was an impressive sight to behold. The same fierce intensity she’d noticed in the Scots’ fighting was displayed in their well-coordinated and strategic attack on the flames.

Unbidden, her eye kept straying to the captain of this pack of unlikely heroes. It was clear the single-minded determination that she’d noticed earlier to win the war at any cost helped to make him an exceptional leader. He was focused, decisive, and confident. Watching him like this, she could almost believe that he hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought. That there were still vestiges of the noble warrior for whom she’d risked so much. That maybe she hadn’t been completely wrong about him.

The Scots appeared to be well on their way to winning the battle when disaster struck. The wind, which to that point had been a light breeze, shifted and started to gust, whipping up the flames with renewed frenzy.

A handful of villagers screamed as one of the walls of what appeared to be a barn started to fall back on them. They were saved only when some of Boyd’s men rushed forward to hold it back long enough for them to get out of the way.

“We should do something to help,” Rosalin said.