The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(38)

He stared at her for a long time, his ruddy, weathered features inscrutable. “I’ll ask the captain.”

From their post by the river, Rosalin watched the older man walk over to where Boyd stood with some of the villagers. Boyd’s head turned in her direction, and even from the distance the intensity of his gaze made her shiver. A few moments later, he nodded, and Callum strode toward the trees where the horses had been tied and started to go through the bags.

With Callum occupied and Roger conscripted to help the other men with the cleanup, Rosalin kept herself busy answering the children’s questions while trying not to let her eyes stray to the man who seemed the center of attention in the village.

She frowned. For one small village, there certainly were a disproportionately large number of young women. And every one of them seemed to be traipsing after Robbie Boyd like he was some kind of hero.

To them, he was, she realized with a start. This man reviled as a devil on one side of the border was lauded as a hero on the other. It was strange what a difference perspective made.

The women were practically tripping over each other trying to get him to notice them. Good gracious, had they never seen a handsome man before? She could see the stars shining in their eyes from here.

Why did she care, anyway? She’d outgrown barbarians, hadn’t she? Besides, he’d made his feelings toward her perfectly clear: they were enemies. She would not forget it.

Escape was what she should be thinking about. Not tall, broad-shouldered brutes with excessively muscled bodies.

Tearing her gaze away from the man commanding so much feminine admiration, she focused her attention on the children. When they moved off, she asked Callum if she might wash up before they left. After a quick glance to where Roger stood with Malcolm and another young warrior (he knew she wouldn’t try to escape without her nephew), he nodded and told her to be quick about it.

She hurried down toward the river, heading to the left, where it bent and a copse of trees would protect her from view and give her the privacy she needed.

She hadn’t lied. She did want to wash and soak her hands in the cold water, but she also needed to replenish her supply of ribbon for the trail she was leaving for Cliff. The last few strands of pink were in her purse, but her chemise was decorated on the neck and sleeves with small, light-blue bows of satin ribbon. The costly garment imported from France had raised even her indulgent brother’s eyebrow, but she didn’t think he’d mind its destruction under the circumstances.

Indeed, most of her once luxurious clothing was in shambles. Removing the plaid and cloak, she shook them out as best she could, set them down on a log, and then brushed the dirt and soot off her dark blue wool cotehardie edged at the hem, neckline, and cut sides with gold embroidered ribbon. But she feared not even a good brushing and hanging would save the pretty garment after such abuse.

She grimaced, lifting her skirt up to examine the rest. The lighter blue wool kirtle underneath was in much better shape, except for the muddy hems where it hung below the cotehardie. But she didn’t think to remove her over-gown; she needed every layer for warmth.

The fashion for both gowns was tight in the sleeve and bodice, and it wasn’t without some difficulty that she was able to loosen the laces of the cotehardie on the front and the kirtle on the side to reach the chemise underneath.

After pulling off as many of the ribbons as she could reach, she tucked them into the purse still at her waist. Then, kneeling beside the river, she dipped her hands into the icy water and cupped it to her face. It was cold but invigorating. She washed and scrubbed until the water came back clear and not gray with soot.

It felt so good to be clean that she considered dunking her head in and washing her hair, but she didn’t want to risk the chill of wet hair while they were riding. She did, however, take the opportunity to wash her upper body as best she could with the loosened garments. She was so engrossed in her task, she didn’t hear him approach.

“It’s time to go. The men are…”

His voice dropped off. It took her a moment to realize why. She’d jumped up when he startled her and turned without thinking. His gaze had fallen on her chest and appeared to have become stuck, along with his tongue.

A quick glance down told her why. Her chemise was soaking wet from her washing. Her very thin, very transparent, very revealing chemise, which was now molded to her br**sts, revealing every curve, every contour, every point in perfect detail. She might as well have been naked.

She sucked in her breath, which was a mistake, as it only made her br**sts rise to even more prominence.

He made a sound low in his throat that was almost pained, but it made every inch of her skin blaze with heat.

She made a move to cover herself, but he grabbed her wrist. “Don’t. God, please don’t.”

Heat blasted her again. It poured off him in a hot, molten wave, making her ni**les tighten.

He groaned, a deep, intensely masculine groan that sent a rush of something hot and damp between her legs. It pooled there, growing warm and achy.

His face was harder than she’d ever seen it—sharper—more dangerous somehow. It was as if all the civility had been stripped away, leaving nothing but the fierce, primitive male underneath.

He stared at her br**sts as if he had never seen anything more desirable. As if he could barely hold himself back from touching them. From ravishing them.

Their eyes met, and she felt the shock of it radiate like a bolt of lightning up her spine. No one had ever looked at her with such raw lust, possession, and heat.