The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(44)

“Whose fault is that?” Robbie snapped.

Seton gave him a look that said he knew very well that Robbie had been touched by her kindness and didn’t begrudge the loss of a meal. “What if one of them falls ill? What will you tell Clifford then?”

Damn it, he wasn’t blind. Seton wasn’t telling him anything he couldn’t see for himself. The conscience he’d unfortunately found tugged every time he looked at one of them. “I don’t give a shite what Clifford thinks, but I was coming to tell you that Fraser has ridden ahead with Keith and Barclay to Kirkton Manor to see about arranging a room for the night.”

The old laird was of unquestionable loyalty, and the accommodation was perfectly situated to ensure she wasn’t tempted to make another escape attempt. Though they weren’t in the forest yet, they were close enough and firmly in Bruce territory, despite the garrison at Peebles Castle a few miles back.

Seton smiled. “Good to know you aren’t a completely unfeeling bastard.”

Robbie’s eyes narrowed, having the distinct feeling he’d just been maneuvered. “Aye, well I might have let you know of my plans sooner had I not been forced to backtrack for ribbon.”

Seton’s grin deepened. “You have to admit, it was rather clever of her.”

A wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Aye, well it’s a good thing Fraser noticed it or we might have led Clifford right to us. I should punish her for it.”

“But you won’t.”

It wasn’t a question. Maybe Seton knew him better than he wanted to think. God knew they’d been partners for a long time. Seton knew more about him than anyone. He frowned. Even more than his brother Duncan had.

“Maybe not,” he agreed. “But I’ll let her think about it.”

Seton laughed. “I don’t think it will work. With all the dark looks you’ve been casting her, the lass is strangely unintimidated by you. Perhaps she knows something the rest of us don’t?”

“I don’t know, Dragon. I think I stopped intimidating you a long time ago—or you wouldn’t be such a pain in my arse.”

It was an acknowledgment of sorts. A recognition that despite the imbalance between them at the start, the scales had started to even. They might never agree on the war and how it should be won, but as a warrior and a partner, Seton had his respect.

Seton nodded. Though a small acknowledgment, Robbie could see it meant something to him.

After a moment, his partner asked, “Do you want to tell them the good news or should I?”

They both knew there was more to the question than first appeared. He could let Seton continue in the role of champion or…

Robbie held his partner’s gaze. “I’ll do it.”

He didn’t know what kind of claim he’d just made, but he knew that he’d made one.

Nine

The sight of a pillow nearly made her weep. The fact that one small, lumpy, linen-covered pillow could bring her to tears was a testament to how tired Rosalin was and how grateful—and surprised—she was that Boyd had agreed to let them stop for the night.

Although once she saw the place, she understood. The old wooden tower turned fortified farmhouse was auspiciously situated on the edge of a steep ravine. With the only entrance well guarded, escape would be nearly impossible. Nearly. But she was determined to try. With her ribbon plan foiled, it was up to her.

She and Roger had devoured the small bowl of bland beef pottage and day-old crust of bread they’d been given by the farmer as if it were ambrosia, before being escorted up the two flights of stairs to their garret chamber by Boyd.

It was as she’d anticipated when she’d first seen the building: they were given the room at the top of the house overlooking the ravine. If the height and position of the room weren’t enough, as an added deterrent to escape Boyd would be sleeping right outside their door.

Their host had been surprisingly thoughtful, providing not only water to wash but paste to clean their teeth and—she said a prayer of gratitude—a comb to run through their hair. A small iron brazier in the corner provided a pleasant warmth to the room that made it easier to ignore the earthy smell of peat.

There was a small bed tucked under the one shuttered window in the room, and through an adjoining door a few mattresses were tucked under the eaves for servants.

It was the bed and window that had given her the idea. After they’d washed and readied for bed, she shared it with her nephew.

Roger looked at her with increasingly widened eyes. “You want to do what?”

Cognizant of the man on the other side of the door, she put her finger up to her mouth to warn him to keep his voice low as she continued to explain her plan. “Like Queen Matilda,” she whispered. “Do you remember how she escaped Oxford Castle? If we tie the bedsheets together to make a rope, we can tie one end to the bedpost”—she hoped it was strong enough to hold them—“and climb out the window.”

When Queen—or Empress—Matilda was under siege by King Stephen at Oxford, she’d escaped in a similar fashion by being lowered down the wall by her men, famously wearing white to blend into the snow-covered surroundings.

“Didn’t you see the ravine? It must be forty feet from here to the ground.”

“Then we will have to use lots of sheeting.” She took the solitary candle in the room and cracked the shutter enough to look outside, ignoring the cold blast of air that seemed to remind her of the warmth and safety of the room she planned to leave. Peering down into the fathomless darkness, she tried—unsuccessfully—not to shiver. “See, it doesn’t look that bad. I don’t see anyone guarding it.”