The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(51)

She flinched, taken aback by his venom. “Nay, that’s not how it happened. I was trying to stop you, but I didn’t intend for that to happen.”

“Didn’t you? What else do you think would happen when you let a man kiss you like that? When you rub your body up against him like a practiced whore?”

Her eyes widened. “How dare you say something like that to me! You know I’m not—”

“I know you spread your legs eagerly enough, and that I was a hairsbreadth from taking you up on your offer. A mistake on my part that I intend to rectify.”

Her face paled, the delicate pulse below her neck fluttering. “You wouldn’t! You swore you wouldn’t ravish me.”

A dark, wicked smile turned his mouth. “Who said anything about ravishing? With as hot as you were for it, I doubt I’ll need to do much persuading.”

He pushed her away so he wouldn’t be tempted to prove it right now.

A flush stained her pale cheeks at the crude boast. “You weren’t the only one who made a mistake. But I assure you it was never my intention to give myself to you to prevent you from learning of my nephew’s escape.”

He stood there seething, trying to control the anger racing through his veins. He couldn’t believe that he’d allowed himself to be deceived by a beautiful face and siren’s body. This was what he got for trying to be considerate and not pressing on to the camp. For not keeping them separated.

He should have anticipated treachery—she was English, wasn’t she? And now, because of her, his weapon—his surety—against Clifford had slipped right through his fingers.

His gaze hardened. He might not have Clifford’s heir, but he still had his sister. There was no longer any question of letting her go. Rosalin Clifford was coming with him, and after what she’d just done, her brother would be lucky if Robbie ever gave her back.

As horrible as her confrontation with Boyd had been, and as uncomfortable as the next few hours were while racing over the brutal countryside to escape their pursuers, Rosalin couldn’t regret what she’d done. Roger must have reached Peebles Castle and been able to rally the soldiers to come after her. Maybe even Cliff. Whatever else happened, her nephew was safe. She would be grateful for that even as she feared for her own safety.

But if Boyd was trying to scare her, it was working. She’d never seen him so angry. That was why he was being so mean and had said all those hateful things, wasn’t it? He wouldn’t really force her to be his whore. And that’s what it would be: force. In spite of his claim to the contrary, she wouldn’t give herself to him like that again. Not after what he’d said to her and knowing what he intended. She wasn’t that much of a fool.

She hoped.

She didn’t know what was worse, how quickly she’d surrendered to him or how mistakenly he’d ascribed her motives. She had been trying to stop him from checking on Roger, but she hadn’t planned to offer herself up as a distraction. It had just happened that way. She’d been just as caught up in the moment and surprised by how quickly things had spun out of control as he.

Did he honestly think she’d had any idea that a kiss could descend into that so quickly? She hadn’t even known what that was. She’d had no idea a man’s touch could rouse such incredible feelings in her. No idea she could become so swept away by passion that she would forget about everything else: her virtue, her position…good gracious, the fact that she was betrothed to another man!

Rosalin was ashamed by how quickly she’d succumbed and could only be thankful that he’d stopped before doing something that could not be undone. She still had her virtue, if not her innocence. She’d been naive and foolish, but now that she knew how easy it was to get caught up in the riptide, she wouldn’t go near the water again.

No matter how “hot” she might be. His crude words still stung. How could a man who’d touched her so tenderly one moment treat her so coldly the next? She’d almost convinced herself that he might care for her a little. That maybe he felt the same strange connection that she did. That maybe her sixteen-year-old heart hadn’t been wrong.

But his harshly spoken words had cured her of those illusions. She was an “English bitch.” The enemy. His hostage. And if she let herself forget it, she could very well end up his whore.

Still, she couldn’t stand the idea of him thinking the worst of her, and she had every intention of reiterating her innocence as soon as his anger had cooled.

But even half a day later, after hours of the most perilous riding she’d ever endured, up the steepest, narrowest mountainsides and through the densest, darkest, most impenetrable forest, his jaw was just as hard, his mouth just as tight, and his eyes just as narrowed as they had been when he’d stormed out of the room.

Not that his black visage had ever been turned in her direction. Nay, she didn’t think he’d looked at her once since they’d left.

None of the men had. Even Malcolm, Callum, and Alex avoided her gaze. Whatever goodwill she’d earned after the fire in the village was gone. The Scots took their cue from their captain, and Boyd’s anger toward her could not be more clear. However it had happened, she’d bested their hero in allowing her nephew to escape, and that could not be forgiven. She was an English hostage. A female English hostage. The lowest of the low. The fierce male Scot pride could not withstand such a blow.