The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(52)

But the silence was oppressive. She’d never felt so alone. By the time the first signs of the camp came into view, she was so miserable—not to mention filthy and exhausted—she would have welcomed a hovel, if it meant she could get off this horse and escape their forbidding indifference.

Rosalin didn’t know what she’d expected of the rebel encampment—perhaps foxholes and scattered plaids over the heather?—but it certainly wasn’t the neat row of Roman legionary-style tents leading up to a large sturdily constructed wooden Viking-style longhouse that sprang out of the thick forest along a rocky riverbed like a picturesque faerie tale–looking village nestled in the tree-covered hillside. It wasn’t exactly luxurious, but it was far from the image she had of the outlaw “hood” from which Robert the Bruce had earned his moniker of King Hood.

The forest itself, however, lived up to its frightening reputation. From the moment they’d entered the shadowy canopy of trees, she’d been waiting for one of Bruce’s phantoms to jump out from behind a tree and shout “boo.” It was easy to see why the English had ceded the forest first to Wallace and later to Bruce’s men. The rebels could sit in ambuscade from virtually anywhere, and the narrow paths that wound through the forest would force the English soldiers to ride single file, leaving them even more vulnerable. The men of Ettrick Forest, like the legends of the outlaw Hood, were also known for their skill with a bow, a particularly deadly skill in this kind of environment with so many trees to hide behind.

She assumed they must have had scouts watching out because a handful of men—and a few women—were already standing outside to greet the returning warriors. From the cheers and lighthearted tone of their shouted greetings, she realized they were cheering the successful mission.

Rosalin hadn’t expected women. But no sooner had they stopped and the men dismounted than she understood their purpose at camp, when the women ran forward to greet some of the men in a particularly friendly manner.

As no one seemed inclined to help her dismount, Rosalin was about to attempt to do so on her own, when she glanced at Boyd. One of the women had launched herself into his arms and was plastered to his chest. Her long, wavy pitch-black hair hung loose down her back as her head tilted back invitingly.

Rosalin must have made some kind of sound, because Boyd’s eyes found hers right before he accepted the woman’s welcoming kiss. Her quite thorough welcoming kiss.

Rosalin felt as if a horse had kicked her in the chest. No! she wanted to shout. Don’t. You can’t.

But he could. She held no claim on him, a fact he was making perfectly clear.

His arm was wrapped around the woman’s waist loosely, as if it had been there many times before. The kiss also had a lazy familiarity that spoke of…

Oh God! The bottom dropped from Rosalin’s stomach. She knew. They were lovers.

She turned away, fighting the suffocating stabs of pain through her heart that made her want to do something ridiculous like cry. A hot ball pressed its way up her throat and to the back of her eyes. But she blinked back the tears as she slid her foot into the stirrup and attempted to get down without her skirts tangling around her feet.

She would have fallen had someone not caught her around the waist from behind. Nay, not someone. She stiffened at his touch, knowing exactly who it was. His big hands nearly spanned her waist, closing around her like a warm vise, as he lifted her down effortlessly. Even without their bodies touching, she could feel the broad shield of his chest behind her and smell the warm scent of leather and spice that had become so familiar.

“Thank you,” she said, not daring to look at him for fear that he might see how much his display with the woman had affected her. “I’m surprised you did not let me fall.”

“As you are our only hostage now, that wasn’t an option.”

Her eyes narrowed, meeting the ice-blue gaze that riveted them. “Aye, my brother will not pay your blackmail if I am harmed—you might remember that.”

His mouth tightened at the not-so-subtle reference to his earlier threat. “I think he’ll pay to get you back whatever state you are in. You might remember that, my lady.” He slurred the last word with obvious sarcasm.

She bristled. “You are wrong about what happened. For all your knowledge of experienced women, you should know the difference between practiced and not.”

He smiled, and Rosalin immediately regretted her churlish words. By remarking upon the woman who’d just kissed him, she’d let him know that it had bothered her.

“This way, Princess,” he said with a mock flourish. “Your palace awaits.”

He started away, and with no choice but to follow, Rosalin ignored the curious stares cast in her direction and hurried after him.

At first she thought he meant to take her to the big longhouse, which she assumed served as their hall, but then he led her past the building to where there were a few more tents set up. Slightly larger than the others, she realized these most likely housed the king’s lieutenants—perhaps even the king himself when he was present.

He stopped at the first tent. It was perhaps twelve feet square, with the middle of the pitched roof at least that high. Although the original natural wool would have been a brownish off-white, a protective coating of oil or wax to keep out the water had stained it yellow, and in places a dark-brownish black. Over a dozen hemp ropes supported the canopy from the outside, driven into the ground with large wooden pegs. Passing through the flaps that had been tied back, she saw the numerous wooden tent poles that gave the tent its structure.