The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(53)

Despite the afternoon light, it was fairly dark inside. But after Boyd lit the tall torches that flanked the entrance, she could better make out the interior.

Caesar was reputed to have traveled with his own mosaic tile floor in sections, and English kings had been known to outfit their tents as if they were a room in a palace with woven rugs, fine furniture, and silver and gold household plate. This tent was not so fine, but neither was it a crude hovel.

Her first impression was of well-tended orderliness. It might have been split down the middle with the two sides mirroring one another. They held box beds with some kind of mattress, probably made from straw, numerous wool blankets and a few furs, two wooden trunks for storage and extra seating, two tables, two stools, and two small braziers for warmth. The floor was covered in woven rushes. Other than a stray shield with a blue background and a band of red and white checks across it, a few candles, a pitcher, and a bowl for washing, there did not appear to be any personal items lying about that might give a hint about its occupants.

But she knew.

It was a warrior’s tent, and the spartan, no-frills, nothing-to-distract-from-war interior fit Boyd perfectly.

“You can sleep there,” he said, pointing to the bed on the left.

Since he threw down his plaid and helm on the other bed, she assumed it was his. Good God, he couldn’t mean to sleep in the same room with her?

“Is there not somewhere else I might stay?”

“There is not. As you might have noticed, we are in the middle of the forest. I’m afraid accommodation is limited.”

That wasn’t what she meant and he knew it. He just enjoyed making her feel like a spoiled, cosseted princess. That was what he’d called her. She lifted her chin, glaring at him defiantly. “I just do not wish to displace anyone from their bed.”

“If you are that worried, you can always share mine.”

She stilled, staring at his face as if the granite facade might give her a clue as to whether he was serious.

His smile was cold and devoid of humor. “I thought not. Have no fear, my lady—Seton doesn’t mind. He lives for that kind of gallant shite. Now, if there is nothing else, I have more enjoyable pastimes to seek out.” His face hardened. “But I would caution you against another attempt to escape. Although you deserve to be in a pit prison for what you’ve done, I can find far less luxurious accommodations for you. There are no forty-foot walls, but even were you to get past the two men who will be guarding you—two of Douglas’s kinsmen, by the way, so don’t bother trying to wield your feminine wiles in that direction—the forest is not a place you will want to find yourself alone. Unless you like boars.” His eyes found hers. “And phantoms.”

A chill swept over her skin. His warning was well heeded. She was trapped and knew it. Douglas’s men…She shivered. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to go. Even angry and cruel, she trusted him. At least more than she did Douglases.

“Wait!” She stopped him before he pulled back the flaps. “Where are you going?”

“To celebrate a successful raid. Unlike you, I didn’t get to take my release last night. So unless you want to suck my c**k as Deirdre has offered to do, I will bid you good night.”

Rosalin drew in her breath, shock permeating every fiber of her being. Even knowing that was what he had intended couldn’t stop her from gaping at him. Was such a thing done?

The knowing challenge in his eyes answered her question.

Shock turned to a stabbing throb. She wanted to object. To tell him not to go. To tell him that if he let that woman touch him like that it would be over between them forever.

But how could something be over that had never begun?

Instead, she dropped her gaze and turned away from him. The handsome, noble warrior she’d watched from her window was gone, and she found she no longer wanted to look at the man who stood in his place.

Eleven

The sounds of the revelry continued well into the night. What were they doing? What was he doing? Was the woman really…

The black hole in Rosalin’s chest seemed to grow larger and larger. Why did she care?

The taunting sounds filled her imagination and kept her awake until exhaustion—both physical and emotional—finally dragged her to sleep.

Boyd never returned.

Rosalin woke resigned if not refreshed. She would make do the best she could until her brother paid whatever ransom they demanded of him. What else could she do? Soon this would all be a distant memory. A distant, unpleasant, hurtful memory.

She nibbled on the remainder of bread, cheese, and dried mutton that had been brought to her not long after Boyd left—apparently, he hadn’t completely forgotten about her—and started to explore her surroundings. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any water in the ewer, so she could not wash. The comb and bar of soap resting nearby, however, taunted her.

Grime was a powerful motivator, and she’d just about bolstered her courage enough to face her Douglas jailers, when one of the men entered with another plate of food. This one containing, to her delight, what looked to be an apple.

Spine as stiff as a poleaxe, he marched into the room and set the trencher down on Sir Alex’s wooden chest. He was probably only a few years older than Malcolm, but his dark visage and beard reminded her well enough of his “black” relative.

“Is there anything else you need?”