The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(55)

He held her gaze, and she knew he was warning her. She nodded, telling him she understood. She’d sensed as much herself.

He must have seen something in her expression. “Don’t worry, lass, it won’t be much longer. A messenger has been dispatched to your brother. In a few days, this will all be behind you.”

It was with considerable effort that Robbie dragged himself off the rush-strewn floor of the Hall, where he’d finally found sleep in the wee hours of the night, and ventured into the morning (or mid-morning) daylight. The sunlight cleaved his skull like a battle-axe. His stomach, which could weather even the worst of storms on Hawk’s birlinn, tossed dangerously, threatening to remind him that the last goblet of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Actually, the last five goblets of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Like any Scotsman worth his salt, Robbie enjoyed his uisge beatha. But he couldn’t recall ever enjoying it quite so much. Or with such purpose. If he were a weaker man, he might even think he’d been trying to drown his guilt in drink.

But he had no reason to feel guilty. Rosalin Clifford deserved his anger. She deserved a hell of a lot more after what she’d done.

So he’d threatened to make her his whore? So he’d shocked the proper English lady with the crude suggestion that she suck his cock? So what?

Robbie rarely struck the first blow, but if someone hit him, he was sure as hell going to strike back. He didn’t turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—that was his religion. He was doing the only thing he knew how to do: fight back ruthlessly when wronged. The English had learned that the hard way. As he couldn’t use his fists or his sword with her, he was using the one weapon he had left: his words.

He still couldn’t believe he’d let a woman trick him like that. He didn’t fall prey to feminine ploys or wiles. He’d thought himself immune to such pedestrian weaknesses. Undistractible.

Damn it, he’d even sensed something was wrong, but all she’d had to do was touch him and look up at him with that ravish-me mouth, and he lost his bloody mind.

Of course she’d known what she was doing…

But what if she hadn’t? What if he was just being an arse?

She’d stung his pride, and he wondered how much of his anger was really because she’d managed to help her nephew escape under his watch.

He swore and raked his fingers through his hair, his nose wrinkling as the stench of last night’s festivities and days of hard riding leached out of his skin.

He needed a good dunking in the burn. Perhaps it would clear some of the fogginess from his head. The foulness of his temper, he suspected, would not be so easily washed away.

With slightly more vigor, he rounded the corner of the Hall on the way to his tent and came to a sudden stop.

Bloody hell! His fists squeezed at his sides. He’d told Seton to stay away from her. But there was his partner, ducking out from beneath the flaps of the tent with a broad smile on his face. Whistling, unless Robbie was mistaken, as he rambled over to the next tent.

Black clouds darkened Robbie’s already foul mood. Black thunderclouds. He stormed toward his tent. He would deal with Seton later, after he found out what was going on. But if she thought she was going to trick his partner like she had him—

He stopped. God’s bones, was that what she was doing? Was that why Seton looked so happy and relaxed?

Robbie couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. His heart was hammering in his head, causing his mind to spin out of control.

Iain Douglas started to say something but slammed his mouth shut, obviously thinking better of it.

Robbie strode past the two warriors, pushed between the flaps, and steeled himself for what he might find.

His stomach knifed when he saw her. There was nothing in her appearance to contradict his suspicions. In fact, it was the opposite. She was seated on Seton’s bed combing her long, damp hair, her cheeks still flushed from her bath—or lovemaking—wearing…

Christ, she was wearing the plaid he wore on Highland Guard missions and, unless he was mistaken, one of his tunics!

As he entered, she glanced up with a gasp of surprise. Her eyes found his warily.

He ignored the stab of conscience. “What was Seton doing in here?”

His voice came out louder and angrier than he’d intended—and more accusing.

Her eyes widened and then narrowed with a glint of mischief. “What do you think he was doing?” she asked with a flip of her head. “I needed help with my bath.”

He crossed the tent in two strides and hauled her up against him. “Do you think this is a jest, my lady? I assure you it is not. What did you do, take your ‘offer’ to Seton? Was he more amenable than I?”

She turned away in disgust. “You are a fool.” He felt like it. A jealous one. “If you must know, he was in here to fetch a few items, presumably to bathe as I did.” She wrinkled her nose. “You might consider doing the same. You carry the stench of your celebrating.”

Her icy composure grated against his already flared nerves like sand on an open wound.

Robbie glanced toward the bath, a dangerous idea taking form. He stepped back, a slow smile curving his mouth. “What a brilliant idea.”

He jerked the mail coif—the one concession he made toward heavy mail—over his head and tossed it on his bed. Next came the thick leather cotun. He’d been so eager to get out of there last night, he hadn’t even taken the time to remove his armor. By the time he got to the linen shirt underneath, her eyes were two full moons.