The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(59)

Now, he did feel like an arse. She was right, but only partially. It wasn’t only she he was trying to protect.

“What would you have me do, Rosalin? You know as well as I that nothing good can come of this. You are my hostage, surety for your brother’s truce and good faith.”

“That does not mean we must be enemies. Can we not be civil to each other? You were friendly enough toward Roger—can you not treat me the same?”

Like a thirteen-year-old lad? God, she was young. “I don’t know if that is possible.”

“Why? Do you despise me so much?”

The look of disappointment on her face caused him to speak more bluntly than he might have. “Nay, I want you too much.”

His honesty seemed to surprise her, and then—undeniably—please her. A slow smile curved her lips and a soft pink blush spread over her cheeks.

She looked sweet enough to eat. And God, he wanted to devour her—which only proved his damned point!

She tilted her head to one side. “You have never been friendly with a woman you wanted before?”

He’d never wanted a woman the way he wanted her, but he thought it better not to mention that. “Nay.”

“Why not?”

He shrugged. “Women are for…” He didn’t finish, guessing she wouldn’t appreciate what he’d been about to say.

Her mouth pursed, however, suggesting that she’d guessed. “Women are for the bedchamber, is that it? But not worth your time for anything else?”

That was about the gist of it, but it hadn’t sounded so bad when he thought it.

She made a sharp harrumphing sound and mumbled something about spoiled, too-handsome-for-their-own-good brutes that almost made him smile.

She stomped over to where he stood by his bed and put her hands on her hips. “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, I should like you to try.”

He looked down at her and wanted to pull her into his arms so badly, his muscles ached from the restraint.

“Can you do that?” she asked.

When all he had to do was smell her and he wanted to toss her down on the bed behind them? “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “From what I’ve seen, you are plenty strong.”

He gave her a sharp glance. Naughty lass! That wasn’t what he meant. And it wasn’t going to help his restraint. “Not when it comes to you. We can’t—” He stopped, trying to think of a way to say it less crudely. “I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did or let you touch me the way you just did. It’s dangerous. The next time, I might not stop. I don’t seem to have much control when it comes to you. Nor do I wish to give your brother a reason to kill me that is deserved.”

She shivered, but whether it was from fear or something else, he didn’t want to guess.

“Does that mean you won’t try?”

She looked so disheartened, he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll try,” he said, even if he suspected it was going to kill him.

The broad smile that lit her face made him reconsider. He didn’t suspect a damned thing; it was killing him already.

“Truce,” she said, holding out her hand.

Reluctantly, he clutched her soft hand in his own. “Truce,” he repeated.

Robbie had his truce with a Clifford, though he wondered how much this one was going to cost him.

Thirteen

Rosalin saw little of him over the next two days. Apparently, Robbie’s idea of a truce was to duck in long enough to grab some clothes, mumble a few words, and then disappear. He slept in the tent with her, but he waited until after she was asleep to creep in and woke before she was awake to creep back out.

In between, she tried to keep herself busy and do her best (without much success) to not perish of boredom. During the long hours alone, with only her none-too-friendly Douglas guardsmen for the curt exchange of words that passed as “conversation” (they probably thought something was wrong with her, she asked to go to the privy so often just to go outside), Rosalin was seriously considering mutiny. Or, as they weren’t on a ship, open rebellion.

The first day, she’d attended to her person and her much abused clothing. She’d combed her hair until it was free of every last knot and tangle and fell around her shoulders in long, shimmery waves, and pounded and brushed her woolen gowns until they were free of most of the dirt. They still smelled of smoke, though, so she asked one of the dour Douglas brothers (she’d learned their names at least: Iain and Archie) to fetch her some dried heather and packed the gowns with it. By the following morning her chemise was completely dry and her gowns smelled good enough to wear again.

She’d never cleaned in her life, but by the second day, she’d wiped every surface, tidied every furnishing, and practiced making the beds enough times to rival any of the maidservants at Whitehall Palace. She’d even mixed in some of the dried heather with the rushes to brighten the smell of peat that seemed to linger on everything.

While in the process of putting away the linens and plaid that she’d borrowed, Rosalin decided to take a peek through the rest of the trunk. Normally she wouldn’t be so nosy, or show such a lack of regard for someone’s privacy, but really it was Robbie’s own fault. If he wasn’t going to tell her about himself, then she was going to have to see what she could find out on her own.