The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(60)

Never far from her mind was his admission that felt like more of a confession: I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

She knew he’d meant it as a warning—and it had been well taken. He was right: her brother would kill him. But the idea that she could weaken him so warmed her and sent a little—well, not so little—thrill shooting through her. It also provoked an urge in her to dig deeper, to see if maybe it meant something more. Fate had brought them together again, and she couldn’t help but think there was a reason.

She didn’t know what she expected to find, maybe a few mementos—a sprig of dried flowers or a lock of hair from a past sweetheart, a brooch or ring, something that hinted to his past—but that wasn’t the treasure trove she uncovered when she dug through the stack of carefully folded linens, clothing, and armor, to the bottom of the trunk.

One by one, Rosalin pulled out leather-bound codex after leather-bound codex. There were seven in all, most containing multiple works. It was a small fortune in manuscripts ranging from Socrates and Plato to Augustine and the relatively new work of Father Thomas Aquinas, of whom there was talk of making a saint. They were scholarly works that did not belong in the war chest of a…barbarian. Good gracious, he could rival her brother in his philosophical learnings!

There were also a few histories. She picked up one of the volumes, entitled Historia Romana, by someone named Appian of Alexandria. She paged through the thick pieces of parchment, scanning the carefully inked words in Latin. Picking up another, she was stunned to see that it was written in Greek.

Did Robbie really read these? If the well-worn bindings were any indication, it appeared that he did—quite frequently.

She was so enthralled by her discovery that she didn’t hear him enter until he was standing right behind her. “What are you doing?”

She looked up guiltily from her cross-legged position on the ground before his trunk. It was quite obvious what she was doing, and his dark scowl reflected that knowledge, but she answered anyway. “I was bored.”

His eyes narrowed. “So you decided to go through my belongings?”

“I was putting away the tunic and plaid I borrowed and happened to see these.”

He gave her a look that suggested he knew otherwise.

He glanced around the tent, noticing the changes she’d made. “You aren’t a serving maid, Rosalin.”

“Nay, I’m a hostage,” she said cheekily. Seeing his frown, she added quickly, “It’s something to do.”

He ignored her hint. “Aye, well, just make sure you make that clear to your brother when you come back with callused hands.”

She picked up one of the books and started to flip through it again. “Why would you wish to hide these? They are wonderful.”

“I’m not hiding anything. I just would have rather you had asked me first.”

“Which I would have, had you been here. But as you’ve avoided me for the past—”

“I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”

She blinked up at him innocently. “Haven’t you? Hmm. You must be very busy if you can’t retire until after midnight and wake before dawn.” She could see his temper flaring, and decided to switch subjects before she started to laugh. Teasing him was surprisingly fun. Holding up the codex she’d been leafing through, she asked, “Do you really read Greek?”

“Aye, a bit.” He practically snatched it from her hand. “Have care with that. It’s a rare partial manuscript of Roman history by Polybius.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard of him.”

He carefully placed the book back in the trunk and started to pick up the others to do the same. “Aye, well, I doubt many lasses are well versed in military history.”

“And I doubt many Scottish warriors are well versed in Greek and ancient philosophy.”

“You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “We aren’t all barbarians.” She glanced away so that he wouldn’t see her blush. How had he guessed she’d had that exact thought? “We even have schools in Scotland, just like they do in England.”

She ignored the sarcasm, focusing instead on what he’d said and the opportunity to learn more about him. She stood from the ground, shook out her skirts, and plopped down on the stool nearby. “So you went away to school when you were younger?”

He’d replaced all the books and seemed to be looking for something in his trunk. But he took the time to shoot her a look that said he knew what she was up to. “Aye. In Dundee.”

“Is that near where you grew up?”

He sighed and turned to face her. “It is not.” When it seemed that was all he intended to say on the subject, her disappointment must have shown in her expression. He continued with all the enthusiasm of having a tooth pulled. “I was born in my father’s barony of Noddsdale, near Renfrew in Ayr, on the west coast of Scotland and was fostered in the Borders. Dundee is in the east of Scotland on the north side of the Tay. About thirty miles south of Kildrummy.”

“That’s quite a distance to travel for schooling.”

“It’s a well-known school, attended by young lairds and chieftains from all around Scotland. The vicar who taught me there—a man by the name of William Mydford—among other things, was an ardent military strategist. The ‘pirate’ warfare of which your countrymen often disparage us is actually traced to some of those books.”