The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(61)

Her skepticism must have shown.

“Both Appian and Polybius wrote of Hannibal, the Carthaginian general reputed to be one of the greatest military strategists of all time. He was famous not only for his use of ambuscade, scorched earth, and for catching the Romans off guard by crossing the Alps, but also for teaching the Romans fear.”

Rosalin had heard something of Hannibal. “He was also reputed to be unspeakably cruel.”

He held her gaze. “By whom? The descendants of the Romans he defeated? Even Polybius, Greek by birth but Roman by affiliation, conceded that like most people he was probably good and bad.”

She smiled. “So you went to school to learn to be a brigand?”

He shot her a look and seeing that she was teasing him, shook his head. “Nay, I was born knowing how to do that.”

She scanned the leather-clad arms and chest. “Aye, I don’t doubt it. You look as if you were born with a sword in your hand.”

“I didn’t need a sword until the English put one there. It was never my desire to be a warrior. I would have been content—” He stopped suddenly, looking away, as if the memories had overtaken him for a moment but he’d been able to wrestle them back under control.

When he turned back to her, the good-humored teasing they’d shared a few minutes ago was once again carefully contained behind the determined, humorless facade. “School is where I learned to be a ‘rebel.’ It’s where I learned about justice—real justice, not the English version—the tyranny of oppression, and the principles of liberty and freedom that give Scotland and the community of the realm the ancient right and responsibility to anoint its own king and not be ruled by a foreign one.”

Unwittingly, Rosalin’s discovery of the books had raised the specter of all that was between them. The teachings in these manuscripts had fostered the fierce patriotism that gave him the single-minded determination to fight for Scotland’s independence against her countrymen.

She was embarrassed to realize that she’d never given much thought to the Scots’ side of things or that they might have their foundations in something so…scholarly. Indeed, they were likely the same philosophical underpinnings that her countrymen used to justify the war. She’d thought of the Scots as ruthless brigands, as backward barbarians. But what if…what if they had cause to fight? What if they had justice on their side?

Even the thought felt disloyal to her brother, not to mention treasonous to her king. But how could she ignore all that Robbie had told her about what happened to him?

It was disconcerting to think that the enemy were not uncivilized rebels who needed to be brought to heel, but educated warriors fighting for freedom and justice.

But she wanted to know what he’d been about to say. “What would you have been content with?”

He retrieved the item he’d been looking for from his trunk and slid it into the sporran at his waist. She’d caught only a quick glance, but it looked to be a curved piece of thin metal with a short handle.

Though her question seemed to have made him uncomfortable, he answered. “My brother Duncan had the love of battle like my father. I would have been content to till our land and raise our cattle. Before everything was razed, that is.”

It took her a moment to process what he’d said. “You wanted to be a farmer?” This man who seemed to epitomize war and warfare?

His mouth hardened, as if her disbelief had offended him. “Aye. Well, the decision was taken from my hands when my father was murdered by your countrymen. I left school at seven and ten, joined the risings with my school companion and boyhood friend William Wallace, and never looked back.” He nodded to the trunk. “Those books belonged to him, by the way.”

She paled. William Wallace, dear God! Many English were just as horrified by what had happened to him as the Scots. “I’m sorry.”

“For what? You didn’t kill him.” He said it matter-of-factly, but she sensed the deep emotion underlying the careless words.

“Perhaps not, but I’m sorry for everything you lost. The life you describe…It sounds nice. I shouldn’t have said those things to you earlier—calling you a thug and a brigand. I didn’t realize—” She stopped and looked at him. “I know little about the war or the history between our two countries, but with what you have told me, I think I understand now why you fight.” She paused. “You had a brother?”

“Aye. Duncan was captured after the battle of Methven, not long before I was captured at Kildrummy. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a guardian angel to rescue him and was executed before I could reach him.”

She put her hand on his arm, her heart breaking for him. His father, his sister, his brother, his closest friends, his home and future. She didn’t dare ask about his mother. “I’m so sorry.”

He stared at her hand, as if no one had ever touched him with compassion like that before and he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Eventually, he shrugged it off. “It was a long time ago, Rosalin. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be.”

She jumped up. “Wait!” She couldn’t let him go without trying. “I have something to ask you. A rebellion of my own, so to speak.”

He looked at her blankly.

She bit her lip. “Is there…might I be permitted…” She drew a deep, exasperated breath and just blurted it out. “I’m dying of boredom in here with nothing to do. Might I be allowed some freedom to move about? You’ve made the danger of attempting to escape perfectly clear.”