The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(62)

He gave her a long look. “You will give me your word you will not try to escape?”

Was he recalling the similar condition she’d made once?

She repeated the words he’d said to her from the pit prison. “My word is good enough for you?”

“It is.”

She smiled. “Then you have it. I swear I will not attempt to escape while I am here.”

He nodded. “Do not stray from camp without me or one of my men. It can be dangerous. And do not expect much from those at camp—as I’ve said, your brother is not a popular man in these parts. You’ll not find many friendly faces.”

Rosalin was so excited by the prospect of fresh air, she didn’t care. “You will remove your watchdogs? I’ve had quite enough of the dour Douglas brothers. I don’t like the way they look at me.”

He took a step toward her, the muscles in his shoulders flaring. “Have they done something to offend you? If they’ve hurt—”

“No, no. Nothing like that. They’ve attended to their duty admirably under the circumstances. You can’t blame them for frowning all the time—given who my brother is.”

He relaxed, no longer looking like the God of War bent on destruction. “Good. I would kill any man who tried to hurt you.”

The vehemence of his words startled her—as did the instinct. The primitive instinct of a man to protect a woman. Nay, not just a woman, his woman.

“I know,” she said. And she did. Robbie Boyd would protect her with his life. She was safe with him.

But was she safe from him? Could he protect her from himself? For the longer she stayed here, and the more she came to know and understand him, the harder it was going to be to leave.

He considered her for a moment. “Very well. I will remove the guards.”

She brightened at the unexpected concession. “Thank you.”

Their eyes held for one brief instant, but it was enough to fill her chest with a strange warmth.

He gave her a curt nod and left.

Robbie winced when the blade nicked his neck. “Bloody hell, Malcolm, watch what you are doing. I’ve need of a shave, not a gulleting.”

The lad grimaced as he carefully scraped the half-moon-shaped blade along Robbie’s jaw. “Sorry, Captain. My brother is the barber.”

Robbie drew his hand over the shaved area, a few fingers coming back with blood. “Aye, well, ’tis a good thing it’s only a shave and not an arrow in my arm.”

The lad frowned. “You could have waited for Angus to return with the Douglas. I don’t know why you are in such a rush—they should be back any day. You’ve had a beard before.”

“As I told you, it itches,” Robbie said, too defensively even to his own ears.

What in Hades was he doing? The lad was right. He was used to being stubbled. He liked stubbled.

But not unkempt, and every time he looked at Rosalin, he felt like the damned barbarian she thought him.

She didn’t belong here. He knew it, and everyone around him did as well. Each time she stepped out of the tent, it was as if a hush descended on the camp. Everyone stopped and turned toward her, watching her as if she were some kind of ethereal creature from another world.

With her fine—even if slightly stained—clothes, her refined English manners, and her pristine ice-blond coloring, she looked like she should be dancing under the candelabra of Whitehall Palace, not tidying his tent in the middle of Ettrick Forest. And after months of living with the “rustic” amenities of their headquarters in the heather, Robbie and his men looked like they should be thrown into the Tower of London for just daring to look at her.

His men might view her with varying degrees of animosity, but there was no denying her beauty, nobility, and innocence. Well, perhaps she was not so innocent, but he sure as hell shouldn’t think about that.

Yet it seemed all he could do was think about that. Robbie…

Ah hell.

He must have sworn aloud.

“Is something wrong?”

“Nay, just hurry it up, lad.”

He should be telling himself the same thing. Robbie knew he was playing with fire. The sooner the “Fair Rosalin” was gone, the better. She had him all twisted up in knots. He was afraid to sleep in his own tent, he was irritable and ill-tempered from lack of sleep, he was shaving in the middle of the day, he’d found himself bellowing at Iain and Archie Douglas for frowning, and he’d agreed to let a hostage—his means of bringing Clifford to heel—have free roam of the camp.

He’d also agreed to try to be nice—friendly. Christ, what the hell had he gotten himself into? He liked her too damned much already.

If their conversation earlier in the tent was any indication, she would know his life story before she left here. His schooling? Wallace? A farmer? For a moment he’d actually pictured himself with a wife and bairns running all around him. Pretty soon he’d be confiding in her how he’d come to join the Guard.

But it was her reaction that was the problem. Compassion, understanding, and a deep sense of justice were the last things he expected to find from an Englishwoman, let alone the paragon of injustice’s sister. But Rosalin was still the same sweet girl who six years ago risked everything to right a perceived wrong. Wrapped up in a more sophisticated package, perhaps, but in all the ways that mattered, unchanged.