The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(64)

“The English have taken a few of our lessons to heart,” Sutherland added, “and have set up a diversionary shipment going to Caerlaverloch. Chief, Hawk, and Viper are monitoring the coast, just in case, but we intend to intercept them before they reach Lochmaben for the night.”

“How many?” Seton asked.

“We’re not sure,” Lamont said.

“Possibly as many as fifty,” MacLean said with a shrug.

Robbie lifted a brow, anticipation for battle already surging through his veins. “What are the rest of you going to do?”

He even managed to get a chuckle out of Arthur Campbell at that. The famed scout was one of the quieter members of the Guard.

Robbie was just about to send his brethren to the Hall to get some food while he and Seton headed off to Douglas’s tent (where he’d removed from prying eyes the distinctive armor he wore on Highland Guard missions), when MacGregor let out a low whistle.

“Christ almighty, if that’s your hostage, I think I’m going to start joining you on your raids.”

Robbie followed the direction of his gaze, seeing Rosalin hurrying out of the Hall, looking as if the devil were on her heels. She must have seen Douglas. If the bastard had scared her—

He stopped, thinking of another bastard. “Stay the hell away from her, Arrow.”

He might have growled.

MacGregor wasn’t the only one to look at him. The other Guardsmen eyed him with varying degrees of lifted eyebrows and understanding.

“Is that the way of it?” MacGregor said slowly, considering him. “Clifford’s sister? Of all the women in the world to finally catch your eye! I can’t wait for Hawk to hear about this.”

Robbie silently swore every foul word he could think of. Since when had he become so transparent? He clenched his jaw. Since the moment Rosalin Clifford had ended up tossed over his lap.

“The lass is my hostage, nothing more. My temporary hostage. But yours is not a face most lasses forget. I think you’d probably rather not have her brother learn of your presence in camp.”

It was a good excuse, but not one any of them believed.

MacKay stayed back while the others strode off. He gave Robbie a pitying look. “I’ve been there,” he said. “And so have most of the others. I think only Chief and Hawk escaped the curse.”

“What curse?”

MacKay’s mouth hardened. “The curse of that damned face. Bloody hell, my wife threatened to have Arrow watch over her if I wouldn’t when she came on our missions.”

Robbie gave an involuntary shudder. No man would want his wife in that kind of proximity to MacGregor. “It’s a wonder you didn’t kill him.”

MacKay smiled. “I made him pay on the practice yard, and enjoyed every bloody minute of it.”

“You could have done something about the face.”

MacKay shook his head. “I tried, damn it, I tried. But I think Arrow’s mother dipped it in the same water that Achilles’s mother used. He heals without a scratch.”

Robbie laughed and went off to fetch his things. A mission was exactly what he needed to remind him of what was important. Rosalin Clifford may have distracted him, but it wasn’t going to get in the way of what he had to do.

Fourteen

Rosalin had her freedom, but she was too scared to use it. After coming face-to-face with the Black Douglas, she’d scurried back to her tent like a frightened mouse. Three hours of waiting later—with no Robbie appearing to reassure her—she decided that she was being ridiculous. Robbie had told her Douglas wouldn’t harm her; she would believe him. She was also hungry. The removal of her guards meant she would have to fetch her own food.

Mustering her courage, she wrapped her plaid around her shoulders and headed out of the tent into the cool evening mist. From her experience so far in Scotland there seemed to be little else: morning mist, midday mist, and evening mist. Today, the gloom was heavier than usual, almost seamlessly switching back and forth between a drizzling, dreary rain.

Remembering the reaction her arrival in the Hall had caused earlier—and the discomfort of being stared at by so many—Rosalin decided to seek out a smaller number of curious-wary-angry gazes and headed toward the camp kitchens, which had been set up against the back wall of the Hall. A wooden roof protected the pots and fires from the rain and snow, but the walls that enclosed the area were only on three sides and didn’t go all the way up, offering little insulation from the cold and wind.

It was a crude but efficient setup. In addition to the pots hanging in fires, there were a few tables to prepare the meals and a large bread oven constructed of stone.

Apparently, the women at camp weren’t here just to be companions for the men. They were also serving maids for the meals. One woman looked up as she approached and whispered something to the dark-haired woman standing beside her.

Rosalin’s foot seemed to stutter mid-step, and she nearly stumbled. It was the woman who’d kissed Robbie. Deirdre.

A pit of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach, and her courage faltered. The last thing she wanted to do was be confronted by an angry mistress. After years at court, Rosalin was under no illusions about women. They could be every bit as cruel and ruthless as men. Perhaps more so.

But she forced her feet forward and her chin up. She was Lady Rosalin Clifford, sister of one of the most important barons in England. She did not cower and run.