The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(66)

Again, Rosalin was aware of being scrutinized and assessed.

“I presume you are good with a needle.”

Rosalin nodded. Most noble ladies could be counted on to have the skill.

“Well, it isn’t tabards or tapestries, but there is always a stack of linens to be mended.”

Rosalin smiled for the first time since she’d left her tent. “That sounds perfect. Thank you.”

Whether it was her smile or her gratitude, something seemed to make Deirdre uncomfortable. She brushed off her thanks. “Aye, well, the captain will have to agree to it when he gets back.”

The smile fell from Rosalin’s face; she stilled. “The captain is gone?”

Her distress was so obvious even Deirdre must have felt sorry for her, as there was pity in her eyes. “Aye, he rode out a few hours ago.”

“When will he be back? Where did he go?”

The other woman shrugged. “I don’t know. I should think a day or two.”

“Is Sir Alex here?”

“Nay, he left as well.”

Panic started to crawl up inside her. The goblet on the tray started to rattle. He wouldn’t have left her alone with…

“Then who is in charge?” she asked, her stomach twisting as she anticipated the answer.

“The Douglas.”

Blood was no longer dripping down Robbie’s arm, but each hard fall of his horse’s hooves jarred his ribs and sent a blast of pain through his side, serving as a visceral reminder of the dangers of distraction. For nothing else could explain the uncharacteristic mistakes he’d made that had enabled the enemy to get in two clean blows: the first, a blade across the shoulder that had struck with enough force to slice through his steel-studded leather cotun to the skin below, and the second, the crushing blow of a mace across his side that had broken more than one rib.

He would like to say that it was because the mission had been more difficult than any of them expected—the fifty men they’d faced had been a highly skilled combination of English soldiers and hardened mercenaries who hadn’t given up their silver easily—but he knew that wasn’t the reason.

It was Rosalin. She was the distraction. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He told himself that there was nothing to worry about. He’d left Douglas in charge and made it damn clear that if any harm should befall her, if she even complained of a quiver of fear, he would hold him accountable. He was fairly sure he’d threatened Douglas with enough bodily damage to deny his new wife any pleasures in the marital bed by removing certain necessary parts with a dull spoon, but Robbie couldn’t remember his exact words.

Rosalin would be fine, he told himself. He’d been gone only half a day.

Which didn’t explain why he and Seton were currently galloping through the forest in the middle of the night, and not celebrating their successful mission with the rest of the Guard by sleeping and tending their injuries in a cave not far from where they’d won their hard-fought victory.

I should have told her I was leaving. He didn’t know why he hadn’t, except that he’d been trying to convince himself after the uncomfortable conversation with his brethren that she didn’t meant anything to him. That he wasn’t beholden to her.

Seton swore behind him. Robbie heard the sound of a branch snapping as he turned with the torch.

“Christ, that almost took my head off,” Seton said. “Either slow down or hand me the bloody torch.”

“Or you could try to keep up.”

Seton threw him a black glare. “It’s pitch-black out here, thick with mist, and well past midnight. After nearly twelve hours of riding, with only a few hours’ break to fight a damned battle, my horse is a little tired. Hell, I’m a little tired. Are you going to tell me why we are killing ourselves to get back to camp tonight rather than enjoying a much deserved rest with the others?”

Robbie set his mouth in a hard line. “I want to get back.”

“That’s bloody obvious; the question is why. Are you worried about the lass?”

“Douglas won’t let anything happen to her.” He said it almost as much to himself as he did to Seton. Robbie trusted Douglas with his life—and had done so more than once. But it was Robbie’s responsibility to see to Rosalin’s safety, and he didn’t like delegating it to anyone else. Even a trusted friend.

“But?”

Seton knew him too damned well. “But hell if I know. Something just doesn’t feel right.”

It was a testament to their long partnership that the explanation not only satisfied him, it also seemed to make Seton nearly as anxious to return as he.

Robbie wasn’t like Campbell. He didn’t get feelings about things. The implicit trust of Seton’s reaction surprised him. It probably shouldn’t have, but it did.

The closer they drew to camp, the worse the feeling grew. By the time they passed the first sentry it was probably two or three in the morning, and Robbie was stretched to the breaking point. Every rustle of leaves, every gust of wind, every hoot of an owl or sound of nightlife grated against nerves that were already frazzled and on edge.

“Everything looks all right,” Seton said in a low voice.

It did. The sentries were at their posts. The camp was dark and quiet. The faint scent of peat from the fires wafted through the air.