The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(71)

“It’s your only damned weak spot,” Sir Alex muttered in frustration.

Robbie just grinned. But looking at that broad, chiseled chest, Rosalin had to disagree. Even with the bruising, there wasn’t a weak spot on him.

Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he turned and saw her standing there. It seemed that everyone else saw her standing there as well, because the raucous laughter suddenly stopped with all the sublety of a clap of thunder.

A blush rose to her cheeks. Robbie frowned but walked over to her. “Did you need something?”

Being confronted by well over six feet of half-naked man seemed to tie her tongue. After a flustered moment of staring at his chest, which seemed to cover most of her field of vision, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. But not before noticing the cut on his arm. “You’re hurt!”

“It’s nothing.”

Suddenly aware that everyone was watching them—and listening—she said, “I need to speak with you.”

He frowned. “Did something happen?”

She looked around self-consciously, shifting the stack of linens in her arms. “Please, it’s important.”

He held her gaze for a moment before turning to his men. “We will resume after the midday meal.” He glanced at a few of the men, who wore proof of their time on the ground in the layer of mud covering their backsides. “Some of you look as if you need time to wash.”

The men laughed and started to hurl insults at one another as they dispersed.

Plucking his shirt and cotun from a nearby rock, Robbie donned the first and tossed the latter over his arm.

As much as Rosalin was reluctant to see that spectacular, gleaming chest all covered up, it did clear her head.

He offered to carry her bundle as well. She thought about it before handing it over. “You might as well. I believe the top one belongs to you anyway.”

He ignored the pointed reference to the injury he had not told her about and took a quick glance at her work. A brow lifted as he examined the stitches. “Christ, how did you do that? It looks as if the cloth was rewoven on the loom. I can barely see the stitches, they are so tiny.”

Recalling what he’d once said to her when she’d questioned him about his skill in sneaking up on her, she said, “Practice.” One side of his mouth lifted, but then fell when she added, “I’m also quite proficient at tending wounds and making poultices.”

He shot her a look. “It’s nothing, Rosalin. A scratch.”

She clamped her jaw. That was no scratch. Heaven’s gates, were all men so stubborn? Her brother was the same way when he was injured. “Even a ‘scratch’ can turn putrid and cause death if not tended.”

“I would not deprive Clifford of the pleasure so easily.”

They’d almost reached the tent, but she stopped in her tracks and spun to face him. “That is not funny.”

The thought of her brother killing him—or him killing her brother—made her ill.

“It was not meant to be. I simply point out that my death would be one of Clifford’s—your countryman’s—great pleasures.”

She knew what he was trying to do, remind them both of the circumstances by forcing a wedge between them, but she wasn’t going to let him. “It would not be mine.”

She held his gaze challengingly, daring him to deny the connection that ran between them. A connection that neither war nor her brother could sever.

He sighed and shook his head. “It’s been tended.”

“By whom?”

He gave her a look that made her wish she hadn’t asked. “Oh,” she said, her mouth snapping closed. Deirdre.

He held the flap back while she entered the tent and climbed in after her. Putting the stack of linens on Sir Alex’s trunk, he then went to his own and removed a drying cloth and soap. Obviously, he, too, meant to wash before the midday meal. “What is it you wished to speak to me about?”

“Have you ever struck a woman?”

“Bloody hell, of course not! Why would you ask such a thing?” He looked distinctly offended.

“It’s not uncommon.”

He frowned. “Perhaps not, but only weak men hurt those who are unable to defend themselves. I am not weak.”

She would not argue that. “What of those under your command?”

His eyes narrowed, a dark cast coming over his handsome features—not unlike the one she’d seen the night he battled Uilleam. “Where is this coming from, Rosalin? Did someone hurt you?”

She shook her head. “Not me.”

His anger dissipated and comprehension dawned. “One of the other women?”

She nodded, all of her frustration bursting out. “It isn’t right. Drunkenness isn’t an excuse for brutishness. I was taught that men are supposed to protect ladies, not hurt them.”

He held her gaze steadily. “You do realize why these women are in camp, Rosalin? They are not ladies.”

She jutted out her chin. Did he think her that innocent? “Yes, but one sin does not justify another. What the women do doesn’t make it acceptable to beat them. Or do you think a woman you take to your bed for pleasure is not worthy of consideration?”

He held up his hand as if to fend off her attack. “I do not think that way; it’s just that I am surprised you do. Whores are usually beneath the regard of most noblewomen.”