The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(72)

“Well, not mine.”

He studied her appraisingly, making her wish she knew what he was thinking. “I can see that.”

“So do you condone men under your command who beat women?”

“I do not. Who was it?”

She bit her lip. “I cannot say.”

“Why not?”

“The woman will be harmed if he is punished.” He looked so confused that she added, “Her place here is…tenuous.”

“Ah, the Englishman’s whor—” He stopped, seeing her expression.

“Don’t call her that! It’s not her fault that she fell in love with the wrong man. The heart does not see battle lines.”

He held her gaze for only a moment, almost as if he, too, wanted to avoid thinking about the subject too carefully. “Perhaps not, but neither can you fault the men for not wanting to bed with her. Should I order them to do so?”

She frowned. “Of course not.”

“Then what would you have me do?”

“I don’t know, but it isn’t right. She lost her child—is that not punishment enough? And now she is forced to subject herself to a drunken brute’s temper and cannot raise her voice to complain at all for fear of losing her place in camp?”

“The sword of justice does not always fall fairly, Rosalin. Take it from someone who knows.”

She looked up at him, her big, luminous green eyes bright with outrage and frustration, and Robbie felt something in his chest turn over and then tug. Hard, and with too much persistence to ignore.

He was in trouble, and every day that passed it was getting worse. He wanted her so intensely, all he had to do was catch the barest hint of her scent and he stiffened up like a lad about to tup his first maid.

Her proximity was driving him mad. Everything about her was driving him mad. He didn’t dare look at her hands, for if he did he would remember those soft white fingers wrapped around his…

Bloody hell, a few minutes of pleasure had resulted in days of torture.

Not that he would regret it. How could he regret what had been one of the most erotic, sensual, and intimate moments of his life?

She seemed to be the only one in camp unaware of his torment. Douglas looked at him as if he were mad, Fraser with amusement, Deirdre with accusation, and Seton with warning. He’d threatened to slip his dagger between Robbie’s ribs if he touched her.

His partner meant it, too, and though Robbie didn’t usually get intimidated (having to catch ten spears aimed at his head during MacLeod’s aptly named “Perdition” training came to mind as an exception), he’d seen Seton’s skill with a dagger enough times to not summarily dismiss the threat.

At first Seton’s place on the team might have been a gratuitous gesture due to Bruce’s friendship with Alex’s brother Christopher, but Boyd had to admit his partner’s skill would have earned him a spot today. He could wield a dagger with deadly accuracy and quickness that was unrivaled among any of the Guard. Hell, among any warriors Robbie had ever seen.

He frowned, thinking of their contest earlier. Seton had also become far more adept at the hand-to-hand combat than Robbie would have believed possible. He wasn’t as strong as Robbie, but he was quicker. And younger. If he ever learned to control his patience, he might actually give Robbie a real challenge.

But it wasn’t Seton’s threat that worried him now. It was this other feeling. This bigger feeling that seemed to be growing in his chest and overtaking everything else. The feeling that made him want to slay every dragon for her so he wouldn’t have to see this look on her face again.

Rosalin Clifford felt too keenly. That was her problem. And it would only bring her disappointment and frustration. He should know. One day she would learn the hard truth that she could not right every wrong in the world. He was almost glad he wouldn’t be around to see it. Almost.

But that didn’t mean he was untouched by her outrage on behalf of the lass. And he couldn’t help but think of his sister. If someone like Rosalin had been there to stand up for Marian, maybe she wouldn’t have felt that there was no other road but the one that led off a cliff.

“I’m sorry,” she said, putting a hand on his arm. He forced himself not to look at it. “I did not mean to raise bitter memories. Of course you know of what I speak.”

Her head was tipped back to look at him. The soft scent of lavender permeated his senses. She was standing so close, all he had to do was bend his head down and his lips would be touching hers.

Fire roared in his blood in anticipation. His eyes flickered over the too-beautiful features, the wide green eyes, the dark, long lashes, the red lips and velvety-soft skin, and all he could think about was watching those lips part, those lashes flutter over half-lidded eyes, those creamy cheeks flush as he brought her to the peak of pleasure with his hands—and his mouth.

God, he wanted to taste her. He wanted to slide his tongue between her legs and ravish her until she bucked and arched. Until she broke apart and came into his mouth with a hot rush. He could almost taste her on his lips. Feel the warm silk of her honey sliding against his tongue.

He almost groaned. Desire coursed through every vein in his body, reverberating like a drum. And she heard it. Sensed it. Her eyes grew hazy. Her mouth opened in a soft gasp of anticipation.

He leaned into her, feeling the soft shudder that rippled through her as if it were his own.