The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(73)

His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. His fists clenched against the temptation. The temptation he had to resist.

With a muttered curse, he stepped back. “I need to bathe before the meal.” He didn’t wait for her to respond before stalking out of the tent.

He wasn’t running away, damn it. It was self-preservation.

But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. It couldn’t be much longer, he told himself. The envoy to Clifford would return at any time, Clifford would agree to the truce—what else could he do?—Rosalin would leave, and Robbie would be one step closer to achieving the only thing that mattered: winning the war and freedom from English rule.

Freedom from men like her brother.

His jaw hardened. A few more cold dips in the burn would get him through this. If only the memories were as easy to wash away from his body as the lust.

Sixteen

Robbie entered the Hall a short while later—clean, if not more relaxed—and was surprised to see Rosalin seated at one end of the trestle table next to Seton. Douglas, not surprisingly, was at the opposite end.

He knew she was still uneasy around Douglas, even though his friend had stopped looking at her as if she were Satan’s spawn (or in this case, his sister). He took a seat on the other side of Seton to act as another barrier. It wasn’t because he didn’t think he could take sitting next to her for a couple of hours. He couldn’t be that weak.

Bloody hell.

He spent most of the meal conversing with Fraser and trying to ignore the easy conversation between his partner and the woman who was driving him to distraction. What in the hell were they talking about? Why were they whispering? Why was she laughing so much? And why did he care?

Because Seton was right. Robbie was jealous. Deeply and irrationally jealous. He might not be able to have her, but he couldn’t stand the thought of someone else having her—and sure as hell not the partner who’d been a thorn in his side.

He was saved from doing something embarrassing—like bellowing at them to stop making so much noise—by the appearance before him of one of the serving women. As the lass leaned over to refill his tankard of ale, he caught sight of her cheek.

A reflexive surge of rage rushed through him at the sight of the large, angry-looking bruise. Instantly he understood Rosalin’s outrage.

The lass had spilled a couple of drops that ran over the edge of the table into his lap, and glancing at his expression, misunderstood the source of his anger. She looked terrified. “I’m sorry, my lord. I will fetch a cloth to clean it up.”

He snagged hold of her wrist before she could move away. She was fine-boned like Rosalin, and the fragility only made him more furious. But feeling her tremble with fear forced a gentleness into his tone. “The ale is nothing. My concern is for your injury. Who did this to you, lass?”

Though he was not speaking loudly, quite a few of the occupants of the room had taken notice of the conversation, including the man he suspected of striking her. Fergal Halliday was a minor laird from nearby, and good with a sword, but he also had a vicious temper when drunk.

His suspicions were confirmed when her gaze darted nervously and unconsciously to the man in question at the far side of the Hall. “No one, my lord. It was me. I…” She seemed to try to be thinking of something that would explain the bruise that was clearly caused by a hand. “It’s so silly,” she said with a forced laugh. “I tripped a few nights ago on my way back to my pallet and hit the edge of the table.”

He caught Rosalin’s eye. It was a poor excuse. And were it not for Rosalin’s warning and the lass’s own pleading look, he would have said so and demanded the truth from her. But Rosalin was right—she had been punished enough. He would not take her livelihood from her. Fergal would be dealt with as well. As Captain Robbie could make his life hell for the next week or so.

He released her arm. “An unfortunate accident indeed,” he said slowly. “I hope that it will not happen again. You will come to me if it does.” He held her gaze so there could be no doubt of what he spoke. “No woman should suffer such abuse, and you can be assured it will not be tolerated. You are welcome here, lass, and I hope no one makes you think otherwise.”

Her eyes widened with shock. It was clear she was so unused to kindness that she didn’t know how to react. Slowly the edges of her mouth started to curve, and by the time the smile reached her eyes they were shining with gratitude.

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.”

She hurried away, obviously uncomfortable with the attention.

Robbie glanced toward Rosalin. It was a mistake. He’d had many admiring stares from women—his reputation and popularity at the Games had earned him more than his share—but none had ever felt like this. None had ever made the air in his lungs expand and his chest swell. None had ever made him feel like the most important man in the room. And none sure as hell had ever made him want to keep that look shining in her eyes forever.

A man could get used to that look.

A man could learn to crave that look.

A man could do something stupid for that look.

But damn it, Bruce needed Clifford’s agreement, and Robbie couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. And what he wanted from Rosalin Clifford would sure as hell jeopardize it.

Right now they had momentum, and Clifford’s resistance could easily change that. Not only might it encourage others to follow, but it would stop the progress Bruce was making in retaking his castles.