The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(75)

He lifted a brow. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were worried about me.”

She felt the strangest urge to tap her finger against that steely chest and maybe give it a good shove. “Of course I’m worried about you, although right now I’m wondering why. You make it difficult for someone to—” She stopped suddenly.

He tipped her chin back to look into her eyes. “To what, Rosalin?” His voice held an odd huskiness.

She scanned the depths of his gaze, looking for something. “To care about you.”

She felt him stiffen. He stared at her so intently for a moment that she thought she was drowning in him, spinning in a whirlpool of emotions.

She thought he would pull her into his arms.

Instead, he dropped his hand from her face. “You would be foolish to do so.”

Disappointment cut through her like a sliver of jagged glass. What had she expected? A return declaration? Some kind of indication that she was not alone in her feelings?

All he cared about was the war and defeating the English. There wasn’t a place for anything—or anyone—else in his life. He was consumed by one thing and one thing only: seeing the English pay for what they’d taken from him.

And she’d listened to him—at first. But something had changed. Something had made her think that there might be room for something else in his heart. Room for her. Now she wasn’t so sure.

“When will you leave?” she asked, her throat squeezing.

“Immediately. I want this over as soon as possible.”

She flinched, the words sinking between her ribs like a dagger. It took everything she had not to let him see how much pain he’d caused. A healthy dose of that Clifford pride held her upright. “God’s speed, then. I will anxiously await your return.”

“Rosalin, hell, that’s not what I meant.”

He tried to reach for her, but she turned away from him, holding her spine stiffly to hide the trembling in her shoulders, and walked away as regally as the princess he’d once accused her of being.

Seventeen

Robbie had been waiting for this moment for six years. But the long aisle of Melrose Abbey was not the battlefield he’d had in mind in which to face his enemy.

Clifford was waiting with three of his men near the carved wooden screen and altar, beyond which only monks were permitted. Robbie started down the south aisle with three of his own men flanking him. He’d brought a dozen men, but only Fraser, Barclay, and Keith had accompanied him inside the abbey. A few more waited outside, while the rest were spread out around the village keeping an eye out for any sign of a trap, and readying for their escape should it be necessary.

Robbie didn’t expect anything, but with the English he’d learned to be cautious.

By agreement, both parties had left their weapons at the door. Though drawing swords in the holy place would be sacrilege, Clifford had insisted, with a not-so-subtle reference to Bruce’s killing of the Red Comyn six years before in a church. The “barbarous” act had begun Bruce’s bid for the throne and had also served to get him excommunicated.

Robbie didn’t object. He wasn’t the one who would need a weapon if their parley took a bad turn.

Besides, as long as Robbie held Rosalin, he had everything he needed to win this particular battle.

The tables had been turned. Robbie was no longer a prisoner under the yoke of his jailor’s bidding or a rebel supporting a king on the run. This time Robbie held all the power, and they both knew it.

He had dreamed of the day he would have the pompous bastard under his heel. The English and their bloody superiority! For too many years they’d treated the Scots like serfs in their own kingdom, like recalcitrant subjects and scurrilous rebels. Seeing a little humility on any English lord’s face—especially Clifford’s—was something Robbie had been looking forward to for a long time.

One day soon the English king would be forced to recognize Scotland as an independent nation, but for now Clifford’s acquiescence would satisfy.

The fall of their footsteps on the tile floor echoed in the cavernous nave of one of Scotland’s greatest abbeys. Built in the shape of St. John’s cross, the abbey’s thick stone pillars and walls rose more than forty feet above him, limned and decorated with brightly colored paintings they complemented the thousands of small pieces of glass stained and meticulously cut and fitted into lead to fill the enormous arched windows, of which there must be fifty.

It was impressive. Awe-inspiring. A modern marvel of architecture. The kind of place you wanted to crank your neck back and look around, picking out the different saints and scenes from the Bible.

But Robbie’s gaze was fixed right in front of him. On one man.

Lord Robert Clifford looked much the same as the last time they’d met face-to-face. His blond hair had darkened, there were a few more scars on his face, and he was a few pounds heavier with muscle, but the patrician features, cold eyes, and shimmering chain mail and spotless tabard with the red stripe and blue-and-yellow checks of the Clifford arms were all the same.

One thing was different. This time Robbie noticed the resemblance to his sister.

When their eyes met, Robbie felt as if someone had landed a fist in his gut. Christ, they were the same color. He might have been looking into Rosalin’s eyes.

Shite. He had to look away. Mouth clenched tight, he came to a stop a few feet away.