The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(76)

The two men faced off in silence. This moment had been a long time in coming. Much had changed, and they had six years of fighting between them, but they were both keenly aware of what had happened the last time they’d met. Robbie could still hear the condemning words. “Take him to the pit.”

He’d been so damned surprised. Maybe that was what had angered him the most. He’d actually let himself believe Clifford. He could have killed Clifford’s men while defending his friend, but he hadn’t. He’d expected justice—or at least the pretense of it.

Blood rushed through him at the memories, and the heat of anger flared through his veins. Anger, but not the hatred that usually roared through him at the mention of Clifford. Hatred that had become as much a companion to Robbie as the armor he wore.

By all that was holy, he should want to smash his fist through that perfectly straight set of teeth and wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat until the breath strangled from his lungs. Clifford’s treachery had led to the death of many of Robbie’s comrades, including Thomas, and he’d been only hours away from taking the rest of them. Clifford had been a thorn in Robbie’s side, a symbol of his hatred of the English, for a long time.

But he felt no such urge. What the hell was wrong with him?

Still, they did not shake hands, and the tension in the air was palpable.

Boyd realized he was being subject to just as much scrutiny, but the cold eyes—the cold green eyes, damn it—gave no hint to Clifford’s thoughts. It was one thing he didn’t share with his sister, although in this case, Robbie wished he did. Rosalin’s expressive eyes gave her thoughts away—

Damn it, he had to stop thinking about her. But it seemed all he could do. “…care about you.” Christ, why the hell had she said that? He didn’t want her to care about him, and hearing the words had forced him to acknowledge something he wanted to ignore.

He’d reacted badly and regretted his harsh words. But she’d caught him off guard. What the hell was he supposed to do? She knew the circumstances as well as he did. There were few things less insurmountable than the sister of an English baron—an English overlord, no less—and a Scot “rebel,” fighting for Bruce. Hell, climbing the highest peak of the mighty Cuillins in the winter with his hands tied behind his back might be easier.

The best thing for them both would be getting this over as quickly as possible.

To that end, he broke the standoff. “Clifford,” he said with a sharp nod. “As you insisted on this meeting, I assume you have something to say.”

Clifford’s icy demeanor cracked. “Damn right I have something to say. As if burning people out of their homes and stealing their goods aren’t enough, you abduct my son and my sister? What the hell kind of barbarian are you?”

Robbie felt a flicker of the familiar rage. “The kind that holds your sister, so if I were you I’d give caution to my words. Need I remind you of the cages where the Countess of Buchan and a fourteen-year-old girl spent a couple of years of their lives thanks to your king? If you want to talk barbarians, perhaps you should look closer to home.” The knight’s flush told him his barb had been well aimed. “Your sister and son were my hostages—and have been treated with every consideration. Too much consideration, it seems, as it enabled your son to escape. As for the raids, you have only yourself to blame. My envoy came to you with terms, which you refused.”

“I hardly call two thousand pounds terms. I call it bloody robbery.”

“Call it whatever the hell you want, but it’s the cost of peace—and of getting your sister back. Two thousand pounds is a pittance compared to the wealth the English have plundered, looted, and pillaged from my country.”

Clifford’s mouth fell in a hard line. Robbie could see the anger he was forcing himself to contain, see the frustration, and finally see the acknowledgment that Robbie had been waiting to see for a long time. He had no choice but to submit.

“You will have your truce,” Clifford said, every word pulled through clenched teeth.

Although the result had been a foregone conclusion, hearing the words felt good. At least it should, but for some reason Robbie didn’t feel the satisfaction or the sense of victory he wanted. Because beneath Clifford’s anger, beneath his frustration, beneath his acknowledgment, Robbie also saw something else: his helplessness. Helplessness born of the love he had for his sister and the fear he couldn’t quite hide. It made Robbie uncomfortable. Uneasy. Unsatisfied.

He also knew what it meant, and that thought—the knowledge that he had to give her back—made him feel something that he feared was dangerously close to what Clifford was feeling.

The gaze that met his wasn’t cool at all, but pained. “Rosalin is safe? She has not been harmed?”

Robbie should torture the bastard and let him think the worst. God knew, he deserved it. But he found himself telling him the truth. “She will be returned to you exactly as I found her—without even a bruise. I give you my word.”

“Roger said as much, but damn it, she’s a gently reared lady, unused to such harsh conditions.” Robbie didn’t like thinking about it any more than Clifford did. “When?”

“As soon as—”

But Robbie’s words were cut off when another man—a knight, by the look of him—pushed his way forward. “Your word? What kind of assurance is that?” He looked down his nose at Robbie with an expression so dripping with condescension and disdain, it could have filled a slop bucket. “Why should we believe the word of a man who is no better than a brigand? How do we know he hasn’t had his vile hands all over her?”