The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(77)

Clifford looked more annoyed by the man’s interruption than Robbie. “I told you I will handle this.”

The knight persisted. “I must have assurances—”

“Sir Henry,” Clifford said. “Shut up.”

Robbie stared at the man Clifford had identified as Sir Henry with cold calculation. Though the knight’s words and attitude had angered him, Robbie had heard them too many times before to let it show. But there was something about this man that set his teeth on edge. He was nearly Robbie’s height and only slightly slimmer in build, though he was at least a handful of years younger. He reminded him of someone. But with his dark hair and light eyes, it could be half the members of the Highland Guard—including himself. The thought should have amused him, but for some reason it only made him frown.

“Have we met?” Robbie drawled with an indifference that he knew would grate.

It did. The knight flushed angrily. “If we had, you would not be standing here, but rotting in a grave somewhere.”

Robbie quirked a brow. “Bold words. Care to prove them?”

Sir Henry stepped toward him. “Aye, any time. Just as soon as you return my betrothed.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in, and when they did, no amount of training could have hid Robbie’s shock. He probably wore the look of a man who’d been shot in the back with an arrow. He might as well have been.

It gave the other man the advantage—the momentary advantage. He sneered knowingly. “I’m not surprised she did not tell you. Probably thought you’d try to exact your payments from me as well. We are to be married at the end of the month, and I will have assurances that you have not touched her.”

Robbie wasn’t containing his anger any longer. It was snapping through him dangerously, ready to explode. She’d lied to him—or as good as lied to him. Betrothed, damn it? While she’d been lying in his arms, letting him put his hands on her—putting her hands on him—she was going to marry another man. Care about you. God, he felt like a fool.

He was tempted to tell Sir Henry exactly what they’d done—and exactly where his hands had been.

“What if I’ve had my hands all over her?” Robbie couldn’t resist taunting. “What will you do then?”

The other man’s eyes flared with rage. “You bastard, I’ll kill you.”

He would have launched himself at Robbie, but Clifford wisely held him back. “These men are here under truce, de Spenser. You will not break it.”

“What’s the difference this time, Clifford?” Robbie said. “Age give you a sense of honor?”

The slight flush on the other man’s face was the only sign that the barb about what had happened at Kildrummy had found its mark. “I have agreed to your terms. Your word that Rosalin is unharmed will satisfy. Robert Bruce will have his truce and his two thousand pounds.”

“And as soon as he gets it, you will have your sister.”

Clifford’s face went white. “But that could take weeks. I will need time to get that coin together. You said as soon as I agreed—”

“That was before you insisted on this little meeting,” Robbie said. “Now I think I will need more surety to ensure that you keep the terms of our bargain.”

Clifford surged toward him, but held himself back by the thinnest of restraints. “I know why you are doing this, and if you hurt her, by God I’ll kill you!”

“You tried to do that once before. What makes you think you will be any more successful this time?”

Clifford’s face turned so red, Robbie thought he was going to explode. But the knight had more control than Robbie probably would have had under the circumstances and bit back whatever it was he wanted to say. “Go. You will have your truce and your money as soon as they can be arranged. You have given me your word my sister will not be harmed. I will hold you to it.”

“That isn’t good enough,” Sir Henry de Spenser sputtered. “I demand assurances that he has not forced himself on her.”

Clifford turned to the younger knight. “One more word and you won’t need assurances for anything.”

Whatever de Spenser saw in Clifford’s eyes caused him to sober—and curb his tongue.

Clifford turned to Robbie. “You will give your word?”

“I will.”

He would not force himself on Rosalin. That he could promise. But with the tumult of emotions raging inside him right now, that was about all he could.

Rosalin sat on a rock, savoring the simple pleasure of the warm sunshine on her hair and face. Birds chirped in the distances and the fresh scents of the garden floated past her nose with the gentle breeze. A faint—a very faint—hint of spring was in the air. For the first time since she’d come north, it was warm enough to be outside without two layers of wool, and she wore only her slightly less stained light-blue under-gown over her chemise.

She bent over to one of the plants at her feet—a hearty-looking kale—and cleared a few leaves from the meticulously tilled earth around it. In addition to coleworts, there were onions, parsnips, turnips, carrots, and a smattering of hearty herbs that had managed to withstand the cold winter.

The vegetable garden had been a surprise. She’d stumbled across it the day after Robbie left on her way to return the pile of clothing to Deirdre. It was a small patch of ground, no more than fifteen feet by ten, tucked away behind the last tent on the outskirts of camp. A surprisingly sophisticated wattle fence had been erected to prevent the hares, wild cats, boars, wolves, and other animals who inhabited the forest from disturbing it. Well tended, ordered, and peaceful, this place seemed a small oasis in the wild, unfriendly countryside around her. She loved just sitting here, surrounding herself with…him.