The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(80)

She didn’t say anything. Just went with him calmly. Bloody hell, didn’t she see how furious he was with her? Couldn’t she tell that he was at the end of his damned rope? Shouldn’t she be shaking with terror and begging to know what was wrong?

Obviously she trusted him too much. The foolish chit thought he wouldn’t hurt her.

Damn her for knowing me so well.

Cradling her against him, he ducked through the tent flaps and stood at the entry, letting his eyes adjust from the sunlight.

“Are you going to put me down and tell me what this is all about?” she asked gently.

He looked down for the first time, seeing that beautiful face staring up at him. The pang in his chest nearly cut off his breath. She looked so innocent—so guileless—but she’d been lying to him from the start.

Jaw locked, he put her down and set her firmly away from him. “What this is about? How about the fact that you lied to me?”

Her brow furrowed with confusion. “I have never lied to you. Does this have something to do with my brother? Did he refuse your truce?”

“Nay. Clifford agreed to everything.”

Her face fell. What was wrong with her? Why the hell did she look disappointed?

She turned away from him. “Then why are you angry? You have everything you wanted. You can send me back and get on with your war.”

That was exactly what he should do, damn it. But for the first time in a long while, he was thinking about something other than war. When he’d made his demand of Clifford to hold on to her until he received the money, he’d been thinking of one thing and one thing only. “Your brother agreed readily enough, but your betrothed,” he said as he took a step toward her, “your betrothed had need of some assurances.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing every drop of blood slide from her face. Guilt froze the no-longer guileless features. “S-sir Henry was th-there?”

He didn’t know whether it was wanting to make the trembling stop or anger that made him grab her elbow and bring her up hard against him. “Aye, he was,” he said in a voice not far from menacing. “And he didn’t seem all that happy to learn that his affianced might have been spending time in my bed.” Her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. No protest. No “how could you tell him such a thing?” Nothing. “Why did you lie to me, Rosalin? Why didn’t you tell me you were to be married?”

Something cracked in his voice. Something that went beyond anger. Some kind of emotion he didn’t want to acknowledge.

Whatever it was, she heard it. Her eyes softened, and her voice was soothing. The type of soothing voice his mother had used when he’d taken a tumble as a young boy. “I didn’t lie to you. Nor did I mean to hide it from you.” A pink blush stained her cheeks. “I simply did not think of it—or of Sir Henry.”

Robbie was no fool. He might not be an expert on such matters, but he’d wager Sir Henry would give MacGregor some competition—and not with the bow. “Sir Henry might be a hotheaded arse, but he is not the kind of man a lass is likely to forget.”

She tilted her head, studying him. “He’s quite handsome, yes, but in truth he is but a pale substitute for another.”

The spark of rage at the mention of “handsome” died as the truth hit him. Christ. No wonder the knight bothered him so much. He reminded him of someone, all right—himself. A younger, prettier version of himself, that is.

She stepped toward him. “Did you not see it?”

He didn’t say anything, but simply watched her as a deer watched the hunter’s bow. She was moving closer, wielding a weapon far more dangerous than an arrow: desire. He wanted her with every fiber of his being, and her closeness—her softness—was prodding every primitive instinct in his body.

“I’m ashamed to admit it,” she said, putting her palm flat on his chest and tipping her head back to look at him. It burned—the place under her hand, his chest, everything. “But I didn’t think of him at all.”

She was slipping in under his defenses, digging under his skin. Somehow he needed to find the strength to push her away. “Bloody hell, Rosalin, he is the man you are going to marry!”

A tiny furrow appeared between her delicately arched brows, and then shook her head. “I can no longer marry Sir Henry.”

Bitterness flooded him. “I told him nothing, Rosalin. Your knight will have no cause to break the betrothal. I made you come, but I did not take your maidenhead.”

She appeared not to notice his intentionally crude language. “It’s not because I think he will break the betrothal. I will not marry Sir Henry because I am in love with someone else.”

Robbie saw red. “Who?” he demanded, taking her by the arm to haul her up against him once more. “Damn it, who?”

But he didn’t need to ask. All he needed to do was look in her eyes and the answer stared right back at him. Me. She means me.

Longing rose inside him with a fierceness of which he wouldn’t have believed himself capable. He wanted to believe it, wanted to take what she offered, sweep her up in his arms and make love to her, whispering promises he could not keep.

But it was impossible, damn it! Why couldn’t she see that? Why did she have to make this so damned hard? She was wrong about what she felt, making a young girl’s mistake of confusing lust with emotion.