The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(84)

He did, which was why he’d never let himself consider it.

Even if he could put aside the fact that she was English and Clifford’s sister—which he wasn’t sure was possible—a connection with him would be too dangerous. Anyone close to him was a target. Hell, look what had happened to his sister. He wouldn’t put her in that kind of danger.

“If it means anything, I’m sorry,” Seton said.

Surprisingly, it did. Robbie nodded in acknowledgment.

“Are you sure it is wise to keep her here until Clifford arranges the payment?”

Wise? Nay, but he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “I don’t trust Clifford. What’s to prevent him from reneging on our deal as soon as we return her?” Robbie stopped his partner before he could speak. “And don’t say ‘honor’—we both know how far that goes with Clifford.”

Seton didn’t argue. He’d done all his arguing years before, and it had resulted in their being taken.

They started to walk back, and had just reached the farthest tent when they saw Malcolm running toward them. Immediately Robbie’s gaze went to his tent, but it appeared undisturbed.

“What is it, lad?” he asked.

“The Douglas said to come quickly. There’s something wrong with one of the horses.”

Not understanding the urgency, Robbie and Seton nonetheless made haste to the old bothy on the opposite side of camp that served as a barn for their few horses and livestock.

No sooner had they entered the old stone-and-turf building than Douglas turned to him. He was kneeling on the ground near Fraser’s horse, who appeared to be in distress. “Did you feed the horses oats when you were in Melrose?”

Robbie frowned. “Of course not,” he said. They barely had enough grain to feed their people, let alone the horses. Their mounts subsided on dried grasses for the most part.

“Well, someone did,” Douglas said, pointing to a pile of dung.

Robbie took a step closer and saw that he was right. Mixed into the normal manure he could see the telltale sprinkling of the light tan-colored groat about the size and shape of a maggot. There weren’t many—only a few—but enough to…

Ah hell. Enough to track.

Some horses—often older one’s like Fraser’s—had trouble digesting whole oats. In this case, they were fortunate or they might not have discovered the ruse.

He swore and met Douglas’s gaze. “Ready the men.”

“Where are you going?” Douglas yelled after him.

Robbie didn’t take the time to respond. A minute later, when he was standing in his empty tent, his heart, which had been somewhere near his throat, dropped soundly to the floor.

Rosalin was gone.

Nineteen

Rosalin barely stifled the scream that rose to her throat when the armed knight appeared in front of her.

Not long after Robbie left, she’d gone to the garden to think. There had to be some way to make this work, assuming that she could get Robbie to admit there was a “this.” Also assuming that he could accept her being English. And being the sister of his greatest enemy. And her being English. She knew she’d already said that, but it probably bore mentioning twice.

And then there was her brother and the king. Edward was fond of her, but he wouldn’t sanction a match between the butter girl and Robbie Boyd, let alone the sister of one of his leading barons. There was no hope for it. Robbie would just have to forcibly marry her. That would be the story at least.

But could she convince Cliff? Aye, it wouldn’t be easy, but she knew he loved her more than he hated Boyd.

She would just have to make sure Robbie didn’t give him cause otherwise. The raiding and personal war between them would have to stop. She would not make friends of enemies, but surely they could come to some sort of agreement with her serving as surety?

When the war ended something more might be possible, but right now a fragile peace was all she could hope for. Perhaps more than she could hope for.

It was in the midst of this planning—or probably more accurately, fantasizing—that the soldier appeared. He slipped silently from behind the foliage to stand before her, his mail glimmering in the fading sunlight behind him. Fortunately, he’d raised his helm, and his face (and a moment later the red-and-white check arms he bore on his tabard) identified him, preventing her from alerting the rest of the camp to the presence of Sir Henry de Spenser’s top household knight.

“Sir Stephen!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

It was a silly question. She could guess exactly what he was doing here, but the shock had not yet left her, and it was all she could manage under the circumstances.

“We’ve come to rescue you, my lady.”

“We?” She looked around.

“Sir Henry and the rest of the army are not far behind. I was sent ahead to scout, but when I saw you…” His voice dropped off as if he couldn’t believe his good fortune. “I can’t believe the rebels left you alone like this!”

Her mouth went dry. Dear God, she couldn’t let this happen! Men would die. Men like Sir Stephen.

Sir Stephen de Vrain was one of Sir Henry’s closest friends, and her favorite among his men. He was a handful of years older than she—closer to Sir Henry’s age of six and twenty—and though not classically handsome, he had a pleasing countenance with sandy-brown hair, rich hazel eyes, and an easy smile. It was the smile that had charmed her.