The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(85)

Robbie would kill him if he found him here. She could not let that happen. “You must leave. If they find you here, they will kill you.”

He glanced around uncomfortably. “Aye, you are right. Let’s go.”

“But I…” Her voice fell off. She didn’t want to go. “I cannot leave yet.” He looked at her as if she were half as crazed as she felt. “I gave my word not to escape when they permitted me free roaming of the camp.”

He smiled then. “’Tis admirable of you, my lady. But there is no dishonor in breaking a promise to a rebel.”

Rosalin cringed. The statement was so in keeping with what Robbie had told her, she was ashamed for her countrymen.

The sound of raised voices put a swift end to their conversation. “Come, my lady,” he said, taking her by the arm. “We must away.”

She tried to pull her arm back. “Wait! I don’t want to go.”

But Sir Stephen wasn’t listening to her protests. The sound of approaching footsteps spurred him to action. He hauled her against him and started to drag her off through the trees.

Rosalin tried to dig in her heels and push away, but it was no use. He wasn’t as tall and muscular as Robbie—few men were—but he was strong. She put up as much of a struggle as she could without screaming, knowing that to do so would be a death knell for the knight. As soon as they were out of immediate danger, she was certain she could convince him to let her go.

She hadn’t counted on the horse waiting a few yards away.

She was leaving him.

Robbie wasn’t thinking about losing his hostage—and the means to bring Clifford to heel—or the fact that the English had managed to outwit him and discover their camp, or that God-knew-how-many men were probably trying to surround them right now. All he could think about was that the woman who told him she loved him not two hours ago was leaving him. Walking away—just as she’d taunted him—as if what had happened between them meant nothing.

It was what he wanted. He just hadn’t expected it to feel as if an iron claw were ripping a gaping hole across his chest. As if his insides were being torn out and twisted on a rack. As if the last flicker of light had just gone out inside him.

His jaw hardened with the sharp edge of bitterness. Of the betrayal that he had no right to feel.

But God’s blood, if she thought to escape him so easily, she would learn differently.

His men had already been alerted and were readying for battle. He called for a horse, and a minute later he plunged through the trees and shrubs after them.

The knight had a head start, but Robbie held the far greater advantage: he knew the terrain.

In his haste to get away, the Englishman had made a wrong turn that ended in a ravine and had to backtrack, enabling Robbie to catch up with him. He pulled up alongside them at a full gallop.

Fresh rage surged through him when he saw how hard Rosalin was fighting to hold on to her seat behind the knight. If she fell off at that speed…

Damn it.

The gaze that met his was full of terror, but also something else. A desperate plea that echoed the words she shouted to him above the din of thundering hooves. “Don’t…h-hurt…please!”

It was far too late for mercy, if he’d ever had any. He lifted his sword.

The knight was concentrating on trying to get away but must have caught the glint of the blade out of the corner of his eye. He turned. Beneath the helm, his eyes widened with fear. The knight reached for his own sword—almost knocking Rosalin off—but it was too late.

Robbie started to bring his hand down, and would have cleaved the bastard in two if Rosalin hadn’t done something that took ten years off his life. Minimum.

His blade had barely begun its descent when she screamed, “No!” and launched herself toward him.

He had to make a split-second decision: kill the knight or let her fall and be trampled underneath the pounding hooves.

He didn’t hesitate. His sword clattered to the ground as he caught her around the waist and pulled her to safety in front of him.

She sagged against him, looping her arms around his shoulders and burying her face in his leather-clad chest. From the way her back was shaking, he knew she was crying. From terror or relief, he didn’t know. Probably both. Hell, he didn’t blame her.

His hand went to her back. He rubbed and muttered soothing words as he drew his horse to a stop, while the soldier galloped away. He was forced to let him go. For now. Crushing her to him, he inhaled her, taking her in and trying to assure his still-thundering heart that she was all right.

It wasn’t long, however, before the memory of her walking away intruded.

The hammering in his chest came to an abrupt stop. He unlatched her from his chest and pulled her back to look at her. Swollen, tear-stained eyes stared up at him, and he felt his lungs clench. Aye, his lungs, damn it. But he forced the sensation away, hardening his expression as well as whatever the hell else he’d been clenching.

“Were you so anxious to get away that you would kill yourself to do so?”

Her eyes widened a little at his tone. “I wasn’t trying to get away. I just didn’t want you to hurt him.”

His hold tightened on her, his anger going black. Who was she protecting? “God’s blood, was that de Spenser?”

She shook her head. “Nay, one of his household knights. Sir Stephen has always been kind to me—”