The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(89)

But Douglas wouldn’t let it go. “Whatever your feelings for the lass, she cannot be trusted. You can’t let this go without retaliation.”

Robbie didn’t need reminding about Rosalin’s broken vow. She had been leaving willingly…hadn’t she?

He frowned. “I don’t intend to. The lass and Clifford will both be dealt with. But how I do that is up to me. The king put me in charge.”

Douglas gave him a hard look. “Aye, you don’t need to remind me. Just make sure you don’t let your feelings for the lass interfere. I don’t need to tell you how much is riding on this.”

Robbie clamped his mouth closed. No, he didn’t. Robbie was well aware that the king needed not only Clifford’s truce, but also the coin that would enable him to evict the English from Scotland’s castles and tighten his grip on the throne.

Needless to say, the sight of Park Castle was a welcome reprieve from the past long, frustrating, ire-inducing almost twenty-four hours. After dismounting and following Douglas up the motte and into the old tower house, Robbie was looking forward to a hot meal, a substantial draught of ale, a bath, and a preferably quiet and dark place where he could get at least a few hours of sleep before riding out again.

Joanna Douglas arranged the first three in short order, but the fourth would have to wait. As would Rosalin’s request. Assured by Joanna that Rosalin had been well taken care of, he made his way into the Hall to fill in Seton and the others on what had happened, as well as make plans for a retaliatory attack.

But after hours of listening to the back-and-forth—with Seton urging caution and Douglas demanding widespread destruction that would have put Bruce’s “Harrying of Buchan” a few years ago to shame—Robbie’s mood was even fouler than when he arrived. Damn Clifford to hell! It was a curse he’d wished on the bastard for years, but this time there was an added fervency for what he’d done to his sister. Instinctively, Robbie knew how much it would hurt Rosalin when he did what he had to do.

Perhaps it was with this in mind that he declined the request to attend her. The last thing he wanted to hear was an impassioned defense of Lord Robert Clifford—not in his present state of mind.

Rosalin saw Robbie ride in with the others, but her sigh of relief was mingled with trepidation at what that might mean for Sir Henry and his men.

She waited—and waited—pacing anxiously across the room, as the beam of sunlight slowly retreated inch by inch from across the floor back out through the window until it was gone.

From the maidservant who’d brought her tray of food she’d learned that the men were meeting in the Hall. Lady Joanna hadn’t confined her to her chamber, but Rosalin knew that she would not be welcome below.

It was after hours of anticipation, then, that she finally heard the deep, familiar voice and heavy footsteps as Robbie climbed the tower stairs. The feminine voice she recognized as that of their hostess.

She waited, hands twisting, for the door to open. Instead the voices dropped off, and a few minutes later a door closed below her. She could just make out the soft footfalls descending the stairs. Lady Joanna must have been showing him to his chamber—not hers.

Rosalin sucked in her breath, her chest on fire. Apparently, he would not even do her the courtesy of answering her plea to see him. She knew he must be exhausted—she was, too—but didn’t she warrant a few minutes of his time?

Before she could think better of it, she raced out of her chamber and down the flight of stairs. Pausing before the door, she knocked—in case she’d been wrong about what she heard—and heard the familiar voice respond, “I said I don’t need—”

He stopped when she threw open the door. She thought he swore, but she was too distracted to notice. He was obviously in the process of undressing as he was naked to the waist, barefoot, and his hands were on the ties of his leather chausses.

She swallowed. Hard. A hot flush consumed her body. Forcing her eyes away from the wide expanse of hard cut steel, she gave her tongue a moment to untie. Fortunately, the shock seemed to be mutual.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, recovering first.

She gave a sharp laugh, realizing what he meant. “I think it’s rather late to start worrying about propriety, when I’ve shared your tent for two weeks. I needed to see you.”

His hands went to work retying the ties he’d been loosening moments before. The chausses hung loosely on his hips, and she couldn’t help but follow the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the edge of the leather at his waist. His stomach was as flat and hard as the rest of him, with tight bands of muscle layered across it.

“Joanna informed me of your request.”

His voice knocked her from her temporary stupor. Her eyes met his accusingly. “And you couldn’t spare me a moment of your time?”

His mouth tightened, and now she could see the hard lines etched on his face that she’d missed before. He looked tired and agitated—edgy in a way she’d never seen him before. “Nay, I decided to exercise a modicum of discretion for once. I am not fit company for a lady right now, Rosalin, and rather than say something out of temper, I thought it better to wait until that temper had cooled.”

She felt a little shiver of trepidation at the emphasis on the word lady, understanding what kind of woman he might be fit for. Though everything about him boded forbidding and unassailable, she took a step toward him. “I was worried about you.”