The Raider (Highland Guard #8)(96)

A woman whom he did not love.

For a moment, the hard mask had dropped and revealed the vulnerable man underneath. The man who wanted to love but didn’t know how. The man who’d had so much taken from him that he’d told himself he didn’t need it anymore. The man who needed her, even if he might not realize it yet.

Lost in her thoughts and caught up in the sense of euphoria that had overtaken her, it took a few minutes for Rosalin to realize how quiet it was. How quiet he was.

A prickle of unease tried to worm its way through her happiness, but she wouldn’t let it. Nothing was going to interfere with this moment. He was probably just as moved by what had happened as she. And probably just as tired.

With that thought, Rosalin snuggled in closer to the warm bare chest, let his spicy masculine scent wash over her, closed her eyes, and succumbed to the exhaustion.

Long after Rosalin fell asleep, Robbie lay awake in the darkness. Part of him wanted to savor every minute he had of holding her in his arms. The other part needed time to think. It wasn’t until he’d decided what to do that he allowed himself to rest.

Just before dawn he carefully crept out of bed, dressed, and made his way downstairs to put his plan into motion. When he was done, he returned to the room to wait for her to wake so he could tell her what he’d done.

Twenty-two

Rosalin was still asleep. Instead of being bundled up against him, she’d taken one of the pillows and was hugging it to her chest. She looked as sweet and contented as a child, her beautiful face soft in repose, her small fist resting near her strawberry-red mouth, and her golden-blond hair streaming out behind her in wavy, tumbled disarray. Robbie had covered her last night while she slept, but he knew that the half-naked skin beneath the coverlet was every bit as velvety and baby-soft.

Unable to resist—and admittedly feeling a bit put out over a damned pillow—he removed his boots, cotun, and shirt, and crawled back into bed beside her. Carefully extracting the pillow from her hold, he felt a satisfied swell in his chest when, after a kittenish mewl of displeasure, she slid back into his arms with a contented sigh.

God, he could get used to this. She was so warm and soft, and she smelled like a bed of roses—a bed of well-ravished roses. His chest ached from just the simple pleasure of holding her. He hadn’t felt at peace like this in years. Maybe ever.

Stroking her hair, he watched the gentle rise and fall of her chest on his for as long as he could—until the first rays of sunshine captured the strands of gold in their shimmery light. Then, he knew he could not wait any longer.

He gave her a gentle shake. “Rosalin.”

Her long lashes fluttered open. Still groggy with sleep, her gaze found his. Slowly the confusion cleared, and a broad smile curved her sensually bruised lips. “Good morning.”

His chest tugged. She looked so damned happy. He would do just about anything to keep her that way. But he feared “just about” might not be enough.

The lass was too perceptive. Before he could respond, her smile fell. She propped herself up a little on his chest. “Is something wrong?”

“You need to return to your room.”

She drew in her breath, her eyes widening as if his words had somehow hurt her. “You’re sending me away?”

There was something small and vulnerable in her voice that made him frown. Unintentionally, he’d struck a tender spot. She’d been sent away before, he realized. If the hurt in her eyes was any indication, perhaps quite a lot. He knew little of her childhood other than what he’d been able to piece together. She’d been orphaned young and sent to live with the Earl of Hereford. Clifford was the only sibling he knew about. Because of her rank and wealth, the esteem of her guardian, and her brother’s position, Robbie had assumed her life had been easy. But privilege and favor, it seemed, did not replace a family.

Any more than war did. But it was the only way he knew, the only way he could make the deaths of the people he’d loved mean something.

He squeezed her tighter. “Nay,” he said, wanting to ease her fears as quickly as possible with a kiss on her head. “Or at least only temporarily. It’s almost morning, and unless you want the entire castle to know what we’ve been doing, you should return to your own bed before someone comes to check on you.”

Her relief was visceral. He could feel it in the relaxing of her muscles as his thumb gently caressed her back while he held her.

She lay her cheek back down on his chest. “I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do.” He lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “I will not have you maligned or subject to slurs for what I have done.”

“For what we have done,” she corrected. “I knew full well the consequences, Robbie. You do not need to protect me from them. I am not ashamed of what we did. No promises, remember?”

His mouth hardened. Aye, he did. But that didn’t ease the frustration at being unable to make them—or assuage his guilt for taking her innocence. Guilt that for a man who purported not to worry about honor weighed surprisingly heavily. What a damned mess!

He told himself that at least he had not put the truce in jeopardy. Technically, he’d kept his word. He had not forced her. Although he doubted Clifford would appreciate the distinction. Nor would he if their roles were reversed.

Why the hell did he care? Clifford had wanted to kill him before. If Clifford kept his side of the bargain, Robbie would keep his: Rosalin would be returned to her brother unharmed. Nothing had changed. All this had done was make their parting more difficult.