The Raider_A Highland Guard Novel

Nine





The sight of a pillow nearly made her weep. The fact that one small, lumpy, linen-covered pillow could bring her to tears was a testament to how tired Rosalin was and how grateful—and surprised—she was that Boyd had agreed to let them stop for the night.

Although once she saw the place, she understood. The old wooden tower turned fortified farmhouse was auspiciously situated on the edge of a steep ravine. With the only entrance well guarded, escape would be nearly impossible. Nearly. But she was determined to try. With her ribbon plan foiled, it was up to her.

She and Roger had devoured the small bowl of bland beef pottage and day-old crust of bread they’d been given by the farmer as if it were ambrosia, before being escorted up the two flights of stairs to their garret chamber by Boyd.

It was as she’d anticipated when she’d first seen the building: they were given the room at the top of the house overlooking the ravine. If the height and position of the room weren’t enough, as an added deterrent to escape Boyd would be sleeping right outside their door.

Their host had been surprisingly thoughtful, providing not only water to wash but paste to clean their teeth and—she said a prayer of gratitude—a comb to run through their hair. A small iron brazier in the corner provided a pleasant warmth to the room that made it easier to ignore the earthy smell of peat.



There was a small bed tucked under the one shuttered window in the room, and through an adjoining door a few mattresses were tucked under the eaves for servants.

It was the bed and window that had given her the idea. After they’d washed and readied for bed, she shared it with her nephew.

Roger looked at her with increasingly widened eyes. “You want to do what?”

Cognizant of the man on the other side of the door, she put her finger up to her mouth to warn him to keep his voice low as she continued to explain her plan. “Like Queen Matilda,” she whispered. “Do you remember how she escaped Oxford Castle? If we tie the bedsheets together to make a rope, we can tie one end to the bedpost”—she hoped it was strong enough to hold them—“and climb out the window.”

When Queen—or Empress—Matilda was under siege by King Stephen at Oxford, she’d escaped in a similar fashion by being lowered down the wall by her men, famously wearing white to blend into the snow-covered surroundings.

“Didn’t you see the ravine? It must be forty feet from here to the ground.”

“Then we will have to use lots of sheeting.” She took the solitary candle in the room and cracked the shutter enough to look outside, ignoring the cold blast of air that seemed to remind her of the warmth and safety of the room she planned to leave. Peering down into the fathomless darkness, she tried—unsuccessfully—not to shiver. “See, it doesn’t look that bad. I don’t see anyone guarding it.”

“For good reason,” Roger pointed out. “Who in their right mind would climb out this window?”

Rosalin knew he was right and was just as scared as he was, but they had to at least try. This might be their only chance. She wouldn’t let Boyd use them against Cliff. “It won’t be that bad. You’ll see. And once we are down, it’s not that far to the castle we passed earlier.”



Roger nodded. “I saw it, too. I wish I knew where we are. But if you are right that they are taking us to Ettrick Forest, it is probably Melrose, Selkirk, or even Peebles—all of which are held by the English.”

She nodded. “Your father is probably racing to one of them right now.”

Roger seemed to be warming to the idea. “Perhaps you are right. We have to at least try. It will be much harder to try to find our way out of the forest. If we do this, though, I have one condition.”

She tried not to smile at his authoritative posturing and nodded.

“I will go first.”

“Absolutely not—” She started to object, but he cut her off.

“If something goes wrong, I can jump farther than you.”

If something went wrong, jumping was the last thing they needed to worry about. She wanted to refuse, but she could see that stubborn look of Cliff’s on Roger’s face. She considered him for a moment. “Very well, but you will give me a promise as well. If something goes wrong, you will not stop and wait for me but go for help.”

He held her gaze and nodded. Neither of them was pleased with the conditions, which she supposed was the indication of a good negotiation.

Sweeping an errant lock of hair from his forehead, she gave him a tender smile. “Get some sleep. We will have need of it. I will wake you when it is quiet.”

Roger nodded, too tired to argue. “I’ll sleep in there.” He pointed to the garret. “You take the bed.” He frowned uneasily. “Or maybe I should sleep at the foot of your bed. I don’t like how he looks at you.”

Rosalin wasn’t sure she did either, but the look on Roger’s face was so concerned and the instinct to protect her so sweet, her heart squeezed.



Yet it was her job to protect him. “I don’t think that will be necessary.” Cognizant of his pride, she added, “Though I thank you for the offer. But he will not hurt me like that.”

After what she’d learned today, she knew rape was the one thing she need not fear from Robbie Boyd.

Either her confidence had impressed him or Roger had reached a similar conclusion on his own. He looked at her pensively. “You like him, don’t you, Aunt Rosie-lin?”

She hoped her shock at his perceptiveness didn’t show. “I…” She bit her lip. “I don’t know what to think,” she finished honestly.

Roger frowned as if he, too, were undecided. “He is not what I expected. He doesn’t act like a brigand—at least not all the time. But Father hates to even hear his name mentioned. So I’m sure he must have done a lot of bad things.”

Rosalin thought for a moment, pondering all that Boyd had confided in her today. “I’m sure he must have, but lots of bad things have been done in the name of war by both sides. It’s hard to find someone all good or all bad. People are usually somewhere in between.”

Roger seemed troubled by what she’d said but nodded. Like most people, he wanted to see in black or white, not shades of gray. But Rosalin was beginning to see that Robbie Boyd was very gray indeed. Behind the ruthless shell lingered some of the man she remembered. Perhaps he was not the black-hearted, merciless brigand, but not the noble knight on the white steed either. Probably the same could be said of Cliff.

As she didn’t dare close her eyes, Rosalin kept herself occupied for the next few hours by preparing the strips of sheeting she and Roger had made before he went to bed. Working by the sliver of moonlight coming through the cracked shutter, she twisted them into plaits and tied the ends together. When she was done, she’d constructed a strong, forty-foot-long rope.




Fortunately, the wooden bed was sturdily built. Tying one end of the sheeting to the thick post, she let the other end drop out the window. They might have to drop the last few feet, but it should be long enough.

When the sounds from below had completely died down, and she was certain everyone was sleeping, she woke Roger.

Moving about the room like ghosts, they climbed atop the bed and carefully drew the shutters wide. Giving the rope a hard tug, Roger stepped onto the sill and looked down. His face paled, and his Adam’s apple bobbed, but he didn’t hesitate. They exchanged a look, and he started down. She held her breath, wanting to reach out and grab him. He must have sensed her turmoil. “Remember your promise,” he whispered.

She stilled. “You, too.”

And then he was gone. For five agonizing minutes she watched the rope strain against his weight. A few times the bed creaked and her heart dropped to the floor. But it held. It held! And finally—finally!—the rope went slack. He’d reached the bottom.

She peered down, unable to see him, but didn’t hesitate. Tugging the rope as he’d done to test its strength, she started to climb onto the sill. But before her foot touched the wood, disaster struck. The shutter hadn’t been open all the way, and she accidentally knocked it with her elbow, causing it to clatter against the outside wall—loudly.

She froze as the sound seemed to reverberate through the quiet night like a church bell. Maybe he wouldn’t hear…

Movement and the sound of the door rattling told her otherwise. Thank God she’d thought to latch it.

“Rosalin. Open the door.”

She looked outside and her heart lurched, almost as if it were trying to tell her to jump. To go after her nephew and do whatever she could to escape.



But she had to give Roger a chance. Quickly untying the rope, she let it drop and drew the shutters closed. Her hands were still on the latch when the door banged open.



Restless and on edge, Robbie hadn’t bothered to try to sleep. Instead he sat with his back propped against the door and attempted to concentrate on Kirkton’s fiery whisky rather than the woman firing his blood.

It wasn’t working. He was so attuned to her in the chamber behind him, his pulse jumped every time he heard a noise.

But this noise was different. It wasn’t footsteps or whispered voices or the sound of the bed creaking as she rolled around; it was a loud slam that was out of place in the middle of the night. So when she didn’t respond right away, he didn’t hesitate to snap the paltry latch with a hard slam of his shoulder against the door and burst inside.

A blast of cold air hit him. The window had been open. A fact seemingly confirmed by her current position, kneeling on the bed with her hands on the shutters. She turned to him with a startled gasp. He thought he detected a flash of panic in her eyes, but it might have been just surprise. “What are you doing in here?”

He closed the door behind him and strode toward her. “I might ask you the same thing.”

He was close enough to see the flush heat her skin and the pulse in her neck begin to quicken. She was nervous. But whether it was his presence in her chamber, the fact that he stood close enough to smell the mint of the rub she’d used to clean her teeth, or something else, he didn’t know. “Why were the shutters open?”

He was watching her closely, closely enough to see the flutter of that quickened pulse before she replied. “The room was warm, so I cracked one of the shutters. It must have blown open while I slept. I’m sorry to have woken you, but as you can see, there is no cause for your concern.”



A quick sweeping glance of the room seemed to confirm her words. The iron brazier was stocked with peat and burning in the far corner of the room, the small table set out with the items he’d asked Kirkton to procure for her next to it, candle on the nightstand, bed against the window…

Everything was where it should be.

But something wasn’t right. He reached for the latch of the shutters behind her. She hitched her breath as his hand crossed right in front of her, grazing her chest. He jerked at the contact, every nerve ending snapping to attention, but didn’t look at her.

Leaning over, he peered outside. It was a mistake. Her soft feminine scent, which to that point had been faint and gently teasing, turned deep and penetrating, engulfing his senses and making him feel as if he were drowning.

How anyone could smell that good after two days in a saddle and being trapped in a burning building, he didn’t know. It must be some secret women’s magic to drive men insane.

His body was pulled as tight as one of MacGregor’s bowstrings as he quickly scanned the darkness. Though he didn’t see anything, his instincts were telling him that something was wrong, and they’d saved him too many times for him to ignore them.

The boy. “Where’s Roger?”

Though it was dark, he could see her eyes flicker before darting to the adjoining garret. “Sleeping.”

He started to move toward the door, but she stopped him with the soft press of her hand on his arm.

Jesus! His blood hammered. She was too close. Touching him.



“Please, don’t wake him. He’s so tired and needs to rest.”

Their eyes met. Something passed between them. Something that stopped his breath, stopped his heart, and made the floor shift under his feet.

He was hot, hard, and poised on the edge of a precipice, struggling to hold on. Struggling not to touch her. But this might be a battle he could not win.

His heart pounded, restraint making his muscles flex. The weight of inevitability came crushing down on top of him, a weight too heavy for even him to hold off. He wanted her so intensely he could taste her on his tongue.

Her eyes fell to his mouth. Her lips parted. She leaned closer.

The subtle invitation was too much to resist; the battle was lost. His mouth fell on hers with a deep groan. For a moment it was just like the first time he’d kissed her. He felt the same unexpected ripple of shock at how good she tasted. How soft her lips were. How the innocent tremble of her mouth under his made him ache to be the one to teach her about passion.

But then it changed, because this time he didn’t pull back. This time he didn’t fight the urge to deepen the kiss. This time he slid his arm around her waist, dragged her up against him, and let himself sink into the honey softness of her mouth to taste her fully. This time he caught the tremble of her lips with his and showed her how to open for him, how to take his tongue in her mouth and let him stroke her.

Aye, he stroked her. With long, slow pulls of his tongue until she stroked him back. The first flick of her tongue against his made him groan. His knees almost buckled.

It was incredible.

Bone melting.

Blood heating.

Mind blowing.



About the best damned thing he’d ever felt. And with every stroke it got better. Hotter. Even more incredible.

The role of tutor was not one Robbie had assumed before—preferring experienced women in his bed—but he found himself reveling in it, enjoying her soft moans of awakening as if they were his own.

He liked knowing that this was new to her. That she’d never let a man kiss her like this before. That he would be the one to inflame her passion for the first time.

He felt an unexpected wave of tenderness that gave him the strength—even when other parts of his body were urging differently—to go slowly.

Just a kiss, he told himself. Nothing he hadn’t done countless times before.


But he was fighting new sensations of his own. Kissing her was…different. It wasn’t just that she tasted incredible, that her lips were about the softest damned things he’d ever felt, that the tentative stroke of her tongue against his had made him as hard as if she’d licked his cock, or that he felt like he was burning up and drowning at the same time, it was also the sense of peace that came over him. Real peace. For the first time in a long time—hell, he couldn’t remember the last—the restlessness inside him eased. At that moment, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

He felt a pleasure so engulfing it seemed to drown out everything else. All he could think about was how soft her cheek was in his hand, how she smelled like rosewater, how good she felt pressed against him, and how he could go on kissing her like this forever.

If only he weren’t so hot. If only his blood weren’t roaring through his veins and his heart weren’t hammering in his chest. If only those soft little mewls of pleasure weren’t reaching down to grab him by the bollocks and giving him a tug. If only her hands weren’t on his shoulders, her nails digging into the muscles, a visceral marking of her growing pleasure. If only her breasts weren’t crushed against his chest and his cock weren’t throbbing hard against her stomach. And if only her hips hadn’t started to move.



Aye, especially that. The tentative press, the sweet grind, the slow circling of her hips against the part of him that he was doing his damnedest to ignore set off something loose inside him. The faint voice in the back of his head that wanted to make her his turned to a loud roar. The knowledge that she wanted him as much as he wanted her snapped whatever rein he had on his control.



Rosalin hadn’t meant it to happen, but when it did, it felt so inevitable—so destined—that she wondered that it had taken so long.

The magic and wonder, the sense of stunned shock, she’d felt the first time his lips had touched hers was nothing to the perfect myriad of sensations that crashed over her when he kissed her, really kissed her.

She felt enveloped in heat, drowned in the heady taste of whisky, and possessed by emotions she didn’t fully understand. Fierce emotions. Poignant emotions. Intense emotions that made her breath catch, her heart jump, and her body feel as if it were melting into a pool of heat.

She’d been kissed since that first time, but never like this. Never so thoroughly, in a way that took her breath away. Never with such all-encompassing need, such possession, such skilled seduction, and such tenderness.

That was the biggest surprise of all. That this fierce warrior, this ruthless enforcer, this man who stormed and pillaged his way across the countryside, could kiss so tenderly. That the soft strokes of his mouth and tongue could entreat and not command. That this man of incredible strength could be so gentle. She would never have believed it. But here she was half-kneeling on her bed, half-cradled against his chest, being kissed as if she were the most precious thing in the world.



His hand cradled her jaw, the big callused fingers that could grip the hilt of a sword with such deadly purpose caressing her cheek with the gentle stroke of a mother to a newborn babe, as he coaxed her mouth open to the deft plunges of his tongue.

Deft and slow, and knee-weakeningly sweet. The shock she might have felt at the intimate invasion was blunted by the sensation of utter rightness. There was nothing more natural or perfect than the warm slide of his tongue against hers.

Each stroke seemed calculated to draw her in deeper. To make her shudder and moan. To make her want more. She couldn’t stand it.

But clearly he was in no hurry. He seemed maddeningly in control, maddeningly content to go on kissing her like this for hours.

But something was building inside her. Something she didn’t understand. Something hot and powerful and anxious. Something that with every wicked stroke of his tongue became more imperative.

Her moans became more insistent. The tentative circles of her tongue turned bolder and more demanding. She sank into him, pressing her breasts against the warm, rock-hard shield of his chest. And good lord, was it an impressive chest. She could feel every hard ridge, every steely slab, and every rock-hard bulge. She’d always admired his body, but there was something vastly different in admiring from afar and being plastered up against all that strength. He was big and powerful, and having all those muscles wrapped around her made her feel hot and heavy, and want to get closer.

Especially—the knowledge pooled between her thighs—that long, thick part of him that she could feel hard against her stomach.

She moaned and clutched. Pressed and rubbed. And still it wasn’t enough. This feeling that had come over her wouldn’t go away. It seemed to only grow stronger. The more he touched her, the longer her kissed her, the more she felt him against her, the worse the need became.



At least she was no longer alone. He was kissing her harder now—deeper—without as much smooth control. The stubble of his jaw scraped against the tender skin of her chin as his mouth moved over hers, plundering with raw intensity.

His groans were echoing her moans. His breathing was just as hard as hers, the hammer of his heart just as fast, and his skin just as hot.

She felt a burst of heady feminine pride and pleasure, knowing that she could do this to him. That he was just as affected as she.

His mouth fell to her jaw, and then to her neck, the wet heat of his breath making her shiver and shudder as he kissed a hot trail along her fevered skin. The hand that had been wrapped around her waist slid up to cup her breast, and the relief of the pressure was so acute, all she could do was moan and press herself deeper into the big, warm hand that seemed imprinted on her body.

He bent her back, arching her against him, kissing her again as he plied her breast with his wicked touch. Cupping and squeezing, pinching her nipple gently between his fingers until it drew to a hard peak.

Sensation exploded inside her. Oh God, how was he doing that? How could something feel so good? How could such big, brutish hands wield such exquisitely wrought pleasure?

She thought she’d died and gone to heaven. And then she knew she had when he replaced his hand with his mouth. Somehow he’d loosened the laces of her gown enough to slide his mouth under the edge of the fabric. The feel of his warm tongue circling her, before taking her gently between his teeth and tugging, sucking…

She cried out, a strange, pulsing heat pooling between her legs.



Her cry seemed to do something to him. He swore and the smooth, unhurried movements became more insistent, more purposeful.

She didn’t know how it happened, whether she’d pulled him back or he’d pressed her down, but somehow she was lying back against the pillows, and he was stretched out on top of her—or half on top of her. For someone so big and presumably heavy, he certainly felt good. She liked having all that solid weight pressing down her—it gave her an odd sense of security and closeness.

She opened her eyes long enough to glance down and see his dark head bent at her chest as he continued to suck her deep into his mouth. But then the needle of pleasure was so intense she had to close her eyes again as another cry escaped from between her lips.

He was saying things, murmuring against her skin in Gaelic. She didn’t need to understand the husky words to know that he was telling her all the things he wanted to do to her.


Her body shivered with wicked anticipation as his mouth covered hers again. He drew back once, long enough to look into her eyes. It was dark, only a sliver of moonlight slipping into the room from the shutters, but she could see the fierce emotion in his gaze. Emotion that made her heart catch and her breath quicken. His eyes were burning hot. He wanted her. She could see that. But it was more than want. It was a look of possession, a dark look of primitive intensity that made her feel as if he’d just staked a claim right through her heart.

By all rights his expression should frighten her. She knew what he wanted to do. Knew she should say something to stop him. Knew that what she wanted right now was impossible.

But the look entranced her. She couldn’t turn away. Even when she felt his hand sliding under her skirt and guessed what he was going to do. Even when he touched her and her entire body felt as if it had been shot through with a bolt of lightning.



She gasped, trembled, every nerve ending standing on edge as his finger lightly brushed over the tender place between her legs.

Oh sweet heaven! A rush of heat and dampness seemed to gather there. If she had been able to think, she might have been embarrassed and wondered at the strange throbbing. But then he touched her again and all she could think about was how good it felt and how much she wanted him to touch her more.

The light brushes of his callused fingertip weren’t enough. A soft sound escaped from between her lips—part whimper and part plea. Her body was shaking with a strange restlessness, as if wanting to move but not knowing how.

He touched her again, and finally she could no longer hold back. She lifted her hips against his hand, unconsciously seeking the pressure that her body so desired.

He made a fierce sound that was almost a growl. His face was dark and tense, his jaw clenched tight, as if the measured strokes of his fingers were costing him every last bit of his control. His gaze seemed to burn right through her, singeing her with its intensity.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he said tightly. “I can’t wait to make you shatter.”

Rosalin didn’t understand what he meant, but she didn’t care because at last he was giving her what she wanted. He was cupping her with his hand, rubbing her, and finally—Oh God in heaven!—sinking his finger inside her.

He stroked her just the way he’d done with his tongue, plunging and circling until the pleasure overwhelmed her. Until the desire had nowhere to go. Until the gentle pulsing became a hard spasming. “Robbie! Oh God, please!” She arched under him, crying out, as sensation gripped her body in an iron hold and finally let go, catapulting her into a celestial wave of pleasure so intense, so acute, so magical, she felt as if she’d glimpsed a piece of heaven.





Robbie. Watching her release, hearing her cry his name as pleasure swept over her, did something to him. It wasn’t just the primitive response of his body—which had been stoked and primed to the breaking point—it was a feeling that centered somewhere in his chest and squeezed. The feeling that if he didn’t have her, that if he didn’t make her his, he was going to die.

God knew she was beautiful, with a lithe, sensual body that would make any man weak with lust. But he’d felt lust before and this raw craving, this bone-deep yearning, this all-encompassing need was like nothing he’d ever experienced. It came from a place so deep, buried so far inside him, he hadn’t known it existed.

The feeling drowned out everything else. He didn’t care who she was or why she was here. None of that mattered. All that mattered was that when she was in his arms he felt…

He felt something. Something strong and powerful and right.

The soft cries of her pleasure were still echoing in his ears as he started to work the ties of his chausses and braies. Sweat gathered on his brow as he held himself stiffly to the side, trying not to crush her with the full weight of his body.

She lay under him, soft and achingly sweet, her body weak and pliable from her release. So ready. His fingers were still damp from her slickness, from the proof of how ready she was for him.

He had to grit his teeth against the urge to sink inside when his erection bobbed free and the cool blast of night air hit the hot, turgid skin.



He didn’t need to fist himself in his hand to test his readiness—he was so close he might explode.

He levered himself over her, settling himself between her thighs. Every instinct urged him to throw his head back and plunge inside.

She wouldn’t stop him. She wanted this as much as he did. He could see it in her eyes.

He stilled. And there, through the pounding in his heart, the red haze of lust roaring through his blood and the desire throbbing hard between his legs, he heard something. A tiny voice that should have been drowned out by the primitive roar. A voice he told himself to ignore and that made him want to shout with pain and frustration. A voice that told him this was wrong. That no matter how much she wanted this, or he wanted this, he couldn’t take her innocence.

But God, he wanted to. He wanted to so badly his body shook from the effort not to make her his.

She wasn’t his and never could be. And Robbie apparently had more honor left inside him than he realized.

The small questioning tilt of the head that she gave him was the last shove. He wrenched away with a vile curse and turned away from her, as if that might clear his head and allow him to think.

But he wasn’t thinking. His body was in too much pain. Every inch of him was throbbing with anger and frustrated lust. His heart was pounding so hard he couldn’t breathe.

“What’s the matter?” she asked. “Did I do something wrong?”

She tried to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but he wrenched away, even the small touch too much to withstand in his present state. Seated on the edge of the bed, he bowed his head, willing the fire to stop roaring in his blood. But it wouldn’t quiet. It was pulsing and hammering, needing someplace to go.

He needed to get out of here. Standing, he hastily refastened his clothing. He didn’t dare look at her reclining on the bed in near-ravished disarray, knowing that the mussed hair, flushed cheeks, and swollen lips would be too much for him to resist. “I’m sorry,” he managed curtly. “That should never have happened.”