The Raider_A Highland Guard Novel

Eleven





The sounds of the revelry continued well into the night. What were they doing? What was he doing? Was the woman really…


The black hole in Rosalin’s chest seemed to grow larger and larger. Why did she care?

The taunting sounds filled her imagination and kept her awake until exhaustion—both physical and emotional—finally dragged her to sleep.

Boyd never returned.

Rosalin woke resigned if not refreshed. She would make do the best she could until her brother paid whatever ransom they demanded of him. What else could she do? Soon this would all be a distant memory. A distant, unpleasant, hurtful memory.

She nibbled on the remainder of bread, cheese, and dried mutton that had been brought to her not long after Boyd left—apparently, he hadn’t completely forgotten about her—and started to explore her surroundings. Unfortunately, there wasn’t any water in the ewer, so she could not wash. The comb and bar of soap resting nearby, however, taunted her.

Grime was a powerful motivator, and she’d just about bolstered her courage enough to face her Douglas jailers, when one of the men entered with another plate of food. This one containing, to her delight, what looked to be an apple.



Spine as stiff as a poleaxe, he marched into the room and set the trencher down on Sir Alex’s wooden chest. He was probably only a few years older than Malcolm, but his dark visage and beard reminded her well enough of his “black” relative.

“Is there anything else you need?”

He spoke to the wall behind her in the most grudging voice she’d ever heard.

Her cheeks burned, but some needs could not be ignored. The idea of using the chamber pot in such a small, decidedly un-private area did not appeal to her. “I don’t suppose you have a garderobe nearby?”

He still avoided her eyes, but she could see her question had discomfited him as much as it had her. “I’m to escort you around back for privacy when you need it.”

She needed it. Her feet were dancing. The morning was cold and misty, but the breath of fresh air was welcome as he led her out and waited a short distance away while she tended her needs.

The rest of the occupants of the camp must have still been sleeping off their celebration, as it was very quiet and peaceful. She looked about, seeing some things that she hadn’t noticed before. A few small outer buildings, what appeared to be a garden near one of them, the cluck of hens, a few sheep on the hillside, farm tools and a cart propped against the longhouse. She wanted to linger, but he led her back inside. Before he could leave, however, she asked, “I would like some water to wash—and a bath if one can be found.”

His mouth tightened as if he wanted to refuse. “I will see what can be arranged.”

A short while later, Rosalin was in heaven. A large wooden tub lined with linen had been brought in by two young warriors whose job it must be to tend the more menial labor. It was filled with cold water, but she didn’t care. As soon as the men left, she tore off her clothes, reached for the soap and comb, and luxuriated in the sensation of being clean again.



For modesty’s sake she’d left on her chemise, and after scrubbing like she’d seen the maids do, she emerged from the water feeling refreshed. But cold. Shivering and dripping wet, she realized too late that she’d neglected to ask for a drying cloth. Reaching for Boyd’s trunk, which was the closest, she opened it to find a stack of neatly folded linens. She took one that was obviously meant for the purpose and wrapped it around her shivering body.

But with the soaking-wet chemise and nothing to change into, the cloth provided little in the way of relief. She had two choices. She could remove her chemise and don her smoky, travel-stained gowns again or she could borrow one of the freshly washed tunics she’d noticed in his chest. It wasn’t a difficult decision.

A short while later, she’d hung her gowns and wet chemise from a few pegs in the poles that looked to be for that purpose and was sitting on Sir Alex’s trunk, combing out her wet hair, clean and comfortably bundled in not only one of Boyd’s tunics, but also a plaid she’d found tucked underneath. At first she’d thought it black, but it was actually shades of dark blues and grays. She wrapped it around her in a Roman fashion, knotting it on one shoulder and keeping it in place with one of the silver girdles she wore around her waist.

When Sir Alex entered the tent a few minutes later, however, he looked so shocked to see her in it, she wondered if she’d done something wrong.

Once his shock passed, he smiled. “I see you found some fresh clothing.”

She blushed. “When I asked for the bath, I forgot that I didn’t have anything clean to change into.” She’d also removed her own clothes for the first time in years without a serving-maid, but she didn’t want to mention that. “Do you think he’ll mind?”



Sir Alex gave her a long, steady look. “If he does, tell him I said you could use mine.”

For some reason, the prospect of her doing so seemed to amuse him.

“I’m sorry to disturb you—I just came in to get a few things.” He grinned. “But you are sitting on them.”

She gasped, jumping off his trunk. “It is I who should apologize to you for displacing you from your…um…room.”

He pretended not to notice her embarrassment over sleeping in his bed. “It’s a place to sleep, nothing more. As long as Douglas doesn’t snore too loudly when he returns, I won’t know the difference.” His expression changed to one of concern. “You are all right?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“He did not…” His voice let off, as if he were searching for the right words. “Hurt you?”

Heat crawled up her cheeks, guessing what he suspected. Was that what they all suspected? Did everyone think she’d given herself to him to let her nephew escape? No, they couldn’t. But Sir Alex must have sensed something and guessed.

“I am fine,” she said firmly. “Your friend is angry that my nephew was able to get away, but he has not hurt me. In any way,” she added meaningfully. “I am exactly as I was when I arrived.” Although perhaps a bit wiser.

He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Your inventiveness took us all by surprise. I’m not sure I would have gone out that window.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen Boyd so angry.” He smiled. “Even with me. And other than your brother, I doubt there’s anyone who angers him more.”

“But you are friends. Why would he be angry with you?”

“I’ve committed the unpardonable sin, the one thing that can never be forgiven.”

“What’s that?”

“I was born in England,” he said dryly.



“But aren’t your lands in Scotland?”

“Most of them are now, although my brother held some lands in Cumberland and Northumberland. I’ve been raised in Scotland and fought on the Scottish side for every battle of the war, but it doesn’t matter. In Boyd’s eyes, I will always be English. I don’t think even Wallace hated your countrymen as much as he does. Not without cause, perhaps, but it blinds him. He will never completely trust an Englishman.”

He held her gaze, and she knew he was warning her. She nodded, telling him she understood. She’d sensed as much herself.

He must have seen something in her expression. “Don’t worry, lass, it won’t be much longer. A messenger has been dispatched to your brother. In a few days, this will all be behind you.”




It was with considerable effort that Robbie dragged himself off the rush-strewn floor of the Hall, where he’d finally found sleep in the wee hours of the night, and ventured into the morning (or mid-morning) daylight. The sunlight cleaved his skull like a battle-axe. His stomach, which could weather even the worst of storms on Hawk’s birlinn, tossed dangerously, threatening to remind him that the last goblet of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Actually, the last five goblets of whisky had probably been a bad idea.

Like any Scotsman worth his salt, Robbie enjoyed his uisge beatha. But he couldn’t recall ever enjoying it quite so much. Or with such purpose. If he were a weaker man, he might even think he’d been trying to drown his guilt in drink.

But he had no reason to feel guilty. Rosalin Clifford deserved his anger. She deserved a hell of a lot more after what she’d done.

So he’d threatened to make her his whore? So he’d shocked the proper English lady with the crude suggestion that she suck his cock? So what?



Robbie rarely struck the first blow, but if someone hit him, he was sure as hell going to strike back. He didn’t turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—that was his religion. He was doing the only thing he knew how to do: fight back ruthlessly when wronged. The English had learned that the hard way. As he couldn’t use his fists or his sword with her, he was using the one weapon he had left: his words.

He still couldn’t believe he’d let a woman trick him like that. He didn’t fall prey to feminine ploys or wiles. He’d thought himself immune to such pedestrian weaknesses. Undistractible.

Damn it, he’d even sensed something was wrong, but all she’d had to do was touch him and look up at him with that ravish-me mouth, and he lost his bloody mind.

Of course she’d known what she was doing…

But what if she hadn’t? What if he was just being an arse?

She’d stung his pride, and he wondered how much of his anger was really because she’d managed to help her nephew escape under his watch.

He swore and raked his fingers through his hair, his nose wrinkling as the stench of last night’s festivities and days of hard riding leached out of his skin.

He needed a good dunking in the burn. Perhaps it would clear some of the fogginess from his head. The foulness of his temper, he suspected, would not be so easily washed away.

With slightly more vigor, he rounded the corner of the Hall on the way to his tent and came to a sudden stop.

Bloody hell! His fists squeezed at his sides. He’d told Seton to stay away from her. But there was his partner, ducking out from beneath the flaps of the tent with a broad smile on his face. Whistling, unless Robbie was mistaken, as he rambled over to the next tent.



Black clouds darkened Robbie’s already foul mood. Black thunderclouds. He stormed toward his tent. He would deal with Seton later, after he found out what was going on. But if she thought she was going to trick his partner like she had him—

He stopped. God’s bones, was that what she was doing? Was that why Seton looked so happy and relaxed?

Robbie couldn’t think. He could barely breathe. His heart was hammering in his head, causing his mind to spin out of control.

Iain Douglas started to say something but slammed his mouth shut, obviously thinking better of it.

Robbie strode past the two warriors, pushed between the flaps, and steeled himself for what he might find.

His stomach knifed when he saw her. There was nothing in her appearance to contradict his suspicions. In fact, it was the opposite. She was seated on Seton’s bed combing her long, damp hair, her cheeks still flushed from her bath—or lovemaking—wearing…

Christ, she was wearing the plaid he wore on Highland Guard missions and, unless he was mistaken, one of his tunics!

As he entered, she glanced up with a gasp of surprise. Her eyes found his warily.

He ignored the stab of conscience. “What was Seton doing in here?”

His voice came out louder and angrier than he’d intended—and more accusing.

Her eyes widened and then narrowed with a glint of mischief. “What do you think he was doing?” she asked with a flip of her head. “I needed help with my bath.”

He crossed the tent in two strides and hauled her up against him. “Do you think this is a jest, my lady? I assure you it is not. What did you do, take your ‘offer’ to Seton? Was he more amenable than I?”



She turned away in disgust. “You are a fool.” He felt like it. A jealous one. “If you must know, he was in here to fetch a few items, presumably to bathe as I did.” She wrinkled her nose. “You might consider doing the same. You carry the stench of your celebrating.”

Her icy composure grated against his already flared nerves like sand on an open wound.

Robbie glanced toward the bath, a dangerous idea taking form. He stepped back, a slow smile curving his mouth. “What a brilliant idea.”

He jerked the mail coif—the one concession he made toward heavy mail—over his head and tossed it on his bed. Next came the thick leather cotun. He’d been so eager to get out of there last night, he hadn’t even taken the time to remove his armor. By the time he got to the linen shirt underneath, her eyes were two full moons.

“W-what are you d-doing?”

“What you suggested.” He finished pulling the shirt over his head and threw it on top of the others. “Taking a bath. Would be a shame to waste the water.”

She sucked in her breath, taking in every inch of his naked chest. His muscles tensed of their own accord, a natural reaction to being the recipient of so much study. Staring was putting it mildly. Gorging was better. And despite his anger, he felt himself warming under the heat of so much feminine appreciation.

Who in Hades was he kidding? It wasn’t feminine appreciation, it was her appreciation. He’d never wanted to flex and strut around like some damned peacock in his life.

Only when he started with the ties to his chausses did she tear her eyes away. The delicate flush that had pinkened her cheeks drew pale.

“With me here?” She gaped. “You can’t.”

“I assure you I can. And you are going to help me.”



“What do you mean, ‘help you’?”

“I would have thought you would be familiar with the tradition for the lady of the castle to wash her important guests.”

“That’s an outdated tradition. No one does that anymore.”

His eyes held hers. “We here in Scotland are a little backwards, as I’m sure your brother has told you.”

She didn’t protest any further, because by that time he was down to his braies. And with one quick pull of the ties, those were gone as well, and he was standing naked before her.

She went completely still. Except for her eyes, which were definitely moving. Aye, he was acutely aware of the slow travel of her gaze lowering. It was almost as if her eyes were touching him—stroking him—singeing a trail of fire on his skin, down his chest, over every band of stomach muscle, to the narrow path of dark hair that led to…

Her eyes widened as she took him in. All of him. It took some time.

Red palm prints of color stained her cheeks, but she didn’t look away. The latent sensuality of her gaze, the unabashed maidenly curiosity, filled him with heat. He started to swell and thicken but sank into the cool bath before he’d come to a complete rise.


The tub was just big enough for him to be able to dunk his head. He came back up, hair slicked back, already feeling better. Sitting back, he slung his arms over the edge of the tub like a sultan from Outremer and glanced at her. She seemed to be frozen in place, staring at him as if she couldn’t believe what he’d just done and didn’t know whether she should look or turn away. She looked, and seemed particularly fascinated with the rivulets of water streaming down his upper arms and chest.

The cool water wasn’t enough to stop him from hardening. If he weren’t so angry, he might have debated the wisdom of pressing this further. But he was still angry—enough to play with fire.



He quirked a brow. “Well? Are you going to fetch the soap? There’s a cloth for washing in the trunk.” His eyes scanned her clothes. Bloody hell, he’d have to be more careful if he didn’t want her to discover his role in the Highland Guard. “Which you must already know.”

She hesitated, and he could see her indecision.

He’d never expected her to do it. He thought she’d refuse and tell him to go to hell.

He should have known better. She was a Clifford. She had more stubborn pride than sense and would not back down from a challenge. Bloody hell, how could the things he hated in her brother make him admire her?

Teeth clamped and eyes narrowed with determination, she stomped over to the trunk to fetch the cloth, and then over to the table where she’d left the soap. She knelt beside the tub, plunged her hand into the water (too damned close to a part of him that was aching for attention) to dampen the cloth, and after a vigorous rub of the soap, proceeded to attack his skin with an equally vigorous scrub. His chest suddenly felt like the rocks the laundress would beat the laundry against.

She started to scrub his arm. “These markings won’t come off.”

“It’s a tattoo.” One that he probably should have tried to hide.

“Of a Lion Rampant, and…” She drew closer, examining it with far too fine a comb. “Is that a spiderweb? And what does Confido mean?”

“‘I trust.’ It’s a reference to my clan’s loyalty to the Scottish cause. It’s engraved on my sword as well.”

“So these are references to your clan?”

So to speak. The Highland Guard were his brothers. The Rampant Lion and spiderweb “torque” around his arm were the mark that bound them together. It was originally intended as a means of identification were the need ever to arise (as it might have when Arthur “Ranger” Campbell was sent to spy in the English camp), but the knowledge of the mark had unfortunately fallen into enemy hands with the death of William Gordon. He hoped to hell she never mentioned it to her brother.



“Aye.” Not wanting any more questions, he added, “You’re stalling.”

Realizing she was staring, her cheeks heated, and she resumed her scrubbing. There was nothing sensual in her touch, nothing erotic, but still it affected him. Hell, “affected” was putting it mildly. Just the idea of her hands on him was driving him mad. It wasn’t the first time a woman had bathed him, but it was the first time he’d ever been so painfully aware of it.

Think of England, he told himself. He laid his head back, closed his eyes, and tried to concentrate on everything he hated about the enemy he’d been fighting for almost half his life. Their overreaching kings, their pompous superiority, their chivalric hypocrisy, their treachery, their damned irritating accents…

But it wasn’t helping. Closing his eyes only made his other senses work harder. He could smell her warmth, the fresh scent of the heather soap, the mint on her breath, the press of every one of her soft, slim fingers on his skin.

Christ. He almost groaned.

He opened his eyes. Her golden head bowed forward as she drew the cloth over his stomach, perilously close to the heavy head of his cock, which hovered just beneath the water’s edge.

He was about to put an end to it, when she lifted her gaze to his. A gaze that was closer than he would have liked.

“Does this please you, my lord?” she taunted with a sly smile. “I’m afraid I’ve not much experience bathing men. But it isn’t much different than washing a pig before market.”



Robbie was playing a dangerous game and knew it. The heat that sprang between them had just notched up quite a few degrees. But the pig comment had struck too close and demanded retaliation. “I think you missed a spot on my arm.”

Their eyes held. He could see the green flare of temper and thought he’d won. But then her mouth pursed, and she slunk the cloth back into the water with renewed determination.

He knew the exact moment he’d made a mistake. Her movements slowed, and her hand gently started to slide the cloth over the bulge of muscle in a soft caress. He watched as her breath hitched and then quickened. As her lips parted and the glare of her eyes softened with arousal.

Their eyes met, and all the anger that had started this dangerous game fizzled away. A different kind of tension now snapped between them. His heart made a violent thump in his chest. A thump of awareness. A thump of question. A thump of expectation.

With the anger stripped away, he felt bare. More naked than he’d felt when he’d stripped in front of her. There was no hiding how much he wanted her. No hiding how much she affected him. No hiding that the attraction between them was so strong not even he could fight it.