The Raider_A Highland Guard Novel

Five





The blood drained from Robbie’s face. Kildrummy. A memory stirred. His heart started to pound.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

It couldn’t be…

But he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. The knowledge of what that ghostly voice had been trying to tell him. Of why she was looking at him as if she knew him and expected him to know her as well.

He swore and closed the distance between them in one long stride. With the back of one gauntleted finger—gauntlets designed to protect him from blades in battle, not silky-soft skin, although right now he was rather glad of the latter—he tilted her face back and forth in the misty twilight.

She didn’t shirk from his touch or try to pull away, holding her finely carved features up to his scrutiny, almost daring him to deny the truth.

Dread churned like a portent of doom in his gut. But he knew. The shadowed lines of her chin and nose left no doubt: it was the young lass who helped free him from prison all those years ago. The lass who from behind her hooded cloak he’d assumed to be a servant. The lass whom he’d tried to find for years so he could repay her. Though it seemed inconceivable, the sweet, young girl whose velvety lips had trembled under his with a chaste kiss had been Clifford’s sister.



The truth slammed like a hammer across his chest, the blow powerful enough to fell even the strongest man in Scotland.

Suddenly, it all fit. He recalled overhearing some of the guards discussing the girl’s unexpected arrival with Hereford’s party, and how she’d been locked up tight in one of the towers like some bloody princess who would be sullied by just breathing the same air as the vile Scots.

It had never crossed his mind that their guardian angel might be Clifford’s precious sister. No wonder Robbie’s enquiries hadn’t turned up anything. He’d asked about the half-dozen young serving women in the Earl’s party, not the ladies.

Their eyes met. “You said you would repay me if we ever met again,” she said.

Seton being the only one close enough to overhear, and the only one who would understand of what she spoke, he uttered an expletive under his breath.

For once he and his partner were in agreement. Robbie dropped his hand from her face and stepped back, not trusting himself. Something was building inside him that he didn’t recognize. A different kind of anger. A wild, frenzied maelstrom harnessed by the barest of tethers.

It wasn’t right, damn it! Why did it have to be her? The one good memory he had of that godforsaken time was now destroyed by the knowledge that his angel of mercy, the sweet young girl who’d freed him from that hellhole, was sister to the man who’d put him there.

“Release us,” she entreated, her soft voice tugging on a part of him long forgotten.

His conscience, damn it.

Damn her for doing this to him! For ruining everything. For making him indebted to a bloody Clifford. His mouth fell in a hard line, his fists clenching against the storm of emotions surging inside him.

He needed to think. But he couldn’t do it standing here with her looking up at him. Turning away from that expectant gaze, he started back to his horse. “Get them mounted up,” he said to Seton. “We’ll need to ride hard if we are to reach the gathering place in time.”



Norham wasn’t the only raid this day. Douglas and Randolph were waiting for them near Channelkirk.

He didn’t need to look at her. Her harsh gasp of disbelief said it all.

Seton was just as astonished but not as restrained. “You mean you aren’t going to release—”

Robbie stopped him with a glare that was probably as black as he felt inside. Just once he wished his partner didn’t have to question everything he did—or didn’t do. “Damn it, not now. Clifford’s men are probably right on our tails. If we don’t get out of here right now, we’ll be the ones who need releasing.”



How could I have been so wrong?

Rosalin watched him stride away and felt the last flicker of uncertainty in her go out. All the doubts fostered by years of stories and rumor had proved true. The cold expression on his face when he realized her identity, and his refusal to release them, left her no doubt that whatever good she’d once imagined in Robbie Boyd was long gone.


It was her worst fear realized. She’d made a mistake in releasing him, and her shame knew no end. She couldn’t bear to think about how many of her countrymen might have died because of her misplaced compassion. Because she’d thought she was righting a terrible wrong and couldn’t look away. The noble rebel that she’d created in her mind was nothing more than a merciless brigand without any semblance of honor.

After what she’d done for him and all she’d risked, he’d turned his back on her—literally.

Whatever vestiges remained of her foolish young girl’s heart crumbled to dust. Had she really thought the connection forged by one reckless act somehow bound them? Had she really expected him to release them because of some debt he’d probably never thought to have to repay?



She had. She’d never believed the man she’d watched could be so ruthless.

“What were you saying to that rebel, Aunt Rosalin? It almost looked like you knew him.”

Malcolm had released Roger, and he’d come up to stand beside her as the blond-haired warrior sorted out their riding companions. Rosalin hated lying to him, but she could hardly explain. “How would I know him?” How indeed. “I simply asked him to release us.”

“But don’t you know who that is? That’s the Devil’s Enforcer, Robbie Boyd. One of the most ruthless men in Scotland—and said to be the strongest. Father had him imprisoned at one time, and he would have been executed if he hadn’t managed to escape. He and Father hate each other. The Devil’s Enforcer won’t release us without exacting payment from Father.”

“I see that now,” she said quietly. “But I had to try.”

They didn’t have the opportunity to talk further, as the brigands had decided on their riding arrangements and they were separated. Roger’s hands were tied, and he was forced to ride with the warrior who’d first captured him at Norham. Fraser, she thought someone had called him. If he was part of that great patriotic family, she knew she would find no sympathy from him. She was placed in the charge of a stony-faced, red-bearded older warrior—apparently named Callum, although he’d not spoken a word to her—who bore a strong resemblance to young Malcolm. If it was his father, as she suspected, he’s apparently taken her tricking of Malcolm personally.

Within a few minutes, she was plopped up on the saddle before him, and they were on their way. To where, she could only guess. She wished she’d paid more attention on the journey south from Kildrummy with Sir Humphrey. Her head had been filled with romantic fantasies (which seemed especially cruel in light of what had just happened), and she hadn’t taken note of many landmarks. She’d seen so many churches and castles, they’d all started to blur. She knew the general location of the major burghs and cities, but she doubted the rebels would go anywhere near those. By her best estimation, they were northwest of Norham and Berwick in the hills and forests, headed west into more of the same.



She knew Bruce and his men controlled the countryside and operated from their base in the Ettrick Forest…

Her heart dropped. Good God, was that where they were going? Rosalin didn’t believe in ghosts, but the stories of Bruce’s phantoms who reputedly had their lair in the vast Royal Forest made her wonder. Her brother’s men would be hard-pressed to follow them into such hostile and dangerous territory.

Which made the need to escape as soon as possible even more imperative. But as she could not do so without Roger, she would have to bide her time. They could not ride halfway across the Borders to Ettrick without resting.

She hoped. But these men looked tough and rugged, and used to riding bone-jarring and bottom-numbing distances. They’d probably pick up the horses and carry them when they got tired.

Although she was considerably more comfortable than she had been when she was strewn over Boyd’s lap in a sack, as the day faded and became swallowed up by the mist, she increasingly suffered the effects of her walk through the river. Her wet slippers had turned to ice, and her feet along with them. Soon, her shivering became uncontrollable.

Not that anyone noticed. The gruff old warrior behind her barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead, he completely ignored her. The other warriors did as well.



Boyd and the handsome blond-haired warrior, who also looked familiar, had stayed behind initially (presumably to scout for any soldiers who might be pursuing them) and had only just reappeared.

Not that she would expect sympathy from him. He hadn’t looked in her direction once. So much for the special connection. If she needed proof of how one-sided that connection was, she had it. What had she expected—one look and somehow he would know her? That he would fall on his knees and pledge his undying devotion to her for what she’d done?

He hadn’t seen her face, so how could he know her? And he wasn’t a knight in a faerie tale; he was a rebel. A brigand. A scourge. A man who fought without rules or honor.

And she was a fool.

Rosalin wrapped the plaid around her tighter and tried not to think about how tired she was, or how cold she was, or how miserable she was.

Unsuccessfully. Her throat tightened and a hot sheen of tears burned behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter that she’d been abducted, manhandled, hunted, nearly crushed to death, found out a man she thought was a hero was no more than a merciless brigand, and was probably being taken into what undoubtedly was the most terrifying place in Christendom. She had to stay strong for Roger.

Perhaps she wasn’t completely without sympathy. The blond-haired warrior glanced in her direction, but he was careful not to meet her gaze. From their tense conversation, she wondered if it might be about her. Whatever the two men were talking about, it was clear they weren’t in agreement.

She was so cold, she was about to break down and ask the recalcitrant old warrior for something warm to wrap around her feet, when Boyd swung his mount around and glowered in their direction. Ripping the plaid off from around his shoulders, he threw it toward them. “Damn it, Callum, wrap her in this. She’ll bring the entire English army down on us with all that chattering.”



Callum caught the plaid and draped it over her, tucking it under her feet, which were slung to one side. Rosalin burrowed into its heat with a contended sigh.

Apparently, Boyd did not want or expect her thanks, because he’d already turned around.

Considerably more comfortable, she told herself not to read anything into the less than graciously made gesture. But there was a strange intimacy to being wrapped in his plaid. The thick wool fibers still held the warmth of his body, and if she inhaled just a little, she caught the faint edge of pine and heather and something distinctly masculine. It felt like he was surrounding her and made it difficult for her not to think about foolish things.

She tried instead to think about Sir Henry. He would be arriving at Berwick soon. She shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about her abduction. She hoped he didn’t do something rash. Her nose scrunched up. Strange that although she didn’t know him that well, that was her first thought.

The sky was as black as pitch by time they finally stopped. Though they’d been riding for a few hours, with the rough terrain, heavy loads, and having to slow their speed with the horses over the hills, she guessed they hadn’t gone more than ten or fifteen miles.


Callum dismounted and helped her down without looking at her.

Despite his less than friendly expression, she asked, “Where are we?”

“Ask the captain,” he replied, already walking off.

She intended to. Right after she checked on Roger. But seeing her nephew standing with “the captain” a few feet away, she marched over toward them both. After a quick glance to assure her Roger was all right, she turned to Boyd. Not without reluctance, she unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders and handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said.



“Keep it,” he said indifferently. “You’ll need it tonight.”

“Won’t you be cold?”

He gave her a long stare. “I didn’t go swimming in a river.”

It hadn’t been swimming, but given the subject was her attempted escape, she decided not to argue semantics. She looked around in the torchlit darkness, seeing what appeared to be a small sheltered corrie in the forest with a stream running between the two mist-shrouded hills. It would be hauntingly beautiful if she weren’t cold, abducted, and suspecting that it would serve as her bedchamber for the night. “Where are we?”

He waited a long beat before replying. “St. Cuthbert’s Hills.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

The way he shrugged suggested he was well aware of that, which was probably why he’d told her. It was probably a local way of referring to the place that would have no meaning to anyone not from the area.

“Is that near Edinburgh?”

His piercing blue eyes narrowed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the sharp contrast of his light eyes with dark hair, and she felt something like a shiver race over her skin. It was unsettling. He was unsettling.

“If you are thinking about attempting another escape, I would not advise it. These hills are dangerous, my lady. You never know who you might come across.”

As if to punctuate his words, a group of riders approached from the other direction. “Ah, here they are now,” Boyd said.

Apparently the newcomers were expected.



A few moments later a man jumped off his horse, pulled off his helm, and strode toward them. He was a big man. Maybe even an inch taller than Boyd, though not as heavily muscled. She doubted few men were as heavily muscled as Boyd. Not that Boyd was bulky. Just strong-looking. Not that she’d been staring at him. She was a woman of two and twenty now, not some impressionable sixteen-year-old to be taken by an impressive-looking physique. Even if it was the most impressive-looking physique she’d ever seen. There had to be an ounce of fat on him somewhere, although she certainly couldn’t see it.

She turned—not forced—her gaze back to the other man. He wore the same black leather warcoat and chausses as the other men, but it was as fine as anything Cliff might wear. Neatly shaved and free of dust and dirt, he appeared considerably more civilized than Boyd and his band of rough-looking brigands.

“You’re late,” Boyd said. “Any problems?”

The dark-visaged newcomer shook his head. “Nothing that couldn’t be handled.” Noticing her, he barely covered his surprise. He slowly lifted a brow and turned back to Boyd. “What about you? Your haul looks much more interesting than mine. Have you finally decided to take a wife? Your methods might be a little old-fashioned, but the results seem to have been worth it.” He let out a low whistle. “You’re fortunate I’m a happily married man, but don’t let Randolph see her—you know how partial he is to blondes.”

“Sod off, Sir James. The lass is a hostage, as is the lad.”

“Sir”? Thank goodness! At last, a knight! Perhaps she would find someone to champion their cause for release. Although something about the way Boyd had emphasized “sir” made her think there was more to it.

“This sounds even more interesting,” Sir James said. “Who are they?”

“Clifford’s sister and heir.”



Sir James’s expression changed so quickly, it was as if a dark thunderstorm had clapped down over them all. She took a step back, feeling the hot blast of menace directed toward them.

“Lady Rosalin. Young Roger,” Boyd said with mock formality. “Meet Sir James Douglas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s the rightful owner of the land Clifford has spent nearly fifteen years attempting to occupy.”

Rosalin gasped. Her blood turned to ice, and her heart slammed to the ground as fear crept over every inch of her skin. Instinctively she reached for Roger’s hand and pulled him back toward her and Boyd, whom she’d just as instinctively sought out. Only moments ago he’d seemed like their worst nightmare. But now they knew otherwise. Their worst nightmare was standing right before them. The Black Douglas. Her brother’s worst enemy, and the man who hated him more than anyone.



With one glance, Robbie told Douglas to back off. He’d experienced a strange thump in his chest when she’d unconsciously moved to him for protection, and had to fight an unexpected—and unwelcome—urge to put his arm around her. When Seton shot him an odd look, however, Robbie wondered whether he’d fought the urge as well as he thought he had.

Whether it was the shock fading or his warning glance, he didn’t know, but Douglas’s expression changed. A sly curve slid up his mouth. “By God, this is perfect. What a boon! We finally have the means to bring that English bastard to his damned knees. With his sister and heir in our possession, he’ll dance a damned jig atop the parapets of Berwick Castle if we want him to.”

It was the same reaction Robbie had had, but for some reason coming from Douglas it sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the effect the words had on the lass and the boy. They both visibly paled and huddled a few inches closer to him. That odd thump expanded in his chest.



He turned to Seton, and with a glance told him what he wanted him to do.

“Come, my lady,” Seton said, leading her away. “You must be hungry. Let’s find you and young Roger something to eat.”

The look of gratitude she gave his partner made Robbie almost wish that he’d voiced his order. He frowned at the odd reaction. Knight errant was Seton’s role, not his. But the lass seemed to be provoking all kinds of odd reactions in him. When he returned from scouting earlier, he’d felt like he was crawling out of his damned skin every time he saw her shiver.

“Seton,” he called out. His partner turned around questioningly. “Have Malcolm build a fire.”

Seton didn’t say anything, but Robbie read the speculation in his gaze and quickly put a stop to it with a hard stare. It wasn’t that unusual a request, damn it. It was a cold, misty night. Even if they were a little exposed for a fire, the English wouldn’t track them into the hills and forests at night—or in the day, for that matter. It was near villages and English garrisoned castles where they had to be careful.

“Whatever you say, Captain.”

Boyd didn’t miss the sarcasm in Seton’s tone. His partner was still smarting from the fact that Bruce had put Robbie in charge. This was his mission, and therefore—as he’d told his partner many times over the past few hours—he didn’t have to listen to Seton’s opinion on what they should do.

He’d been in no mood to hear about Seton’s damned code of honor, and how they “had” to release her and the boy. How it was only “right” after what she’d done for them.


The only “right” thing was winning this damned war. That was all Robbie should be thinking about. His sole focus should be on doing whatever was needed to secure Clifford’s agreement and then collecting the money. If the lass and boy would help him in that regard, nothing else should matter. Honor wasn’t going to win the damned war.



But no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice. You owe me. He did, damn it.

Honor—or what he had left of it—warred with duty. He owed her a debt, but he couldn’t just hand over the means to bring Clifford to heel.

He watched her hurry away with Seton, trying not to wonder what they were talking about. Or why she’d suddenly turned and given Seton a tentative smile.

Bloody hell! His fists clenched. Did she have to look like that? If he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman, he couldn’t think of one. Lady Rosalin Clifford was stunning. Breathtakingly stunning. By all rights, Clifford’s sister should have a forked tongue, horns, and all sorts of other manner of devilry. Or perhaps warts and moles, like a troll or witch.

Actually, she did have a mole. A very small one that looked like a freckle. And its placement on the edge of a very sensually curved upper lip didn’t make him think of witches or trolls, but of something else entirely. An unwelcome heat and heaviness tugged in his groin. He liked having his cock sucked just as much as any other man—which was to say a whole hell of a lot—but never had the mere thought of it made him hard.

Clifford’s sister. He still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t reconcile the sweet lass who’d saved him with the cosseted, spoiled English beauty she had to be. He was sure that once some of her fear dissipated, and she realized he meant what he said about them coming to no harm, she would start making demands and issuing orders. Her expression would change from looking as if he’d just torn up the pages to her favorite faerie tale and burned them before her eyes to haughty and condescending. She would look down that adorable little nose of hers not with disappointment and disillusionment, but with cold hatred.



She couldn’t possibly be as sweet as she looked. Not with a brother like that.

He frowned as Seton jerked off his plaid to cover a low boulder for her to sit on. Dragon and his damned knightly sensibilities. Even after seven years of fighting like a “pirate,” he still thought he was bloody Lancelot. It was how he’d earned his war name. Dragon was a jest, referring to the wyvern on the Seton arms that he’d so stubbornly held to wearing in the early days of their training—before he was forced to admit how ridiculous it was to wear mail and a surcoat doing the kind of fighting they would be doing.

“What in Hades is wrong with you?”

It took Robbie a minute to realize Douglas was talking to him. Hell, how long had he been staring? Too long, if the man’s narrowed gaze was any indication.

“I would have thought you would be more excited,” Douglas added. “We have Clifford by the bollocks.”

“I am,” he assured him, forcing the dark scowl from his face. “Did you receive the money from the good bishop?” Douglas had gone to Bewley Castle to meet with the Bishop of Cumbria.

But Douglas wouldn’t be so easily put off. “You seemed almost protective of the lass. I’ll admit, she’s a beauty, but I wouldn’t have thought you would be so easily deceived. The English bitch is Clifford’s sister, for Christ’s sake.”

Robbie had to be more tired than he realized, because he was feeling quite a few of Seton’s knightly sensibilities right now—as well as the sudden urge to slam his fist through his friend’s teeth. For what? Calling her a bitch? It wasn’t anything Robbie hadn’t said many times before about their enemy: English dog, English bitch—it was as common as saying it looks like it might rain or the skies are dreich today.



Which didn’t explain why his teeth were grinding. “I don’t need you to remind me who she is”—he could think of nothing else, damn it—“but the lass is under my protection and will be until she is released.”

“Why the hell would you release her? King Edward still holds Bruce’s wife, daughter, and sister. Why should we not do the same with our ‘overlord’s’ family?”

Robbie was just about as interested in hearing Douglas’s opinion on the subject as he was Seton’s. Nor was he going to explain himself.

He glanced over at Seton and the lady in question just in time to hear the soft tinkle of her laugh. Every muscle in his body tensed. The lad, Roger, was laughing, too. Both were stretching their feet out by the crackling fire, looking quite cozy.

“Hell, if you want the chit, why don’t you just keep her for yourself? Think how furious Clifford would be to learn that his precious sister is in Robbie Boyd’s bed.”

The image was sharper than Robbie would have wished, and included sweaty, naked limbs twisted in well-rumpled bedsheets. He clenched his jaw until the muscle started to tic. “I don’t want her, and I sure as hell don’t want a wife.”

Douglas smiled slyly. “I wasn’t thinking of her as your wife. You can’t marry an Englishwoman.” He shuddered dramatically. “Make her your leman.”

“I said I don’t want her, damn it!”

“Aye, I can see that,” Douglas said with a laugh—the bastard. “That’s why you keep looking over at Seton like you want to kill him—even more than usual, that is.” He lifted a brow. “Oh, look who just showed up! Didn’t take him long to find her. I told you he had a weakness for blondes.”

Robbie glanced over just in time to see Sir Thomas Randolph, Bruce’s nephew and nearly as much of a pain in his arse as Seton, bending over her hand like a gallant courtier and not the ruthless warrior he was—that they all were.



“My wife informs me that women find him attractive. I don’t bloody see it,” Douglas said with disgust. Obviously, Joanna Douglas was keeping her notoriously competitive husband on his toes by teasing him about his rival. Robbie was really beginning to like his friend’s new bride. She was tougher than she looked. “Maybe it won’t be you taking her to bed after all,” Douglas added.

Robbie thought his head might explode. “No one is taking her to bed, damn it. She isn’t going to be here long enough.”