The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Read online

  That was about the gist of it, but it hadn’t sounded so bad when he thought it.

  She made a sharp harrumphing sound and mumbled something about spoiled, too-handsome-for-their-own-good brutes that almost made him smile.

  She stomped over to where he stood by his bed and put her hands on her hips. “Well, if it isn’t too much trouble, I should like you to try.”

  He looked down at her and wanted to pull her into his arms so badly, his muscles ached from the restraint.

  “Can you do that?” she asked.

  When all he had to do was smell her and he wanted to toss her down on the bed behind them? “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”

  One corner of her mouth lifted in a wry smile. “From what I’ve seen, you are plenty strong.”

  He gave her a sharp glance. Naughty lass! That wasn’t what he meant. And it wasn’t going to help his restraint. “Not when it comes to you. We can’t—” He stopped, trying to think of a way to say it less crudely. “I shouldn’t have touched you the way I did or let you touch me the way you just did. It’s dangerous. The next time, I might not stop. I don’t seem to have much control when it comes to you. Nor do I wish to give your brother a reason to kill me that is deserved.”

  She shivered, but whether it was from fear or something else, he didn’t want to guess.

  “Does that mean you won’t try?”

  She looked so disheartened, he couldn’t refuse. “I’ll try,” he said, even if he suspected it was going to kill him.

  The broad smile that lit her face made him reconsider. He didn’t suspect a damned thing; it was killing him already.

  “Truce,” she said, holding out her hand.

  Reluctantly, he clutched her soft hand in his own. “Truce,” he repeated.

  Robbie had his truce with a Clifford, though he wondered how much this one was going to cost him.

  Thirteen

  Rosalin saw little of him over the next two days. Apparently, Robbie’s idea of a truce was to duck in long enough to grab some clothes, mumble a few words, and then disappear. He slept in the tent with her, but he waited until after she was asleep to creep in and woke before she was awake to creep back out.

  In between, she tried to keep herself busy and do her best (without much success) to not perish of boredom. During the long hours alone, with only her none-too-friendly Douglas guardsmen for the curt exchange of words that passed as “conversation” (they probably thought something was wrong with her, she asked to go to the privy so often just to go outside), Rosalin was seriously considering mutiny. Or, as they weren’t on a ship, open rebellion.

  The first day, she’d attended to her person and her much abused clothing. She’d combed her hair until it was free of every last knot and tangle and fell around her shoulders in long, shimmery waves, and pounded and brushed her woolen gowns until they were free of most of the dirt. They still smelled of smoke, though, so she asked one of the dour Douglas brothers (she’d learned their names at least: Iain and Archie) to fetch her some dried heather and packed the gowns with it. By the following morning her chemise was completely dry and her gowns smelled good enough to wear again.

  She’d never cleaned in her life, but by the second day, she’d wiped every surface, tidied every furnishing, and practiced making the beds enough times to rival any of the maidservants at Whitehall Palace. She’d even mixed in some of the dried heather with the rushes to brighten the smell of peat that seemed to linger on everything.

  While in the process of putting away the linens and plaid that she’d borrowed, Rosalin decided to take a peek through the rest of the trunk. Normally she wouldn’t be so nosy, or show such a lack of regard for someone’s privacy, but really it was Robbie’s own fault. If he wasn’t going to tell her about himself, then she was going to have to see what she could find out on her own.

  Never far from her mind was his admission that felt like more of a confession: I don’t know if I’m strong enough.

  She knew he’d meant it as a warning—and it had been well taken. He was right: her brother would kill him. But the idea that she could weaken him so warmed her and sent a little—well, not so little—thrill shooting through her. It also provoked an urge in her to dig deeper, to see if maybe it meant something more. Fate had brought them together again, and she couldn’t help but think there was a reason.

  She didn’t know what she expected to find, maybe a few mementos—a sprig of dried flowers or a lock of hair from a past sweetheart, a brooch or ring, something that hinted to his past—but that wasn’t the treasure trove she uncovered when she dug through the stack of carefully folded linens, clothing, and armor, to the bottom of the trunk.

  One by one, Rosalin pulled out leather-bound codex after leather-bound codex. There were seven in all, most containing multiple works. It was a small fortune in manuscripts ranging from Socrates and Plato to Augustine and the relatively new work of Father Thomas Aquinas, of whom there was talk of making a saint. They were scholarly works that did not belong in the war chest of a…barbarian. Good gracious, he could rival her brother in his philosophical learnings!

  There were also a few histories. She picked up one of the volumes, entitled Historia Romana, by someone named Appian of Alexandria. She paged through the thick pieces of parchment, scanning the carefully inked words in Latin. Picking up another, she was stunned to see that it was written in Greek.

  Did Robbie really read these? If the well-worn bindings were any indication, it appeared that he did—quite frequently.

  She was so enthralled by her discovery that she didn’t hear him enter until he was standing right behind her. “What are you doing?”

  She looked up guiltily from her cross-legged position on the ground before his trunk. It was quite obvious what she was doing, and his dark scowl reflected that knowledge, but she answered anyway. “I was bored.”

  His eyes narrowed. “So you decided to go through my belongings?”

  “I was putting away the tunic and plaid I borrowed and happened to see these.”

  He gave her a look that suggested he knew otherwise.

  He glanced around the tent, noticing the changes she’d made. “You aren’t a serving maid, Rosalin.”

  “Nay, I’m a hostage,” she said cheekily. Seeing his frown, she added quickly, “It’s something to do.”

  He ignored her hint. “Aye, well, just make sure you make that clear to your brother when you come back with callused hands.”

  She picked up one of the books and started to flip through it again. “Why would you wish to hide these? They are wonderful.”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I just would have rather you had asked me first.”

  “Which I would have, had you been here. But as you’ve avoided me for the past—”

  “I haven’t been avoiding you. I’ve been busy.”

  She blinked up at him innocently. “Haven’t you? Hmm. You must be very busy if you can’t retire until after midnight and wake before dawn.” She could see his temper flaring, and decided to switch subjects before she started to laugh. Teasing him was surprisingly fun. Holding up the codex she’d been leafing through, she asked, “Do you really read Greek?”

  “Aye, a bit.” He practically snatched it from her hand. “Have care with that. It’s a rare partial manuscript of Roman history by Polybius.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard of him.”

  He carefully placed the book back in the trunk and started to pick up the others to do the same. “Aye, well, I doubt many lasses are well versed in military history.”

  “And I doubt many Scottish warriors are well versed in Greek and ancient philosophy.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he said dryly. “We aren’t all barbarians.” She glanced away so that he wouldn’t see her blush. How had he guessed she’d had that exact thought? “We even have schools in Scotland, just like they do in England.”

  She ignored the sarcasm, focusing instead on what he’d said and the oppo