The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Read online

  Ironically, despite the closeness she’d shared with Robbie a few nights ago when she’d fallen asleep in his arms, she’d made greater inroads with the women of camp than she had with its leader. Robbie had already gone when she woke that next morning, and their conversations since had been brief and mostly in passing. The women, however, were slowly starting to include her in their conversations.

  The mending had helped. The first bundle of clothing that had arrived from Deirdre she’d attempted to mend in the tent. But after a long day by candlelight, she’d sought out natural light the next day—and company.

  Rosalin had walked into the Hall three days ago, pulled up a bench in a corner near a window, and quietly went to work on the basket of mending. The women ignored her for the first day, but by the second, curiosity got the better of a few of them. By the third day, she’d begun to learn something of them as well. Though she wouldn’t exactly call them friendly, they were for the most part polite, and one or two of them had even taken to sitting beside her while she worked—like Jean.

  The girl couldn’t be much older than eight and ten, but her natural dark-blond prettiness had already begun to dull under the ravaging weight of struggle and strife. Like Rosalin, most of these women had lost their parents at a young age. Unlike her, however, they hadn’t had the fortune of a generous guardian to take care of them. With the men in their life either off to war or killed by the destruction around it, they’d been left to fend on their own.

  As fallen women weren’t exactly a subject of polite conversation, Rosalin had never given much thought to how or why someone would choose a life of sin. It was deeply distressing to learn that for many of them, choice was not a part of it. When the men in your family had been killed, your village had been razed, and there was little work to be found (and even less if you were a woman), you did what you must to survive. Worse were the girls like Jean, who’d been forced into the life by rape.

  In truth their stories were heartbreaking. As was the matter-of-fact way they were told, as if the unfairness wasn’t only expected, but accepted. No matter what the church might say, Rosalin couldn’t find it in her heart to condemn them. Indeed, she couldn’t help but feel grateful that fate had not forced her to have to make a similar “choice.” Birth, rank, and a caring brother had afforded her the protection these women did not have. It was humbling to think how easily their fate could have been hers.

  It was a hard life. From what Rosalin could see, the women worked all day keeping the camp running smoothly and stayed up most of the night pleasing the men. Different men. A few fortunate ones like Deirdre and Mor had been “claimed” by one of the leaders, but the other women like Jean moved from bed to bed each night.

  “I don’t know what we will do when you go, my lady,” Jean said with a shy smile. “You have saved us about two weeks’ worth of mending in a few days.”

  Rosalin felt a strange pang in her chest at the thought of leaving, but she knew it could be any day. It had been over a week since they’d arrived in the forest, and the envoy that had been sent to her brother to negotiate for her release could return at any time. “I have been happy to do it,” Rosalin said. “It has given me a way to pass the time.”

  “Aye, well I suspect when word gets out of your fine work, you will have plenty to keep you busy while you are here.”

  Suddenly, the smile fell from the girl’s face and a troubled look crossed it. Rosalin turned to see what had caused the reaction and noticed that two of the other women had come into the Hall to start preparing for the midday meal.

  Agnes was one of the older and more experienced of the women, and from what Rosalin could tell, closest in rank to Deirdre. The second woman, Mary, had a sad, empty-eyed look to her and drank enough ale and whisky to put a man of Robbie’s size on his back, but she never appeared drunk. Except for Agnes, the other women at camp seemed to avoid her. If there was a rank among the women, Rosalin would put Mary at the bottom of the heap.

  It was only when she turned in their direction that Rosalin realized what had caused Jean’s reaction. A large, angry-looking bruise covered Mary’s right cheekbone.

  Suspecting what might have been the cause of the injury, Rosalin felt outrage spark inside her. She turned to Jean. “Who did that to her? Did one of the men strike her?”

  Jean shook her head and put her finger up to her mouth to quiet her. “Please, my lady, do not say anything. You will only make more trouble for her. It’s Mary’s own fault. We tried to warn her. Fergal gets a little rough when he’s drunk, but she wouldn’t listen and went with him anyway. He’s the only one who will take her now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jean’s mouth hardened with distaste. “Last time we went to the village at Corehead for supplies, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers in the nearby garrison. Fancied herself in love with the Englishman, she did. Until she got herself with child and he kicked her out of his bed.”

  Rosalin gasped, her eyes widening with alarm. “She’s pregnant?”

  Jean shook her head. “Nay, she lost the child not long afterward. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her now, but she used to be quite a favorite among the men.” She shrugged. “But no one wants an English whore.” She blushed. “Meaning no disrespect, m’lady.”

  Rosalin didn’t care about that. “That is no excuse for someone to hit her.”

  Jean looked at her as if she were either the most naive person in the world or the stupidest. “Fergal isn’t so bad, my lady. Not when he’s sober, at least. I’m sure he’ll make it up to her—which is why she’ll not thank you for interfering.”

  Reluctantly, Rosalin took Jean’s advice and returned to her mending. She understood the precariousness of Mary’s position and didn’t want to do anything to make it worse for her, but the unfairness of it ate at her. The woman had lost a child. Must she now endure a beating in silence? How long must she serve penance for the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man?

  If the question resonated a little too loudly, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it.

  Rosalin was still fuming an hour later when she carried the stack of linens back to her tent to prepare for the midday meal. It was wrong to hit a woman—any woman—and Mary needed someone to stand up for her, even if she would not herself.

  The brute should be punished, and it went against Rosalin’s nature to stand aside and do nothing—say nothing—when she saw someone treated so unfairly.

  Not paying attention to her surroundings, she startled at the sound of a loud roar coming from the other side of the building where the men practiced. Curious, she backtracked a little, following the sound of the cheers and yells. Once she’d turned the corner, she saw a large gathering of men—what appeared to be nearly all the forty or so men in camp—in a small clearing. They were standing in a loose circle watching something.

  She scanned the area for Robbie but didn’t see him. Suddenly second-guessing the wisdom of her current pursuit, she started to turn around when she caught a glimpse between two of the men of what had them so riveted.

  She froze. Everything froze—her heart, her breath, her step. Indeed she was rooted to the ground with…shock? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the display in front of her. It wasn’t just that Robbie was naked to the waist—although that alone would probably have been enough—he was also being attacked by a half-dozen men wielding swords, coming at him from different directions. And he was winning without a weapon or even a shield to defend himself—only his hands.

  She must have walked forward, because she found herself edging between two of the men to get a closer view.

  Sweet heaven, she’d never seen anything like it! Highland wrestling she’d heard of, but this was different. She didn’t know how to describe it except that he was tossing grown men—seasoned warriors all of them—around as if they were pesky gnats. They couldn’t get close to him. As soon as they made their move, he’d evade them with a twist o