The Raider (A Highland Guard Novel) Read online

  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