His smile was cold and devoid of humor. “I thought not. Have no fear, my lady—Seton doesn’t mind. He lives for that kind of gallant shite. Now, if there is nothing else, I have more enjoyable pastimes to seek out.” His face hardened. “But I would caution you against another attempt to escape. Although you deserve to be in a pit prison for what you’ve done, I can find far less luxurious accommodations for you. There are no forty-foot walls, but even were you to get past the two men who will be guarding you—two of Douglas’s kinsmen, by the way, so don’t bother trying to wield your feminine wiles in that direction—the forest is not a place you will want to find yourself alone. Unless you like boars.” His eyes found hers. “And phantoms.”
A chill swept over her skin. His warning was well heeded. She was trapped and knew it. Douglas’s men…She shivered. Suddenly, she didn’t want him to go. Even angry and cruel, she trusted him. At least more than she did Douglases.
“Wait!” She stopped him before he pulled back the flaps. “Where are you going?”
“To celebrate a successful raid. Unlike you, I didn’t get to take my release last night. So unless you want to suck my cock as Deirdre has offered to do, I will bid you good night.”
Rosalin drew in her breath, shock permeating every fiber of her being. Even knowing that was what he had intended couldn’t stop her from gaping at him. Was such a thing done?
The knowing challenge in his eyes answered her question.
Shock turned to a stabbing throb. She wanted to object. To tell him not to go. To tell him that if he let that woman touch him like that it would be over between them forever.
But how could something be over that had never begun?
Instead, she dropped her gaze and turned away from him. The handsome, noble warrior she’d watched from her window was gone, and she found she no longer wanted to look at the man who stood in his place.
Eleven
The sounds of the revelry continued well into the night. What were they doing? What washedoing? 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.
