Robbie laughed and went off to fetch his things. A mission was exactly what he needed to remind him of what was important. Rosalin Clifford may have distracted him, but it wasn’t going to get in the way of what he had to do.
Fourteen
Rosalin had her freedom, but she was too scared to use it. After coming face-to-face with the Black Douglas, she’d scurried back to her tent like a frightened mouse. Three hours of waiting later—with no Robbie appearing to reassure her—she decided that she was being ridiculous. Robbie had told her Douglas wouldn’t harm her; she would believe him. She was also hungry. The removal of her guards meant she would have to fetch her own food.
Mustering her courage, she wrapped her plaid around her shoulders and headed out of the tent into the cool evening mist. From her experience so far in Scotland there seemed to be little else: morning mist, midday mist, and evening mist. Today, the gloom was heavier than usual, almost seamlessly switching back and forth between a drizzling, dreary rain.
Remembering the reaction her arrival in the Hall had caused earlier—and the discomfort of being stared at by so many—Rosalin decided to seek out a smaller number of curious-wary-angry gazes and headed toward the camp kitchens, which had been set up against the back wall of the Hall. A wooden roof protected the pots and fires from the rain and snow, but the walls that enclosed the area were only on three sides and didn’t go all the way up, offering little insulation from the cold and wind.
It was a crude but efficient setup. In addition to the pots hanging in fires, there were a few tables to prepare the meals and a large bread oven constructed of stone.
Apparently, the women at camp weren’t here just to be companions for the men. They were also serving maids for the meals. One woman looked up as she approached and whispered something to the dark-haired woman standing beside her.
Rosalin’s foot seemed to stutter mid-step, and she nearly stumbled. It was the woman who’d kissed Robbie. Deirdre.
A pit of dread sank to the bottom of her stomach, and her courage faltered. The last thing she wanted to do was be confronted by an angry mistress. After years at court, Rosalin was under no illusions about women. They could be every bit as cruel and ruthless as men. Perhaps more so.
But she forced her feet forward and her chin up. She was Lady Rosalin Clifford, sister of one of the most important barons in England. She did not cower and run.
Usually. But she was painfully aware that none of that mattered here. Her rank would afford her little protection with these women. They didn’t care who she was, they only knewwhatshe was: English, a hostage, and the sister of the man who was probably the most hated in Scotland.
A third woman had joined the first two by the time Rosalin drew close enough to hear them. Of course they were speaking in Gaelic, so she couldn’t understand a word. From the way the two other women deferred to Deirdre, however, Rosalin guessed that she must be in charge.
She was older than she’d appeared at first glance. At least a good handful of years beyond Rosalin and the other two girls, who appeared closer to her own two and twenty. She was prettier, too, than she’d realized, possessing the kind of bold sensuality that Rosalin could never hope to emulate. With her dark hair and eyes, high cheekbones, and wide mouth, Deirdre’s features were sharp—almost exotic-looking—making Rosalin suddenly feel drab and uninteresting by comparison.
And then there was her figure. Rosalin wrapped her plaid around her chest self-consciously. She could never hope to compare in that arena. Buxom and curvaceous were putting it mildly.
The two younger women were also brown-haired, albeit lighter in complexion and eye color, but not as fair of face. There was a sullen, downtrodden look to them that spoke of hardship. Deirdre had it as well, but hers was better hidden behind the sharp edge of maturity. There was little this woman hadn’t seen, and Rosalin didn’t know whether to pity or envy her for it.
The three women must have been clearing the dishes, as a stack of used trays, trenchers, goblets, and pitchers had been deposited on one of the worktables. Two large tubs of water set out next to it suggested that they were about to start washing.
Rosalin came to a stop in front of the table opposite them. She looked down at the dirty dishes, a wry smile turning her mouth. “It seems I’ve missed the meal.”
She assumed they would speak English, but the blank expressions and awkward silence that followed made her wonder.
Finally, Deirdre responded. “Fetch the lady something to eat, Mor,” she said to one of the girls at her side. Then to Rosalin, she said, “The cook has just taken in a few more trays. If you like, I will have Mor bring it to you there.”
Her tone was more matter-of-fact than friendly or deferential, but free of the malice or resentment Rosalin had feared.
Rosalin shook her head. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I think I will take it back to my tent.” A loud roar emitted from the Hall behind them. “I should not wish to disturb their celebration.”
“They are not celebrating—no more than any other night when ale and whisky are plentiful.” She studied Rosalin’s face with a scrutiny that made her wish she could read minds. “But you are probably right. They are not the most reasonable in this state.” Rosalin took that to mean her Englishness would not be appreciated—or rather, would be even less appreciated than normal. Deirdre eyed her askance. “Iain is not fetching your meals?”
Rosalin shook her head. “Robb—” She blushed, and quickly corrected, “The captain has given me permission to move around the camp.”
Deirdre lifted a brow at that. “He has? Hmm.”
Rosalin didn’t know what that “hmm” meant, but it didn’t seem as if she agreed with Robbie’s decision.
Rosalin tried to explain. “I threatened to die of boredom, which would make me quite useless as a hostage.”
The faint hint of a smile lifted one corner of the other woman’s mouth. “You do not need to defend him to me, my lady; the captain makes his own decisions. I would not think to question them.”
Rosalin was aware of a subtle undercurrent and realized Deirdre was probably referring to other decisions as well—such as the one that had taken him from her bed.
Feeling a tightening in her heart, Rosalin was suddenly anxious to leave. In spite of the woman’s unexpected equanimity, she was painfully aware of the man who was between them. The man Deirdre had had, but Rosalin…never would.
The truth hit her with a blow. She understood what Deirdre must have known from the first. Deirdre didn’t resent her because she didn’t fear her.I’m not a threat to her. Rosalin might have distracted him temporarily, but eventually she would go, and when she did…
