Robbie didn’t want to let her go. Ever. Cradling her in his arms, her soft body warm against his chest, was unlike anything he’d ever imagined. The wave of emotion that rose inside him, crashed over him, and threatened to drag him under resembled tenderness, but it was bigger and far more powerful.
This was his fault. He never should have brought her here. It was his job to protect her, and if she’d been hurt, he never would have forgiven himself.
God, when he thought of what could have happened, it made his stomach turn. Bile climbed up the back of his throat. His sister’s face passed before his eyes.
He squeezed Rosalin closer, the pain of his broken ribs nothing compared to the burning pain in his chest. God, she smelled good. He pressed his mouth against the silky softness of her hair, inhaling the faint scent of lavender.
Not ready to relinquish her yet, he entered the tent and carried her toward his bed. Sitting with his back against the wall, he held her so that her head was resting against his chest like a pillow. He pulled off his helm and tossed it at the foot of the bed.
The movement caused her eyes to open. He watched her brow furrow as she took in his face. “You’ve been fighting,” she said, reaching out to brush a cut on his cheek. His body reacted to the soft touch, tensing. She tried to wipe the smudges from his face. “How did you get all this soot on your face? When I first saw you, I thought you were a ghost.” She glanced at the helm and shuddered. “Or a demon.”
Knowing she was treading close to dangerous waters, he took her icy fingers in his hand and brought them to his mouth. “Go to sleep, Rosalin. It’s been a long day. We’ll talk in the morning.”
Her eyes met his with a look that cut right through his chest. “You won’t leave me?”
He shook his head. The word “never” rose to his lips, but he pushed it back. That was a promise he could not make. “Not tonight. Now sleep, sweetheart.”
She did as he bade, falling asleep with a contented smile on her face that made him feel like not the strongest but the luckiest man in Scotland. Slowly, it warmed the coldness that had been burning inside him since the moment he’d seen her pressed up against that tree, until he, too, slept.
Fifteen
Rosalin drew the needle through the linen for the final time, made her knot, and used the scissors she’d borrowed from Deirdre to cut the thread. Holding the tunic up to the sunlight (that she’d begun to lose hope of ever seeing again) streaming through the Hall window, she admired her handiwork. Although not quite as good as new, there was no longer a large, gaping tear across the upper sleeve. From the rust-colored staining around the tear that remained even after washing, she suspected it had come from a sword blade.
“’Tis a fine job,” the woman sitting beside her said.
Rosalin smiled, pleased by the compliment. “Thank you, Jean. The light in here is a vast improvement to the tent.”
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?”
