Rosalin sat on a rock, savoring the simple pleasure of the warm sunshine on her hair and face. Birds chirped in the distances and the fresh scents of the garden floated past her nose with the gentle breeze. A faint—averyfaint—hint of spring was in the air. For the first time since she’d come north, it was warm enough to be outside without two layers of wool, and she wore only her slightly less stained light-blue under-gown over her chemise.
She bent over to one of the plants at her feet—a hearty-looking kale—and cleared a few leaves from the meticulously tilled earth around it. In addition to coleworts, there were onions, parsnips, turnips, carrots, and a smattering of hearty herbs that had managed to withstand the cold winter.
The vegetable garden had been a surprise. She’d stumbled across it the day after Robbie left on her way to return the pile of clothing to Deirdre. It was a small patch of ground, no more than fifteen feet by ten, tucked away behind the last tent on the outskirts of camp. A surprisingly sophisticated wattle fence had been erected to prevent the hares, wild cats, boars, wolves, and other animals who inhabited the forest from disturbing it. Well tended, ordered, and peaceful, this place seemed a small oasis in the wild, unfriendly countryside around her. She loved just sitting here, surrounding herself with…him.
She knew right away to whom the place belonged. Robbie Boyd hadn’t forgotten as much of his past as he wanted to believe, and to Rosalin, this small garden carved out in the trenches seemed proof that there was still a battle to be won inside him.
A farmer? Who would have thought that the strongest man in Scotland and one of the most feared and violent warriors in Christendom was not only a scholar but also a would-be farmer. Maybe she shouldn’t have been surprised. The physical, outdoor, get-your-hands-dirty work fit him.
Though he was a laird with a barony in Noddsdale and other lands in Renfrew and Ayr, managing lands and tenants wasn’t how she saw him. If the war hadn’t come, he would have done his duty as laird, of course, but she pictured him in less lordly pursuits, roaming the countryside on foot, shirtsleeves rolled up around those tanned, muscular forearms, lending a hand to his tenants, whether it be with a plow or a hammer. Perhaps with a son or two alongside him, he would bound up the hill to the fortified farmhouse after a long day’s work to greet his wife and the rest of his children with a smile and a hard kiss.
What if she were that wife?
The image caught her with a hard pang of longing. To someone who’d never had a home of her own and who’d marked the passage of time by the few opportunities she’d had to see her brother, the simple pleasure of such a life seemed a faerie tale.
Itwasa faerie tale. The war had come, and there was no going back. There were no “what ifs.” There was only the future. Yet this garden—like his kindness to Mary that day in the Hall—gave hope that some of it might come true.
She wanted to love him. She feared she already did. The question was whether he could ever love her back.
“I thought I might find you here.”
The voice caught her unaware, and she jumped. Recognition followed, and she turned with a laugh to see Sir Alex standing at the gate. “I’m afraid you caught me dreaming.”
He smiled. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t miss the midday meal by falling asleep out here again.” His smile fell, his mouth twisting slightly. “With the temper Boyd’s been in lately, I fear if you lose an ounce, he’ll probably accuse me of dereliction of duty and letting you starve.”
Rosalin rose from her rocky perch and crossed the garden to the now open gate. She wanted to make light of what he’d said, but there was a bitterness to Sir Alex’s tone that she could not ignore.
She put her hand on his arm and looked up into his eyes. He had been so kind to her, and she genuinely liked the handsome young knight turned rebel. In many ways, it would have been so much easier if he had been the one to catch her eye. They were much alike. “Is it really so bad between you?”
The question seemed to take him aback. He appeared to contemplate it for a minute, and then shrugged. “Not all the time. On a mission or in the heat of battle it doesn’t seem to matter as much. But once the battle is done our differences aren’t as easy to hide. He doesn’t respect me—as a warrior, as a compatriot, as a friend—and never will.”
He took her hand, gallantly tucking it in the bend of his elbow as if they were at court, and started to lead her back toward the Hall.
“That’s not the way I see it,” she said with a sidelong glance. “He trusts you—more than he realizes. I watched you two fight together at Kildrummy, and even then I saw it. Now it’s even more so. In truth you seem more like brothers. Is there not a way you could try to put your differences aside?”
Sir Alex appeared to give serious consideration to her words. Eventually, he shook his head. “It’s too late for that. It used to bother me, but now I realize that no matter what I do it will never change. He’s too far gone. The only thing he cares about is making the English pay for what they’ve done and to him. I’m standing in the way of that.”
“Because you were born in England?”
“It’s more than that. It’s because of what I stand for. I remind him of things he wants to forget.” A wry smile turned his mouth. “I’m a conscience at a time that it’s not convenient to have one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I won’t turn a blind eye to the raiding, the pillaging, and the war of terror being waged along the border by both sides. I guess what it comes down to is that we have a different line in the sand. He’s willing to do whatever it takes, and I’m not. Boyd will never respect someone who isn’t willing to give everything to the fight for independence. He thinks I’m naive and sees my ‘knightly’ ways as a relic of the past at best and as hypocrisy at worst. Perhaps it is to some, but it isn’t that way to me. I need to be able to look myself in the looking glass when this is all over. This used to be about what was right, but Boyd has lost sight of that. Now it’s just as much about punishing the enemy and exacting retribution for everything that they’ve taken from him.”
“I don’t believe that. I know he is driven—”
“Driven?” Sir Alex made a sharp sound of laughter. “That’s one way of putting it. It’s the only thing that matters to him. Theonlything.”
If he was emphasizing it for her benefit, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it. “That’s not true. I think many things matter to him. You do, the people here, and I’d wager the other phantoms.”Me, if he would admit it to himself.
Sir Alex’s face went utterly still. He stopped and took her elbow. “What did you say?”
She bit her lip, looking up at him uncertainly. “Robbie is part of Bruce’s phantoms.”
His voice was very low and deliberate. “Did he tell you that?”
She shook her head and shrugged. It made perfect sense. If she were selecting men to form a band of extraordinary warriors, she would certainly include the man reputed to be the strongest. “It wasn’t very difficult to figure out after the night in the forest when he appeared out of the darkness with that ghastly helm and blackened face to save me from the Douglas soldier. I suspect you are one, too.” She looked at him for confirmation, but the stony countenance revealed nothing. “Is the Black Douglas as well?”
