“The hell I did!”
She laughed. “I wish you could have seen your face when he said you would have to name our son Cliff. Although it does have a nice ring to it.”
He rolled his eyes with a groan. “Christ, Rosalin, don’t even jest about it. I still haven’t recovered.”
She took his hand and put it on her stomach. “I suppose there is close to nine months to decide.”
Robbie was an exceptionally smart man, but it took him a minute to realize what she meant. His face lost every drop of color. He stared at her with something resembling horror in his eyes. Then his face crumpled. If she’d ever doubted his ability to feel emotion, she never would again. He looked like a man who’d been shattered. He held her tightly, and she could feel his chest shaking.
“I’m sorry. Oh Christ, I’m sorry. I never thought…I should have thought. You would have paid the price, and I could have lost you both.”
She knew the way his mind worked, and he was probably twisting it in some way to think about his sister. She put her fingers on his mouth to stop him from saying any more. “I love you, Robbie. It’s not the same. And you came for me in time. In rather dramatic fashion, I might add.”
She jumped when she heard a sound like thunder.
“That’s our signal,” he said, taking her hand. “Time to go.”
Cliff had taken care of the soldiers at the door. Smoke was everywhere and people were running all over the bailey. It was remarkably easy to slip around the buildings unnoticed in the chaos. Near the pit prison Robbie let out a sharp whistle, and two men appeared a moment later.
Though she’d seen Robbie in his phantom garb before, the sight of two giant warriors in those faceless looking nasal masks startled her.
“It’s all right,mo ghrá. They are friends.”
“I see your damned fool plan worked,” one of the men said dryly, and then bowed to her. “My lady.”
Robbie hugged her closer to him possessively. “Aye, Chief.”
Rosalin gave him a secret smile. “I thought it was rather romantic.”
“Smart lass,” Robbie said with a grin.
“We’d better go,” the second warrior said. “This isn’t the first time we’ve used this particular distraction, and we don’t want to overstay our welcome. It was good of you to not make me go into that damn hole again, though.”
Robbie winced. “Aye, well, I did get a chance to sample Berwick’s finest accommodations for most of the last twenty-four hours. I can see why you aren’t anxious to return. I’ll need help with these,” he said, holding up his hands.
The second man removed something from the sporran he wore at his waist, and in seconds the iron manacles fell to the floor.
They made their way to the postern gate, where four other phantoms were waiting for them. The men exchanged a few gestures and Robbie shook his head. A few minutes later, Rosalin realized why, when the two men who’d stayed to guard the gate were knocked out by hard claps to their helms with the pommel of a sword rather than killed. A few moments later, she was whisked into a waitingbirlinn.
She was helped in by another man wearing a bow across his shoulder.
“So this is your Englishwoman,” he said with a low whistle of appreciation.
Robbie wrenched her fingers rather forcibly from the other man’s gauntleted hand. “Stay the hell away from her, Arrow. I mean it. That face of yours won’t look so pretty when I’m done with it.”
Rosalin was surprised when the other man replied under his breath, “I should be so lucky.”
They took a seat on one of the wooden storage chests near the back of the boat.
In all, including Robbie, she made out ten shadowy figures. To a one they were big, muscular, and menacing-looking. Indeed, were it not for Robbie holding tightly to her waist, she would be terrified.
The man holding the ropes that controlled the sail looked to Robbie. He grinned, his teeth gleaming white in the moonlight. “Glad you could join us, Sir Robert.”
“Sod off, Hawk, and sail. Get us the hell out of here,” Robbie said, but there was something in his voice that sounded like embarrassment.
She looked up at him, her brows drawing together. “Sir Robert?”
Aye, he looked distinctly uncomfortable. Boyishly uncomfortable, like Roger had when discussing the girl from Norham. “It’s nothing.”
