“Lord Fraser has Clifford’s son.”
Robbie muttered a curse as if it were a prayer. He couldn’t believe it. Was it possible? Could fortune have shined on him so brightly? “What the hell is the problem? Take him!”
Having Clifford’s son as a hostage would leave the English commander no choice. Clifford would have to accede to their demands.
Robbie couldn’t have planned for anything more perfect.
“That’s not the problem. The problem is the lady, Captain. She won’t let go of the boy and Sir Alexander doesn’t want to hurt her.”
As much as he liked MacLeod’s young brother by marriage, Alexander Fraser was a knight and like his English counterparts, chivalrous to a fault.
Robbie scanned the battle. Not seeing them, he realized that they must be away from the main part of the army. “Take me to them.”
But they’d taken only a few steps before Robbie heard a sound that told him their fortune had just changed.
“The gate!” Seton shouted in warning.
Robbie swore. “I see it.”
The English garrison had apparently decided to leave the comfort and protection of their stone walls and come to their countrymen’s aid, probably because of the lad.
Robbie and his men had overstayed their welcome. But he had no intention of leaving the boy behind. He could see him now—and the plaid-cloaked problem. The woman had her back to him, but she was clutching the boy, trying to pull him away from an obviously uncomfortable Fraser, who was doing his best to try to detach her from the boy without being too rough and equally obviously having a difficult time of it.
The woman was tenacious; Robbie would give her that. She wouldn’t let go. He’d recalled a few of the sort at the Highland Games.
He swore again, glancing at the hill. The soldiers from the castle were closing in quickly.
His mouth fell in a hard line. They didn’t have time for this. He would take care of the problem himself.
Three
Rosalin had to do something, as clearly no one else could. The one knight who was close enough to come to Roger’s aid was deep in a fight for his own life. Her brother’s men—battle-hardened knights and men-at-arms—were being cut down as if they were wet-behind-the-ears squires. Rogerwasa wet-behind-the-ears squire. He wouldn’t last longer than it took the warrior to swing his massive two-handed sword.
She knelt down and took Meg by the shoulders. “I’m going to get Roger.”
“I want to go—”
Anticipating the little girl’s instincts—probably because they were her own—Rosalin cut her off. “I need your help. I need you to run as fast as you can up that hill and tell them that they must send soldiers. Tell them that Lord Clifford’s son is in danger. Can you do that?”
Meg nodded uncertainly.
Not willing to rely on the child to keep her promise, Rosalin saw her safely entrusted to the arms of the sturdier of the two attendants, with a stern warning to not let her go until they’d reached the safety of the closed gate.
Rosalin didn’t think she’d ever run so fast. She prayed every second it took her to wind her way through the crowd and cross the distance to her nephew.Don’t let me be too late…
“My father will kill you for this! He will see all of your rebel heads on spikes!”
She nearly sighed with relief, hearing Roger’s voice—even if she wished that indelible Clifford pride would show more discretion in issuing threats to large, menacing-looking barbarians with sharp swords. Her too confident, thirteen-year-old intent-on-being-a-fearsome-knight nephew was going to get himself killed.
Pushing her way past the last few fleeing villagers, she was at last able to see him. The Scot was still holding him by the neck, with Roger’s sword at his feet, having disarmed the youth rather than kill him.Thank God!
“Let me go, damn it!” Roger thrashed around, pulling on the hand of the man holding him.
“Let him go!” Rosalin shouted, echoing her nephew’s demands. Racing forward, she threw herself between them.
She didn’t know which one of them looked more surprised. Beneath the steel helms she could see both sets of blue eyes widen.
The rebel recovered first. “Get back, my lady,” he said, in the same surprisingly refined Norman French that she’d instinctively used. Although she was fluent in the English more typically used by people in the North and Borders, French was the language of nobles and the court. “I don’t wish to hurt you.”
