Apparently the newcomers were expected.
A few moments later a man jumped off his horse, pulled off his helm, and strode toward them. He was a big man. Maybe even an inch taller than Boyd, though not as heavily muscled. She doubted few men were as heavily muscled as Boyd. Not that Boyd was bulky. Just strong-looking. Not that she’d been staring at him. She was a woman of two and twenty now, not some impressionable sixteen-year-old to be taken by an impressive-looking physique. Even if itwasthe most impressive-looking physique she’d ever seen. There had to be an ounce of fat on him somewhere, although she certainly couldn’t see it.
She turned—not forced—her gaze back to the other man. He wore the same black leather warcoat and chausses as the other men, but it was as fine as anything Cliff might wear. Neatly shaved and free of dust and dirt, he appeared considerably more civilized than Boyd and his band of rough-looking brigands.
“You’re late,” Boyd said. “Any problems?”
The dark-visaged newcomer shook his head. “Nothing that couldn’t be handled.” Noticing her, he barely covered his surprise. He slowly lifted a brow and turned back to Boyd. “What about you? Your haul looks much more interesting than mine. Have you finally decided totakea wife? Your methods might be a little old-fashioned, but the results seem to have been worth it.” He let out a low whistle. “You’re fortunate I’m a happily married man, but don’t let Randolph see her—you know how partial he is to blondes.”
“Sod off,SirJames. The lass is a hostage, as is the lad.”
“Sir”? Thank goodness! At last, a knight!Perhaps she would find someone to champion their cause for release. Although something about the way Boyd had emphasized “sir” made her think there was more to it.
“This sounds even more interesting,” Sir James said. “Who are they?”
“Clifford’s sister and heir.”
Sir James’s expression changed so quickly, it was as if a dark thunderstorm had clapped down over them all. She took a step back, feeling the hot blast of menace directed toward them.
“Lady Rosalin. Young Roger,” Boyd said with mock formality. “Meet Sir James Douglas. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? He’s the rightful owner of the land Clifford has spent nearly fifteen years attempting to occupy.”
Rosalin gasped. Her blood turned to ice, and her heart slammed to the ground as fear crept over every inch of her skin. Instinctively she reached for Roger’s hand and pulled him back toward her and Boyd, whom she’d just as instinctively sought out. Only moments ago he’d seemed like their worst nightmare. But now they knew otherwise. Their worst nightmare was standing right before them. The Black Douglas. Her brother’s worst enemy, and the man who hated him more than anyone.
With one glance, Robbie told Douglas to back off. He’d experienced a strange thump in his chest when she’d unconsciously moved to him for protection, and had to fight an unexpected—and unwelcome—urge to put his arm around her. When Seton shot him an odd look, however, Robbie wondered whether he’d fought the urge as well as he thought he had.
Whether it was the shock fading or his warning glance, he didn’t know, but Douglas’s expression changed. A sly curve slid up his mouth. “By God, this is perfect. What a boon! We finally have the means to bring that English bastard to his damned knees. With his sister and heir in our possession, he’ll dance a damned jig atop the parapets of Berwick Castle if we want him to.”
It was the same reaction Robbie had had, but for some reason coming from Douglas it sounded different. Perhaps it was because of the effect the words had on the lass and the boy. They both visibly paled and huddled a few inches closer to him. That odd thump expanded in his chest.
He turned to Seton, and with a glance told him what he wanted him to do.
“Come, my lady,” Seton said, leading her away. “You must be hungry. Let’s find you and young Roger something to eat.”
The look of gratitude she gave his partner made Robbie almost wish that he’d voiced his order. He frowned at the odd reaction. Knight errant was Seton’s role, not his. But the lass seemed to be provoking all kinds of odd reactions in him. When he returned from scouting earlier, he’d felt like he was crawling out of his damned skin every time he saw her shiver.
“Seton,” he called out. His partner turned around questioningly. “Have Malcolm build a fire.”
Seton didn’t say anything, but Robbie read the speculation in his gaze and quickly put a stop to it with a hard stare. It wasn’t that unusual a request, damn it. It was a cold, misty night. Even if they were a little exposed for a fire, the English wouldn’t track them into the hills and forests at night—or in the day, for that matter. It was near villages and English garrisoned castles where they had to be careful.
“Whatever you say,Captain.”
Boyd didn’t miss the sarcasm in Seton’s tone. His partner was still smarting from the fact that Bruce had put Robbie in charge. This washismission, and therefore—as he’d told his partner many times over the past few hours—he didn’t have to listen to Seton’s opinion on what they should do.
He’d been in no mood to hear about Seton’s damned code of honor, and how they “had” to release her and the boy. How it was only “right” after what she’d done for them.
The only “right” thing was winning this damned war. That was all Robbie should be thinking about. His sole focus should be on doing whatever was needed to secure Clifford’s agreement and then collecting the money. If the lass and boy would help him in that regard, nothing else should matter. Honor wasn’t going to win the damned war.
But no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn’t stop hearing her voice.You owe me. He did, damn it.
Honor—or what he had left of it—warred with duty. He owed her a debt, but he couldn’t just hand over the means to bring Clifford to heel.
He watched her hurry away with Seton, trying not to wonder what they were talking about. Or why she’d suddenly turned and given Seton a tentative smile.
Bloody hell!His fists clenched. Did she have to look like that? If he’d ever seen a more beautiful woman, he couldn’t think of one. Lady Rosalin Clifford was stunning. Breathtakingly stunning. By all rights, Clifford’s sister should have a forked tongue, horns, and all sorts of other manner of devilry. Or perhaps warts and moles, like a troll or witch.
Actually, she did have a mole. A very small one that looked like a freckle. And its placement on the edge of a very sensually curved upper lip didn’t make him think of witches or trolls, but of something else entirely. An unwelcome heat and heaviness tugged in his groin. He liked having his cock sucked just as much as any other man—which was to say a whole hell of a lot—but never had the mere thought of it made him hard.
Clifford’s sister. He still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t reconcile the sweet lass who’d saved him with the cosseted, spoiled English beauty she had to be. He was sure that once some of her fear dissipated, and she realized he meant what he said about them coming to no harm, she would start making demands and issuing orders. Her expression would change from looking as if he’d just torn up the pages to her favorite faerie tale and burned them before her eyes to haughty and condescending. She would look down that adorable little nose of hers not with disappointment and disillusionment, but with cold hatred.
