She couldn’t possibly be as sweet as she looked. Not with a brother like that.
He frowned as Seton jerked off his plaid to cover a low boulder for her to sit on. Dragon and his damned knightly sensibilities. Even after seven years of fighting like a “pirate,” he still thought he was bloody Lancelot. It was how he’d earned his war name. Dragon was a jest, referring to the wyvern on the Seton arms that he’d so stubbornly held to wearing in the early days of their training—before he was forced to admit how ridiculous it was to wear mail and a surcoat doing the kind of fighting they would be doing.
“What in Hades is wrong with you?”
It took Robbie a minute to realize Douglas was talking to him. Hell, how long had he been staring? Too long, if the man’s narrowed gaze was any indication.
“I would have thought you would be more excited,” Douglas added. “We have Clifford by the bollocks.”
“I am,” he assured him, forcing the dark scowl from his face. “Did you receive the money from the good bishop?” Douglas had gone to Bewley Castle to meet with the Bishop of Cumbria.
But Douglas wouldn’t be so easily put off. “You seemed almost protective of the lass. I’ll admit, she’s a beauty, but I wouldn’t have thought you would be so easily deceived. The English bitch is Clifford’s sister, for Christ’s sake.”
Robbie had to be more tired than he realized, because he was feeling quite a few of Seton’s knightly sensibilities right now—as well as the sudden urge to slam his fist through his friend’s teeth. For what? Calling her a bitch? It wasn’t anything Robbie hadn’t said many times before about their enemy: English dog, English bitch—it was as common as saying it looks like it might rain or the skies are dreich today.
Which didn’t explain why his teeth were grinding. “I don’t need you to remind me who she is”—he could think of nothing else, damn it—“but the lass is under my protection and will be until she is released.”
“Why the hell would you release her? King Edward still holds Bruce’s wife, daughter, and sister. Why should we not do the same with our ‘overlord’s’ family?”
Robbie was just about as interested in hearing Douglas’s opinion on the subject as he was Seton’s. Nor was he going to explain himself.
He glanced over at Seton and the lady in question just in time to hear the soft tinkle of her laugh. Every muscle in his body tensed. The lad, Roger, was laughing, too. Both were stretching their feet out by the crackling fire, looking quite cozy.
“Hell, if you want the chit, why don’t you just keep her for yourself? Think how furious Clifford would be to learn that his precious sister is in Robbie Boyd’s bed.”
The image was sharper than Robbie would have wished, and included sweaty, naked limbs twisted in well-rumpled bedsheets. He clenched his jaw until the muscle started to tic. “I don’t want her, and I sure as hell don’t want a wife.”
Douglas smiled slyly. “I wasn’t thinking of her as your wife. You can’t marry an Englishwoman.” He shuddered dramatically. “Make her your leman.”
“I said I don’t want her, damn it!”
“Aye, I can see that,” Douglas said with a laugh—the bastard. “That’s why you keep looking over at Seton like you want to kill him—even more than usual, that is.” He lifted a brow. “Oh, look who just showed up! Didn’t take him long to find her. I told you he had a weakness for blondes.”
Robbie glanced over just in time to see Sir Thomas Randolph, Bruce’s nephew and nearly as much of a pain in his arse as Seton, bending over her hand like a gallant courtier and not the ruthless warrior he was—that they all were.
“My wife informs me that women find him attractive. I don’t bloody see it,” Douglas said with disgust. Obviously, Joanna Douglas was keeping her notoriously competitive husband on his toes by teasing him about his rival. Robbie was really beginning to like his friend’s new bride. She was tougher than she looked. “Maybe it won’t be you taking her to bed after all,” Douglas added.
Robbie thought his head might explode. “No one is taking her to bed, damn it. She isn’t going to be here long enough.”
Six
It took Rosalin a while to figure it out. Once she did, she had to wait for Sir Thomas to engage Roger in conversation so they would not be overheard.
She’d met Sir Thomas, Robert Bruce’s nephew, a number of times at court when he’d temporarily changed sides a few years back. The gallant, handsome knight hadn’t changed at all—he was still a charming rogue. His friendly presence had relieved some of the tension of encountering the Black Douglas.
But it wasn’t Sir Thomas with whom she wished to speak in private. “You were there, too,” she said softly to the blond-haired warrior who’d championed them earlier.
She hadn’t realized it before only because he’d changed so much. The tall, lean, boyishly handsome youth with the sun-bleached hair had added sufficient bulk and hardness to his build as to almost be unrecognizable. He was no longer a youth but a man full-grown—quite impressively, she might add. With his blue-eyed, golden-haired good looks, he seemed like every girl’s fantasy of a knight in shining armor.
Except he was a brigand.
He looked surprised but nodded. “Aye, I was there.”
He handed her another oat bannock fresh from the iron plate or “girdle,” as he called it, cooked over the campfire. Though she was starving and would have eaten anything, the simple fare was surprisingly tasty. She suspected the oats had been mixed with some of the fat from the strips of pork she was also offered.
“I remember you.” Indeed, had she not seen Boyd first, she probably would have found herself watching him. “I used to see you and Boyd talking all the time. You were friends even then.” His mouth tightened a little as if he might disagree. “There was another man as well. He had red hair.”
“Thomas,” he said. “A childhood friend of Boyd’s.”
