When Sir Alex entered the tent a few minutes later, however, he looked so shocked to see her in it, she wondered if she’d done something wrong.
Once his shock passed, he smiled. “I see you found some fresh clothing.”
She blushed. “When I asked for the bath, I forgot that I didn’t have anything clean to change into.” She’d also removed her own clothes for the first time in years without a serving-maid, but she didn’t want to mention that. “Do you think he’ll mind?”
Sir Alex gave her a long, steady look. “If he does, tell him I said you could use mine.”
For some reason, the prospect of her doing so seemed to amuse him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you—I just came in to get a few things.” He grinned. “But you are sitting on them.”
She gasped, jumping off his trunk. “It is I who should apologize to you for displacing you from your…um…room.”
He pretended not to notice her embarrassment over sleeping in his bed. “It’s a place to sleep, nothing more. As long as Douglas doesn’t snore too loudly when he returns, I won’t know the difference.” His expression changed to one of concern. “You are all right?”
“As well as can be expected.”
“He did not…” His voice let off, as if he were searching for the right words. “Hurt you?”
Heat crawled up her cheeks, guessing what he suspected. Was that what they all suspected? Did everyone think she’d given herself to him to let her nephew escape? No, they couldn’t. But Sir Alex must have sensed something and guessed.
“I am fine,” she said firmly. “Your friend is angry that my nephew was able to get away, but he has not hurt me. In any way,” she added meaningfully. “I am exactly as I was when I arrived.” Although perhaps a bit wiser.
He nodded. “I’m glad to hear it. Your inventiveness took us all by surprise. I’m not sure I would have gone out that window.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen Boyd so angry.” He smiled. “Even with me. And other than your brother, I doubt there’s anyone who angers him more.”
“But you are friends. Why would he be angry with you?”
“I’ve committed the unpardonable sin, the one thing that can never be forgiven.”
“What’s that?”
“I was born in England,” he said dryly.
“But aren’t your lands in Scotland?”
“Most of them are now, although my brother held some lands in Cumberland and Northumberland. I’ve been raised in Scotland and fought on the Scottish side for every battle of the war, but it doesn’t matter. In Boyd’s eyes, I will always be English. I don’t think even Wallace hated your countrymen as much as he does. Not without cause, perhaps, but it blinds him. He will never completely trust an Englishman.”
He held her gaze, and she knew he was warning her. She nodded, telling him she understood. She’d sensed as much herself.
He must have seen something in her expression. “Don’t worry, lass, it won’t be much longer. A messenger has been dispatched to your brother. In a few days, this will all be behind you.”
It was with considerable effort that Robbie dragged himself off the rush-strewn floor of the Hall, where he’d finally found sleep in the wee hours of the night, and ventured into the morning (or mid-morning) daylight. The sunlight cleaved his skull like a battle-axe. His stomach, which could weather even the worst of storms on Hawk’sbirlinn, tossed dangerously, threatening to remind him that the last goblet of whisky had probably been a bad idea.
Actually, the lastfivegoblets of whisky had probably been a bad idea.
Like any Scotsman worth his salt, Robbie enjoyed hisuisge beatha. But he couldn’t recall ever enjoying it quite so much. Or with such purpose. If he were a weaker man, he might even think he’d been trying to drown his guilt in drink.
But he had no reason to feel guilty. Rosalin Clifford deserved his anger. She deserved a hell of a lot more after what she’d done.
So he’d threatened to make her his whore? So he’d shocked the proper English lady with the crude suggestion that she suck his cock? So what?
Robbie rarely struck the first blow, but if someone hit him, he was sure as hell going to strike back. He didn’t turn the other cheek. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—that was his religion. He was doing the only thing he knew how to do: fight back ruthlessly when wronged. The English had learned that the hard way. As he couldn’t use his fists or his sword with her, he was using the one weapon he had left: his words.
He still couldn’t believe he’d let a woman trick him like that. He didn’t fall prey to feminine ploys or wiles. He’d thought himself immune to such pedestrian weaknesses. Undistractible.
Damn it, he’d even sensed something was wrong, but all she’d had to do was touch him and look up at him with that ravish-me mouth, and he lost his bloody mind.
Of course she’d known what she was doing…
