“What do you mean?”
Jean’s mouth hardened with distaste. “Last time we went to the village at Corehead for supplies, she caught the eye of one of the soldiers in the nearby garrison. Fancied herself in love with the Englishman, she did. Until she got herself with child and he kicked her out of his bed.”
Rosalin gasped, her eyes widening with alarm. “She’s pregnant?”
Jean shook her head. “Nay, she lost the child not long afterward. You wouldn’t guess it by looking at her now, but she used to be quite a favorite among the men.” She shrugged. “But no one wants an English whore.” She blushed. “Meaning no disrespect, m’lady.”
Rosalin didn’t care about that. “That is no excuse for someone to hit her.”
Jean looked at her as if she were either the most naive person in the world or the stupidest. “Fergal isn’t so bad, my lady. Not when he’s sober, at least. I’m sure he’ll make it up to her—which is why she’ll not thank you for interfering.”
Reluctantly, Rosalin took Jean’s advice and returned to her mending. She understood the precariousness of Mary’s position and didn’t want to do anything to make it worse for her, but the unfairness of it ate at her. The woman had lost a child. Must she now endure a beating in silence? How long must she serve penance for the mistake of falling in love with the wrong man?
If the question resonated a little too loudly, Rosalin didn’t want to hear it.
Rosalin was still fuming an hour later when she carried the stack of linens back to her tent to prepare for the midday meal. It was wrong to hit a woman—anywoman—and Mary needed someone to stand up for her, even if she would not herself.
The brute should be punished, and it went against Rosalin’s nature to stand aside and do nothing—say nothing—when she saw someone treated so unfairly.
Not paying attention to her surroundings, she startled at the sound of a loud roar coming from the other side of the building where the men practiced. Curious, she backtracked a little, following the sound of the cheers and yells. Once she’d turned the corner, she saw a large gathering of men—what appeared to be nearly all the forty or so men in camp—in a small clearing. They were standing in a loose circle watching something.
She scanned the area for Robbie but didn’t see him. Suddenly second-guessing the wisdom of her current pursuit, she started to turn around when she caught a glimpse between two of the men of what had them so riveted.
She froze. Everything froze—her heart, her breath, her step. Indeed she was rooted to the ground with…shock? She wasn’t sure, but whatever it was, she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the display in front of her. It wasn’t just that Robbie was naked to the waist—although that alone would probably have been enough—he was also being attacked by a half-dozen men wielding swords, coming at him from different directions. And he was winning without a weapon or even a shield to defend himself—only his hands.
She must have walked forward, because she found herself edging between two of the men to get a closer view.
Sweet heaven, she’d never seen anything like it! Highland wrestling she’d heard of, but this was different. She didn’t know how to describe it except that he was tossing grown men—seasoned warriors all of them—around as if they were pesky gnats. They couldn’t get close to him. As soon as they made their move, he’d evade them with a twist of his body, a block of his hand, a jab of his knee, even a kick of his foot. They ended up keeled over in pain or on their backs.
It wasn’t until the men chanted for “Seton” that anyone gave him a contest. Sir Alex had obviously been trained in the same fighting style, because he matched the strange moves with nearly equal precision. It was brutal, but strangely fascinating to watch—almost like a vicious, violent dance.
Rosalin felt as if her heart was in her throat, as if she were a hairsbreadth from raising her voice to tell them to stop as they exchanged blows and blocks, jabs and twists, kicks and flips. It seemed as if it could go on forever, even though both men were obviously tiring. Finally, Sir Alex made a quick move toward Robbie, trying to land a jab of his elbow in Robbie’s ribs. She gasped when she realized why: a large part of Robbie’s left side was black and mottled with bruising.
But Robbie had anticipated the move. He twisted, taking the blow with his right side, jabbed Sir Alex hard under the chin with his elbow, and cut behind his feet to land him on his back.
The crowd erupted in a roar.
Robbie grinned and reached his hand down to help his friend up.
Sir Alex stared at it for a minute, cursed prodigiously, but eventually took it.
Their interaction was so much like that of brothers that she almost laughed.
“You’re too impatient,” Robbie said in a way that made Rosalin think it hadn’t been for the first time. “And predictable. I knew the ribs would be too much for you to resist.”
“It’s your only damned weak spot,” Sir Alex muttered in frustration.
Robbie just grinned. But looking at that broad, chiseled chest, Rosalin had to disagree. Even with the bruising, there wasn’t a weak spot on him.
Almost as if he could read her thoughts, he turned and saw her standing there. It seemed that everyone else saw her standing there as well, because the raucous laughter suddenly stopped with all the sublety of a clap of thunder.
A blush rose to her cheeks. Robbie frowned but walked over to her. “Did you need something?”
Being confronted by well over six feet of half-naked man seemed to tie her tongue. After a flustered moment of staring at his chest, which seemed to cover most of her field of vision, she forced her gaze up to his eyes. But not before noticing the cut on his arm. “You’re hurt!”
“It’s nothing.”
Suddenly aware that everyone was watching them—and listening—she said, “I need to speak with you.”
