The Raider
T
heir eyes met. Something passed between them. Something that stopped his breath, stopped his heart, and made the floor shift under his feet.
He was hot, hard, and poised on the edge of a precipice, struggling to hold on. Struggling not to touch her. But this might be a battle he could not win.
His heart pounded, restraint making his muscles flex. The weight of inevitability came crushing down on top of him, a weight too heavy for even him to hold off. He wanted her so intensely he could taste her on his tongue.
Her eyes fell to his mouth. Her lips parted. She leaned closer.
The subtle invitation was too much to resist; the battle was lost. His mouth fell on hers with a deep groan. For a moment it was just like the first time he’d kissed her. He felt the same unexpected ripple of shock at how good she tasted. How soft her lips were. How the innocent tremble of her mouth under his made him ache to be the one to teach her about passion.
But then it changed, because this time he didn’t pull back. This time he didn’t fight the urge to deepen the kiss. This time he slid his arm around her waist, dragged her up against him, and let himself sink into the honey softness of her mouth to taste her fully. This time he caught the tremble of her lips with his and showed her how to open for him, how to take his tongue in her mouth and let him stroke her.
Aye, he stroked her. With long, slow pulls of his tongue until she stroked him back. The first flick of her tongue against his made him groan. His knees almost buckled.
It was incredible.
Bone melting.
Blood heating.
Mind blowing.
The Raider
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2014 by Monica McCarty
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
BALLANTINE
and the
HOUSE
colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
ISBN 9780345543936
eBook ISBN: 9780345543943
Cover design: Lynn Andreozzi
Cover illustration: Franco Accornero
Ballantine mass market edition: March 2014
ep_v4.0
Tor “Chief” MacLeod:
Team Leader and Expert Swordsman
Erik “Hawk” MacSorley:
Seafarer and Swimmer
Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi:
Stealth, Infiltration, and Extraction
Arthur “Ranger” Campbell:
Scouting and Reconnaissance
Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor:
Marksman and Archer
Magnus “Saint” MacKay:
Survivalist and Weapon Forging
Kenneth “Ice” Sutherland:
Explosives and Versatility
Eoin “Striker” MacLean:
Strategist in “Pirate” Warfare
Ewen “Hunter” Lamont:
Tracker and Hunter of Men
Robert “Raider” Boyd:
Physical Strength and Hand-to-Hand Combat
Alex “Dragon” Seton:
Dirk and Close Combat
Also:
Helen “Angel” MacKay (née Sutherland):
Healer
T
he year of our lord thirteen hundred and twelve
. Since Robert the Bruce first made his bid for the crown six years ago, he has defeated not only the English but also the powerful Scottish noblemen who stood against him. After a much-needed reprieve from warfare for Bruce and his men, in late summer 1310 the English marched north to invade Scotland, this time under the leadership of Edward II.
But the second Edward is nothing like his “Hammer of the Scots” father, and the English campaign was a disaster. Bruce refused to take the field in pitched battle. Instead, with the help of the elite warriors of the legendary Highland Guard, Bruce waged a “secret war,” using the pirate tactics he had perfected, harrying the English with surprise attacks and skirmishes, and wreaking havoc on the soldiers’ morale.
After unsuccessfully attempting to track down Bruce, Edward and his army withdrew to the English Marches to wait out the winter in Berwick-upon-Tweed before marching on the rebels again. But the English king’s second campaign was delayed when in the summer of 1311, after ten months in Scotland and the Borders, trouble with his barons required him to return to London.
Bruce immediately took advantage of Edward’s withdrawal and went on the offensive, for the first time taking his war deep into the English countryside. Like the Vikings before them, the fierce Scot raiders struck terror in the heart of the enemy. The names of their leaders will go down in history. Men like Thomas Randolph, James “The Black” Douglas, Edward Bruce, and Robbie Boyd will earn both fame and fortune, beginning the fierce campaign that will eventually bring about the end of the war.
Gud Robert Boyd, that worthi was and wicht
(Good Robert Boyd that worthy wise and strong)
—Blind Harry,
The Wallace
Kildrummy Castle, Scottish Highlands, October 1306
Killed?
Rosalin nearly choked on a bit of beef.
“Are you all right?” her brother asked, leaning over to pat her on the back.
After a burst of coughing, she took a sip of sweetened wine and nodded. “I’m fine.” Seeing his concern, she managed a smile. “Really. I’m sorry for the disturbance. You were saying something about the prisoners?”
Her attempt at nonchalance didn’t fool him. He frowned. He’d been speaking in a low voice to her guardian, Sir Humphrey, on his other side, and the conversation obviously hadn’t been meant for her ears. She blinked up at him innocently, but Robert, the first Baron de Clifford, hadn’t become one of the most important commanders in the war against the rebel Scots because of his rank and handsome face—although he certainly possessed both. Nay, he’d risen so high in King Edward’s estimation because he was smart, loyal, and determined. He was also one of the greatest knights in England, and she was fiercely proud of him.
Even if he was entirely too perceptive.
“An unfortunate accident, that is all. Part of the wall collapsed when the prisoners were dismantling it. Two of the rebels were crushed by the stone and killed.”
Her heart jumped to her throat and a small cry of distress escaped before she could help it.
Oh God, please don’t let it be him!
Aware of her brother’s watchful gaze, she attempted to cover her too concerned reaction with a maidenly, “That’s horrible!”
He studied her a little longer, and then patted her hand. “Do not let it distress you.”
But she
was
distressed.
Deeply
distressed. Although she certainly couldn’t tell her brother why. If he learned about her fascination with one of the rebel prisoners, he would send her back to London on the first ship, as he’d threatened to do when she’d arrived unexpectedly a week ago with her new guardian, Sir Humphrey de Bohun, Earl of Hereford.
“
Christ’s Cross, Rosalin! This is the last place in Christendom suitable for a young girl
.”
But the opportunity to see Cliff had been too tempting to resist. With her in London and her brother fighting the Scottish rebels in the North, it had been nearly two years since she’d seen him, and she missed him desperately. He, Maud (Cliff’s wife of eight years), and the children were all the family she had left, and if she had to venture into Hades to see them, she would. Maud would have made the journey with Rosalin and the earl’s party, but she’d just discovered she was with child again.
“I don’t understand why the wall is being dismantled in the first place,” Rosalin said. “I thought we won the war?”
Her distraction worked. Cliff loved nothing more than to talk about England’s great victory. Robert Bruce’s bid for the crown had failed. The outlaw king had been forced to flee Scotland, and the English were now occupying most of Scotland’s important castles, including this one, the former stronghold of the Scottish Earls of Mar.
“We did. Robert Bruce’s short-lived rebellion is at an end. He might have escaped the noose set for him at Dunaverty Castle, but he won’t find refuge in the Western Isles for long. Our fleet will find him.” He shrugged. “Even if they don’t, he only has a handful of men left under his command.”
She lowered her voice to a whisper. “But aren’t they Highlanders?”
Her brother laughed and tweaked her nose. Though sixteen—nearly seventeen—was much too old for tweaking, she didn’t mind. She knew just how fortunate she was to have a brother who cared for her so deeply. Not many fourteen-year-old boys would have bothered themselves with a four-year-old sister on the death of their parents, but Cliff had always watched out for her. Even when they were both made wards of the king, he always made sure she knew she was not alone. If he sometimes acted like more of an overprotective father than a brother, she didn’t mind. To her, he was both.
“They aren’t bogeymen, little one. Or supermen, no matter what you might hear at court. They might fight like barbarians, but when they meet the steel of an English knight’s sword, their blood runs as red as any other.”
As she wasn’t supposed to be watching the prisoners, she refrained from asking why they were kept so heavily guarded then.
Her brother turned back to Sir Humphrey, and Rosalin bided her time, waiting for the long midday meal to come to an end before racing up to her chamber in the Snow Tower.
Usually she delayed her return to her chamber as long as possible. Cliff had permitted her to stay in Scotland at Kildrummy only under the condition that she keep to her room except for during meals and chapel (he didn’t want there to be any chance of her coming into contact with one of
them
), and the small chamber had begun to feel like a prison. (When she protested that it wasn’t fair, the other ladies in Sir Humphrey’s party weren’t being confined, he replied that the other ladies were not his sixteen-year-old sister!) But right now all she could think about was the window that looked over the courtyard and shield-shaped curtain wall. The same curtain wall that had collapsed and killed the two prisoners.
Her heart raced as fast as her feet as she climbed the seven—
seven!
—flights of stairs to the top level of the luxurious tower. The Scots might be “rebellious barbarians,” but they certainly knew how to build castles, which was one of the reasons King Edward was so anxious to have Kildrummy destroyed. The “Hammer of the Scots,” as King Edward was known, was making sure no other rebels could use the formidable stronghold as a refuge in the future.
Bright sunlight filled the room as she drew open the heavy door of the lord’s chamber and tore past the enormous wooden bed, the half-unpacked trunks carrying her belongings, and the small table that held a pitcher and basin for washing. Heart now in her throat, she knelt on the bench under the window, leaned on the thick stone sill, and peered through the fine glazed window to the courtyard below.
She knew it was wrong, and her brother would be furious to discover her fascination with the rebel prisoner, but she couldn’t help it. There was something about him that stood out. And it wasn’t just his formidable size or his handsome face, although she had to admit that was what had attracted her initially. Nay, he was…
kind
. And noble. Even if he was a rebel. How many times had she watched him take the blame (and thus the punishment) for one of the weaker men? Or shoulder more than his share of the burden of the work?
He couldn’t be
…
She refused to finish the thought and scanned the cobble courtyard and wall area between the southeast tower and newly constructed gatehouse where the prisoners were working.
In the crowd of men near the wall there were no more than a handful of the rebels, but they were being guarded by at least a score of her brother’s men. Given the state of the prisoners, it seemed an overabundance of caution. Perhaps when the castle was first taken over a month ago such a show of force might have been warranted, but stripped of their crude leather warcoats and weapons, after weeks of imprisonment with barely enough food and water to keep them alive, and being worked nearly to death all day, the raggedy-looking prisoners appeared ill equipped to mount much of a resistance.
Except for one.
She looked and looked, the panic rising in her chest. Where was he? Had he been one of the men crushed?
Hot tears prickled her eyes, and she told herself she was being ridiculous. He was a prisoner. A Scot. One of Robert the Bruce’s rebels.
But he was also…
Her heart slammed, and she let out a small cry of relief, when the powerfully built warrior stepped out from behind the wall.
Thank God!
He was all right. More than all right, actually—he was spectacular.
She sighed with every bit of her almost-seventeen-year-old heart. The women at court teased her mercilessly about her naivety and innocence. “You’re such a child, Rosie-lin,” they’d say with a roll of the eyes when she dared to venture into their conversations (the nickname sounded much nicer coming from her brother than from them).
Well, she certainly wasn’t feeling like a child now. For the first time in her life, she was feeling like a woman utterly entranced by a man.
And what a man! He was the fodder of legend and bard’s tales. Tall and broad-shouldered, his dark hair hanging in long tangled waves around a brutishly handsome face, he was one of the strongest, most imposing-looking warriors she’d ever seen.
As if to prove her point, he bent down to pick up an enormous stone. Her breath caught and her heart started to flutter wildly in her chest. Despite the coolness in the room, her skin warmed with a flush. The damp linen shirt stretched across his broad chest with the effort, revealing every ridge, every bulge, every sharply defined muscle straining underneath—of which there were an abundance. Even weakened by imprisonment, he looked strong enough to tear apart a garrison of soldiers with his bare hands.
She revised her earlier opinion: Perhaps the large number of soldiers keeping watch was prudent after all.
Only when he disappeared around the other side of the wall did she remember to breathe again. A few minutes later, he reappeared and it would start all over again. Every now and then, he would exchange a word or two with one of the prisoners, before one of the guards broke it up—usually with the flick of a switch.
He spoke most often to a tall, blond-haired man, though he wasn’t as friendly to him as he was with the third red-haired man. He was also tall, but that was where the similarities ended. More than any of the other prisoners, the red-haired man was showing the effects of the hard labor. He was gaunt and pale, and every day he seemed to grow more stooped.
The Scot—that is how she thought of the impressive warrior—did what he could to help him when the guards were not looking, by shouldering some of his rocks or taking his place in line to wield the hammer. She’d even seen the Scot pass the other man the precious few ladles of water they were allowed during their brief breaks. But the man was fading before her eyes.
She turned away from the window. She had to stop. She couldn’t do this. It made her feel so helpless. She knew they were rebels and deserved to be punished, but the man was going to die. That he would probably be executed anyway when the work was done didn’t matter. No one should suffer like that.
She picked up her needlework, but she put it down a few minutes later and returned her gaze to the window.
She couldn’t look away. She had to do something. But what? Her brother had warned her not to interfere.
The answer came to her the next morning after church. As she was leaving morning prayers, she caught sight of a serving woman carrying a large bowl and a few pieces of bread toward the prison—a paltry amount for so many men.
That was it! She would leave them extra food.
It took her a few days to come up with a plan, but eventually she was ready to put it in motion.
Sneaking extra bits of beef was the easy part. She wrapped them in the cloth she kept at her lap while she ate, and then tucked the bundle in the purse at her waist before she left. Getting the food to the prisoners, however, was the challenge.
She’d watched the prisoners enough to know their routine. Every morning the guards led them out through the small courtyard between the chapel and the damaged Great Hall to the main courtyard. They were lined up and given instructions before being permitted to collect the carts, which were stored on the side of the bakehouse. The carts were what she was aiming for.
That night, when the castle was quiet, she donned a dark cloak and snuck out of the tower. Keeping to the shadows, she worked her way around the yard, careful to avoid any guards who might be on patrol. But it was remarkably quiet. With the rebel forces crushed, there was little threat of an attack. She quickly deposited her bundle in one of the carts and made her way back up to her chamber.