The Raider by Monica McCarty

quietly. “But I had to try.”
    They didn’t have the opportunity to talk further, as the brigands had decided on their riding arrangements and they were separated. Roger’s hands were tied, and he was forced to ride with the warrior who’d first captured him at Norham. Fraser, she thought someone had called him. If he was part of that great patriotic family, she knew she would find no sympathy from him. She was placed in the charge of a stony-faced, red-bearded older warrior—apparently named Callum, although he’d not spoken a word to her—who bore a strong resemblance to young Malcolm. If it was his father, as she suspected, he’s apparently taken her tricking of Malcolm personally.
    Within a few minutes, she was plopped up on the saddle before him, and they were on their way. To where, she could only guess. She wished she’d paid more attention on the journey south from Kildrummy with Sir Humphrey. Her head had been filled with romantic fantasies (which seemed especially cruel in light of what had just happened), and she hadn’t taken note of many landmarks. She’d seen so many churches and castles, they’d all started to blur. She knew the general location of the major burghs and cities, but she doubted the rebels would go anywhere near those. By her best estimation, they were northwest of Norham and Berwick in the hills and forests, headed west into more of the same.
    She knew Bruce and his men controlled the countryside and operated from their base in the Ettrick Forest…
    Her heart dropped. Good God, was that where they were going? Rosalin didn’t believe in ghosts, but the stories of Bruce’s phantoms who reputedly had their lair in the vast Royal Forest made her wonder. Her brother’s men would be hard-pressed to follow them into such hostile and dangerous territory.
    Which made the need to escape as soon as possible even more imperative. But as she could not do so without Roger, she would have to bide her time. They could not ride halfway across the Borders to Ettrick without resting.
    She hoped. But these men looked tough and rugged, and used to riding bone-jarring and bottom-numbing distances. They’d probably pick up the horses and carry
them
when they got tired.
    Although she was considerably more comfortable than she had been when she was strewn over Boyd’s lap in a sack, as the day faded and became swallowed up by the mist, she increasingly suffered the effects of her walk through the river. Her wet slippers had turned to ice, and her feet along with them. Soon, her shivering became uncontrollable.
    Not that anyone noticed. The gruff old warrior behind her barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. Stiff-backed, eyes fixed straight ahead, he completely ignored her. The other warriors did as well.
    Boyd and the handsome blond-haired warrior, who also looked familiar, had stayed behind initially (presumably to scout for any soldiers who might be pursuing them) and had only just reappeared.
    Not that she would expect sympathy from
him
. He hadn’t looked in her direction once. So much for the special connection. If she needed proof of how one-sided that connection was, she had it. What had she expected—one look and somehow he would know her? That he would fall on his knees and pledge his undying devotion to her for what she’d done?
    He hadn’t seen her face, so how could he know her? And he wasn’t a knight in a faerie tale; he was a rebel. A brigand. A scourge. A man who fought without rules or honor.
    And she was a fool.
    Rosalin wrapped the plaid around her tighter and tried not to think about how tired she was, or how cold she was, or how miserable she was.
    Unsuccessfully. Her throat tightened and a hot sheen of tears burned behind her eyes. But she wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t. No matter how much she wanted to. No matter that she’d been abducted, manhandled, hunted, nearly crushed to death, found out a man she thought was a hero was no more than a merciless brigand, and was