The Raider by Monica McCarty Page A

probably being taken into what undoubtedly was the most terrifying place in Christendom. She had to stay strong for Roger.
    Perhaps she wasn’t completely without sympathy. The blond-haired warrior glanced in her direction, but he was careful not to meet her gaze. From their tense conversation, she wondered if it might be about her. Whatever the two men were talking about, it was clear they weren’t in agreement.
    She was so cold, she was about to break down and ask the recalcitrant old warrior for something warm to wrap around her feet, when Boyd swung his mount around and glowered in their direction. Ripping the plaid off from around his shoulders, he threw it toward them. “Damn it, Callum, wrap her in this. She’ll bring the entire English army down on us with all that chattering.”
    Callum caught the plaid and draped it over her, tucking it under her feet, which were slung to one side. Rosalin burrowed into its heat with a contended sigh.
    Apparently, Boyd did not want or expect her thanks, because he’d already turned around.
    Considerably more comfortable, she told herself not to read anything into the less than graciously made gesture. But there was a strange intimacy to being wrapped in his plaid. The thick wool fibers still held the warmth of his body, and if she inhaled just a little, she caught the faint edge of pine and heather and something distinctly masculine. It felt like he was surrounding her and made it difficult for her not to think about foolish things.
    She tried instead to think about Sir Henry. He would be arriving at Berwick soon. She shuddered to think what he would do when he found out about her abduction. She hoped he didn’t do something rash. Her nose scrunched up. Strange that although she didn’t know him that well, that was her first thought.
    The sky was as black as pitch by time they finally stopped. Though they’d been riding for a few hours, with the rough terrain, heavy loads, and having to slow their speed with the horses over the hills, she guessed they hadn’t gone more than ten or fifteen miles.
    Callum dismounted and helped her down without looking at her.
    Despite his less than friendly expression, she asked, “Where are we?”
    “Ask the captain,” he replied, already walking off.
    She intended to. Right after she checked on Roger. But seeing her nephew standing with “the captain” a few feet away, she marched over toward them both. After a quick glance to assure her Roger was all right, she turned to Boyd. Not without reluctance, she unwrapped the plaid from her shoulders and handed it to him. “Thank you,” she said.
    “Keep it,” he said indifferently. “You’ll need it tonight.”
    “Won’t you be cold?”
    He gave her a long stare. “I didn’t go swimming in a river.”
    It hadn’t been swimming, but given the subject was her attempted escape, she decided not to argue semantics. She looked around in the torchlit darkness, seeing what appeared to be a small sheltered corrie in the forest with a stream running between the two mist-shrouded hills. It would be hauntingly beautiful if she weren’t cold, abducted, and suspecting that it would serve as her bedchamber for the night. “Where are we?”
    He waited a long beat before replying. “St. Cuthbert’s Hills.”
    “I’ve never heard of it.”
    The way he shrugged suggested he was well aware of that, which was probably why he’d told her. It was probably a local way of referring to the place that would have no meaning to anyone not from the area.
    “Is that near Edinburgh?”
    His piercing blue eyes narrowed. She still couldn’t quite get used to the sharp contrast of his light eyes with dark hair, and she felt something like a shiver race over her skin. It was unsettling.
He
was unsettling.
    “If you are thinking about attempting another escape, I would not advise it. These hills are dangerous, my lady. You never know who you might come across.”
    As if to punctuate his words, a group of