The Ranger (11 page)

He’d “lost” many times before. He didn’t know what the hell was wrong with him. He sure as hell didn’t care about impressing the lasses—or any one lass in particular. Pride could get him killed.

“Which wasn’t good enough to win,” Dugald pointed out, just in case he’d forgotten.

He hadn’t.

“The next church is just across the river,” the friar said, in a welcome change of subject.

They’d just come through Ben Cruachan, the highest mountains in Argyll, along the narrow, steep-sided pass of Brander or
Brannraidh
, place of ambush. Appropriately named, he thought. Opposite them lay the relatively flat, grassy land on the southern bank of Loch Etive.

“You mean Killespickerill?” Arthur asked. The ancient church in Taynuilt had once been the seat of the Bishop of Argyll.

“Ah, you know of it?”

Arthur exchanged a look with Dugald. The good friar was obviously unfamiliar with the history between the Campbells and MacDougalls. “A bit,” he said in an understatement. The small village of Taynuilt was located at the key juncture of Loch Etive and the river Awe, which connected three miles downstream to Loch Awe. Lorn’s lands, but close to Campbell lands. His jaw clenched. The former Campbell lands, that is.

“If you wish to make Oban by nightfall we shouldn’t stay long. We’ve still a good twelve miles to travel.”

At this pace it would take them another two days. It seemed as if they’d visited every church between Tyndrum and Loch Etive. Not that Arthur was complaining. It gave him more of an opportunity to scout the area. When Bruce and the rest of the men marched west to Dunstaffnage to face Lorn, they would pass through this same countryside. Their slow pace would also delay his return to the castle, which was fine by him.

But joining the friar hadn’t brought him any closer to discovering how messengers were slipping through King Robert’s net. They had to be churchmen, but so far not
this
churchman. He hadn’t seen the friar slip anything in or out of the leather sporran he wore around his waist. Nor had he discovered anything last night while the friar slept, when he’d taken the opportunity to make sure.

“Brother Rory makes the best pottage in the Highlands,” the friar said. “You won’t want to miss it.”

The last church had had meat pies, the one before that jam. Arthur suspected the stops at the various churches were more about tasting the local specialties than ministering to the faithful. Not that you would know it by the lance-thin churchman. He was more bone than flesh, and hearty of temperament rather than girth.

They crossed the river at the bridge of Awe and followed its banks, skirting the edge of the forest to the south. Simple gray stone cottages peppered the landscape, becoming more numerous and closer together as they drew nearer the village.

A few minutes later, nestled in the center of the lazy village on a small rise, the old stone church came into view.

There were a few people about, mostly women, and the light sounds of laughter and children playing ruffled through the air.

He stilled, hearing the traces of a song. A woman’s voice. His senses buzzed as if a bee had just passed behind his neck.

“Is something wrong?”

The friar, seated behind him, was close enough to pick up on his reaction. Arthur waited. His gaze flickered back and forth, but there was no sign of anything unusual, nor did he pick up the unmistakable air of danger.

He shook his head. “Nay, nothing.”

They continued on into the churchyard to the small building behind, where the priest slept and ate.

Friar John was good to his word. Brother Rory’s pottage was indeed one of the best Arthur had ever had. After two bowls he would have been content to sit on the bench in the priest’s garden and enjoy the crisp summer afternoon, but they needed to be on their way.

As he pushed back from the table, he heard it again. Singing. Louder this time. The sweet, musical tones were stunning in their beauty, filling him with a sense of awe like that which occurred when beholding a natural wonder. Like a perfect sunset. Or the mist upon a loch at dawn.

“Who’s that?” he asked almost reverently.

Brother Rory gave him a strange look that shook Arthur out of his trance. He’d spoken without thought, not adjusting for his keen hearing.

The priest listened and seemed to realize what he’d heard. “Ah, the lady is visiting from the castle today. She must be singing to Duncan—he loves nothing better since he returned than to hear the lady sing.”

Arthur froze. His senses no longer buzzed, they clamored. It couldn’t be.

Oblivious to Arthur’s reaction, Brother Rory continued. “Her visits are looked forward to by everyone. She brings such cheer.” His chest puffed with pride. “The lady never forgets us, or the people who have served her grandfather.”

“What lady?” Dugald asked.

“The Lady Anna. The Lord of Lorn’s youngest daughter. An angel sent from heaven, that’s what she is.”

More like sent by the devil to torment Arthur.

Dugald took one look at Arthur’s face and burst out laughing. “Sounds like the lass has tracked you down.”

Arthur couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t have found him ... could she? The other men would have returned yesterday.

He shook it off. Nay, it was impossible. A coincidence. An
unfortunate
coincidence.

Brother Rory looked confused by Dugald’s jest. “The lady comes every other Friday. As dependable as mist on the mountaintops. Do you know her?”

“A little,” Arthur said, before Dugald could respond.

Even more anxious to leave than before, he hurried to the post in the garden where they’d tied their horses.

Unfortunately, Lady Anna chose this moment to leave the small cottage she’d been visiting.

She stepped out on the path, not more than fifty yards away, and turned to wave goodbye to the woman and two small children who stood in the doorway. The sun caught her hair in a halo of golden light.

He felt a strange skip in his chest. He’d thought about her more than he wanted to admit, and he’d be damned if seeing her didn’t make him feel a brief flash of ...

Hell
. It felt like happiness. As if he’d actually missed her. But of course he hadn’t missed her. She was a nuisance. An
adorable
nuisance.

Her gaze turned in his direction.

He saw her startle and knew she’d seen him. But she pretended not to, spinning around and heading quickly down the path toward the loch.

Away
from him, her guardsman following trustily behind.

Arthur frowned. Not because she’s just ignored him, he told himself. Nay, because of her guardsman. Her
solitary
guardsman.

Before he could think better of it, he shouted, “Lady Anna!”

He could see her shoulders lift to her ears from here. Why that particular movement irritated him, he didn’t know, but it did.

Ignoring his grinning fool of a brother, he retied his horse to the post and strode toward her.

She seemed to stiffen
—stiffen
, damn it—straightening her spine and bringing her basket closer to her side, almost as if she were preparing to do battle.

“Sir Arthur,” she said in that soft, breathless tone that he’d forgotten.
Right
. She looked past his shoulder to his brother. “Sir Dugald. What a surprise.”

It didn’t sound like a pleasant one. What the hell was the matter with her? Had her interest drifted already?

That’s what he wanted, blast it.

He stopped right in front of her, perhaps a step too close. If he didn’t know himself better, he’d say he was trying to intimidate her. Using his size to block an escape. But he wasn’t a barbarian—he didn’t do things like that.

“Where are the rest of your men?” he snapped.

Her brows furrowed, creating those little lines atop her nose. “What men?”

He tried to sound patient but failed. “I see but a solitary guardsman,” he said, with a nod of acknowledgment to the young soldier.

She smiled. “Robby always accompanies me on Fridays. He was raised in this village.”

Arthur’s nonexistent temper started to rise again. Robby, though tall, couldn’t be more than ten and eight, and he sure as hell wouldn’t stop anyone intent on harming her.

Satan’s stones, there was a bloody war going on! What in Hades was Lorn thinking to let her wander like this?

He turned to his brother. “I’ll take the friar to Oban. You return to the castle with Lady Anna.”

Ah hell
. He saw his brother’s eyes narrow and knew she’d done it again. She’d made him do something without thinking. He’d just given an order to his captain. He didn’t make mistakes like that.

“I’ll take the friar,” Dugald said, a hard edge to his voice. “
You
can take the Lady Anna.”

The lady in question seemed to pick up on the sudden tension between the two brothers. “No one needs to take me anywhere. I’m perfectly fine with Robby.”

Arthur felt himself backed into the corner again. He knew his brother: Dugald had dug in his heels and would not retreat. Arthur had challenged his authority, and he couldn’t afford to get in a pissing match with his brother. If someone was going to accompany her, it would have to be him.

But that would mean giving up on a chance to see whether the friar was one of Lorn’s messengers.

He should just let her go. Most likely she’d be fine.

Most likely
.

The days were long. It probably would still be light when she returned.

Probably
.

His fists clenched as the frustration coiled inside him. “I’m sure you are fine,” he said, to preserve the lad’s tender pride. “But it would be my honor to see you back to the castle, my lady.”

Anna wasn’t happy to see him at all.

After weeks of avoiding her—leaving at the first opportunity
—now
the contrary man decides to anoint himself her stalwart protector?

Of course, she hadn’t forgotten what he’d done for her. When she’d looked up into those amazing dark golden eyes and realized that he’d caught her, realized that he’d saved her, realized he was cradling her in his arms ...

It had been the most romantic moment of her life.

The most romantic
single
moment. Because the next he’d set her on her feet, told her to be more careful, and left her standing there gaping at him.

How had he reached her so quickly? She remembered the flash of alarm in his eyes. It was almost as if he knew she’d been about to fall. Which of course was ridiculous ... wasn’t it?

But unconsciously she tucked her basket closer to her side. The man was entirely too watchful; she would have to think of something to distract him.

“Come along then, if you insist.” She spun on her heel and started back down the path.

His hand on her elbow, however, stopped her in her tracks. Her heart stopped as well, before kicking into a sudden race. He wasn’t gripping her hard, but she could feel every one of his fingers burning into her skin. A blast of awareness flooded her skin with heat.

She’d told herself she’d exaggerated the intensity of her reaction to him. But she hadn’t. Why
him?
Her attraction to him was inexplicable.

“Where is your horse?” he demanded. “The castle is in the other direction.”

“I’m not yet returning to the castle. I’ve still a few more villagers to visit.”

“It will be dark soon.”

Lud, he had a forbidding frown. She carefully extracted her elbow from his hand. “It won’t be dark for at least four hours. I’ve plenty of time.”

And before he could argue, she started off down the path, waving her quick goodbyes to Brother Rory, the friar, and Sir Dugald.

From his disapproving expression, she could tell that Arthur wasn’t pleased with the arrangement, but he followed along beside her like a brooding, unwelcome shadow.

They visited three more homes. The first belonged to Malcolm, who’d lost his sword arm fighting against the rebels at Glen Trool and was having a difficult time adjusting to life away from the battlefield.

Yet covered in scars and missing an arm, Anna knew he’d give another one if only he could go back. She didn’t understand this love some men had for war, and probably never would. She was tired of scars, of missing limbs, of wives without husbands and children without fathers.

Her nose wrinkled and she cast a surreptitious glance at the man in the corner. Not all scars bothered her, it seemed. Some were rather ... attractive.

He
had scars. One along his jaw that stood out when he clenched his teeth—which around her he seemed to do often—and a small nick on his right cheek. His hands were littered with them. He probably had some on his arms. And on his chest.

Her body flooded with heat as an image of his broad, powerfully muscled chest sprang to mind. Naked.

Nails to the cross, what was wrong with her? Fantasies—were she to engage in any—were utterly inappropriate in the middle of the day while trying to read to an injured man.

She might not be able to put a stop to the war, but she would do what she could to help, no matter how small. Malcolm’s wife, Seonaid, said he drank less
uisge-beatha
after she read to him, so Anna continued to bring her prized copy of Thomas of Britain’s
Tristan
. The old warrior loved the doomed tale of love between the knight and the Irish princess almost as much as she did.

She ignored the man brooding near the door, but she could feel him watching her.

It wasn’t until they’d left that he said, “You know how to read.”

She shrugged, knowing it wasn’t common in the Highlands. “My father thought it important that all of his children be educated.” She met his gaze, challenging him to say something. “Even the girls.”

He gave her a long look—frowning again—but didn’t comment.

The next house she visited belonged to the village healer. Afraig was getting old and didn’t travel around the countryside as easily as before, so whenever she visited, Anna brought a few herbs and plants that she’d collected in the forest near Dunstaffnage.

Anna saved the most important stop for last. Her recently widowed friend Beth had been left with five children, including baby Catrine—Cate—born not three months ago, six months after the poor babe’s father had been killed in an ambush by Bruce’s men near Inverlochy Castle, right before it fell to the rebels.