The Ranger (19 page)

Behind his nasal helm, Arthur could see Lorn’s eyes burning with hatred. His mouth was twisted with rage. It took him a long time, but eventually he nodded. “Aye.”

The Campbells had won! Arthur was filled with pride. His father was the greatest warrior he’d ever seen.

Great Colin lowered his sword and started to walk away.

Arthur felt a flicker of premonition, but his cry of warning was too late. His father turned around, only in time to have the blade of John of Lorn’s dirk find his stomach instead of his back.

He froze in stunned horror as his father’s eyes found his from his hiding place behind the boulder. His father staggered, fell to his knees, and in harrowing slowness the lifeblood drained out of him. His father’s gaze held his the entire time, and in it Arthur read his silent plea:
Avenge me
.

Lorn shouted, and a few of his men came around the bend to answer his call. Seeing the mighty Campbell chief fallen at their leader’s feet, they let out a fierce battle cry of victory. Lorn pointed to the hillside in Arthur’s direction. Arthur knew he couldn’t see him, but Lorn must have heard the cry that had alerted his father. When they started to come toward him, Arthur turned and ran.

He didn’t remember much of what happened afterward. He’d hid in the trees and rocks for nearly a week, too terrified to move. When he’d finally made his way back to the castle, Neil said he was half-dead. Arthur told his brother immediately what had happened, but by then it was too late to counter the MacDougalls’ version of events. Even if it could be explained how he’d heard the men from so far away, Neil knew that Arthur would not be believed. The MacDougalls had won the day, with Lorn taking credit for defeating the powerful Campbell chief.

Not long afterward, Lorn laid siege to Innis Chonnel and the Campbells had been forced to surrender.

From that day, Arthur had vowed justice for his father. Vowed to destroy MacDougall for the treacherous murder. Vowed to never let emotion get the better of him.

For fourteen years he’d bided his time, working to become one of the greatest warriors in the Highlands—a warrior his father would have been proud of—and now he had his chance. He couldn’t let anything interfere. He had to stay focused.

He’d failed his father once—his senses had let him down—and he would not do so again.

But he wished ...

Hell, it didn’t matter what he wished. There were some things that even he could not change. The lass was Lorn’s daughter. No matter how much she made him wish differently.

He leaned back against a nearby tree. As there was still an hour or so until nightfall, he figured he had some time to relax. After the breakneck pace of his journey north, it felt good to sit down. Though his instructions were simply to identify the messenger and not interfere—thereby not alerting MacDougall and allowing Bruce to intercept future messages—he needed to be prepared for anything.

But he was wound as tightly as a spring and relaxing proved impossible. It wasn’t only the trap for the messenger tying him up in knots, he knew, but the prospect of returning to the castle.

He would see her again.

The surge in his chest betrayed him. He told himself that it was merely because he wanted to assure himself that she was all right—not because he
wanted
to see her. Not because he couldn’t stop thinking about her. And sure as hell not because he missed her.

He couldn’t be that much of a fool.

Another month
, he told himself.
Stay away from her for a few more weeks and this will all be over
. Once he had the identity of the messenger, he would see what he could discover of the MacDougall battle plan. But when the battle started, his mission would be done. He would leave and never look back.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten since morning, he took out a piece of dried beef and oatcake, ate it, and washed it down with the water from the stream where he’d filled his skin. Absently, he scanned the grassy landscape.

His heart jerked to a violent stop. For a moment he stood transfixed. Hunger rose hard inside him, a yearning so intense it claimed his breath. Like a starving man, he watched as the lass he’d been thinking about for the past week seemed to materialize out of his dreams. Though she was still a good distance away and wore a hooded cloak over her golden hair, he knew it was her. He felt her nearness in his bones. In his blood.

Every nerve ending stood on edge as he watched her alight from a small skiff and begin to make her way up the grassy pathway from the small jetty to the cloister.

He struggled to catch a glimpse of her face in the fading daylight. The need to see her, to assure himself she was well, almost made him forget where he was. He took a step forward before realizing what he’d done.

Swearing, he slipped behind the tree before anyone noticed him standing there like a love-struck fool.

What the hell was she doing here?

She had that basket with her, and once again, only a solitary guardsman accompanied her. The lass had a singular ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like at the church in Ayr—

He went utterly still. The truth struck him right between the eyes.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

But he didn’t believe in coincidence. Either Anna MacDougall had an uncanny knack for showing up exactly where she shouldn’t, or she was the messenger.

She’s the messenger
.

The messages were in her basket, buried in the tarts or whatever else she carried with her. He recalled how jumpy she’d been at the village. How she’d handed him the baby and taken the basket with her to the kitchen. How she’d paled when he mentioned that the smell of the rolls was making him hungry.

And she’d been the one to pick up the silver in Ayr.

The truth had been right under his nose the entire time. How could he have been so blind?

His mouth hardened. He knew how: he’d underestimated her. Twice. Because she was pretty and young and innocent, because she seemed so vulnerable and sweet, because she was a lass, he’d never questioned her presence that night—even after he’d learned that she was spying on him.

Damn, it was brilliant. Using women as couriers. He thought of the women he’d seen coming and going from the churches. He’d never given them a second thought. They’d slipped right through his net.

He might have admired it, had he not been consumed by a far greater realization. His blood chilled to a trickle sliding down the back of his neck.

God’s wounds, how could her father use her like this? If Arthur wasn’t already planning it, he could kill MacDougall for putting her in such danger. Didn’t they realize what would have happened to her that night had he not been there to save her from MacGregor and his men? She could have been killed.

His heart pounded fiercely as she approached the door. He clenched his fists, struggling not to rush over there, toss her over his shoulder, and get her the hell out of here. He felt a primal urge to take her someplace safe, where he could lock her up and protect her.

Not your job. Not your responsibility
.

Not yours
.

A cold sweat had gathered on his brow. When he thought of the risk she was taking, it nearly drove him mad with ...

He flinched at the realization. Jesus, it was fear.

He hadn’t felt like this since Dugald tried to cure him of his aversion to rats by locking him in a dark storage shed crawling with them—without a weapon.

She knocked on the door. A moment later a priest answered. Though Arthur kept his ears pinned, they spoke in low tones and he couldn’t hear what they said. But from the monk’s apologetic expression and the shake of his head, Arthur knew he was telling her there was nothing. Her shoulders seemed to droop. They exchanged a few more words, and then she quickly returned to the skiff.

Arthur watched her go and knew that his mission had just gotten a whole hell of a lot more complicated.

Bloody hell, why did it have to be her?

He fought against what he had to do. But staying away from Anna MacDougall was no longer an option. No matter what his instincts warned him against, his mission demanded that he stay as close to her as possible. He needed to keep apprised of the MacDougalls’ plans.

A battle was about to begin. But for once, Arthur questioned his ability to escape unscathed.

Anna pushed back her hood as she entered her father’s solar. After setting down her basket on the table, she joined him and her mother beside the smoldering peat fire. Even in summer, the stone walls of the castle kept it cool and drafty inside.

Her mother glanced up from the new silk banner she was working on and frowned. “Where have you been, Annie-love? It’s late.”

Anna leaned down and gave her a kiss. “I took some tarts to the monks at the priory.”

She met her father’s gaze. His expression darkened. A small shake of her head had answered his unspoken question.

Before her mother could voice further objection, her father coughed. Though Anna knew it had been done purposefully, the raspy, wet sound concerned her.

“Didn’t you mention something about a new herb brew Father Gilbert recommended to help clear the bogginess from my lungs?”

Her mother gasped and jumped to her feet, tossing aside her embroidery. “I’d forgotten. I shall ask Cook to prepare it right now.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, her father said, “King Edward has not responded?”

Anna shook her head. “We should have heard from him by now.”

Her father stood up and started pacing before the hearth, his anger growing with each step. “Bruce’s damned brigands must have intercepted it. It seems like over half our messages are not reaching their destination—even with the help of the women.” His mouth fell in a hard line. “But as we’ve heard no word of soldiers on the march, I think we can assume that none will be forthcoming. Young Edward is too busy trying to save his own hide to worry about ours.”

After all her father had done for the first King Edward, Anna couldn’t believe the new king would abandon him like this.

Lay down with dogs ...

The old adage slipped to mind but she pushed it away; it seemed somehow disloyal. Her father hadn’t had a choice. The first King Edward had been too powerful. After Wallace’s defeat at Falkirk, it was either ally with the English king or see their lands forfeited. When Bruce had stolen the crown, the alliance had become even more necessary. With Bruce and the MacDonalds on one side, the MacDougalls could stand only on the other—with England.

“Should we try to send another message?”

“There isn’t time,” her father snapped, clearly annoyed by what he perceived as a foolish question. “The English move slowly. With all their household plate and furniture, it would take them weeks to march this far north. Even were Edward to change his mind, he would need time to gather the men. King Hood and his murderous band of marauding cateran will be here before the English have time to load the carts with all their finery.”

Anna tried not to take her father’s anger personally. He had every right to be short-tempered. Their enemy was bearing down on them and no one was coming to their aid. Like King Edward, the Earl of Ross had yet to respond to their pleas to join forces.

It was becoming painfully clear that they were going to be left on their own to face Bruce—eight hundred men to the usurper’s reported three thousand.

Fear closed around her throat. The MacDougalls were fierce fighters, and her father was one of the best battle commanders in Scotland, but could they overcome such odds? Her father had nearly defeated Bruce before, but then the outlaw king had been on the run with only a few hundred men to her father’s much larger force. This time the MacDougalls would be the ones greatly outnumbered.

It didn’t matter, she thought fiercely. Her father would win anyway. One MacDougall was worth five rebels.

But no matter how many times she told herself that John of Lorn could overcome even the gravest of odds, she couldn’t deny the faintest, tiniest possibility her loyal heart would allow that they could ... lose.

Lose
.

A shudder ran through her. Even thinking the word seemed the vilest of blasphemies. She couldn’t let that happen. The ramifications were too hideous to consider. But everything that she held dear, all her dreams of a happy future, seemed to be balanced on the point of a pin—or in this case, a sword. The barest nudge could send it all careening over the edge.

The thick stone walls of the castle suddenly felt like thin panes of glass, ready to shatter.

Their situation was dire—desperate even. But there was a way she could make it less so.

Time seemed to still. Dread formed a tight knot in her stomach. The anxious flutter in her chest quickened as she realized what she would have to do. The answer had been lurking in the back of her mind for months, but she hadn’t wanted to consider it.

Her fingers clenched the folds of her cloak as if she were grasping for a rope to hold on to. “What of Ross?” she asked softly. “There is still time for him to come.”

Her father gave her a sharp glance. “Aye, but as I told you before, he won’t.”

Was that a rebuke in his gaze? Did he now regret having given her a choice?

Anna took a deep, ragged breath, trying to still the frantic race of her pulse. A cold sheen of perspiration settled over her icy skin. Her chest squeezed so tightly it was hard to breathe. Every instinct rebelled against what she was about to suggest. But she had no choice. A husband was a small price to pay for the survival of her clan. She would marry the devil himself if she had to. “What if I gave him a reason to reconsider?”

Her father’s gaze held hers. From the speculative gleam in his eyes, she knew he’d guessed what she was going to suggest—or maybe had intended her to suggest it all along.

“What if I make a personal appeal to the earl?” She paused, her grasp on the woolen cloak squeezing the blood from her fingers. The frantic sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her stomach tossed queasily.
It will be all right. I will make it work. He’s not that frightening
. Sir Arthur was tall, muscular, and darkly handsome, and she wasn’t nervous around him. Perhaps she’d gotten over her unease of warriors.