The Ranger (8 page)

He didn’t like hurting her—or any woman, he corrected. But when he’d caught Lorn watching them, he knew he had to put an end to this. Whatever
this
was.

He couldn’t believe he’d actually been considering dancing with the chit. Her genuine friendliness and innocent-kitten expression were not without effect. But her father’s interest had brought him harshly back to reality.

He hoped his crude glance cured her of any romantic illusions.

It had. Her eyes widened, taking on a stricken look that made him feel like a clod who’d just stepped on her fluffy white tail.

“Of course,” she said softly, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

She lowered her gaze and took a step back.

He felt it again. That strange compulsion that he’d experienced at the church. The inability to let her walk away.

He dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to fight the urge, to calm the sudden restlessness teeming inside him. It didn’t work.

Ah, hell
. He reached out. “Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.

She stiffened at his touch, not looking at him, color still high on her cheeks.

He dropped his hand.

When he didn’t say anything, she finally lifted her chin and tilted her face slightly toward him. He wished the soft candlelight had hid the quiver in her chin.

“Yes?” she asked.

Their eyes met, and Arthur cursed himself for a bloody fool. What the hell had he thought to say?
I’m flattered, but it would never work; I’m here to destroy your father
. Or how about,
I can’t dance with you because I’m afraid you might realize I’m the spy for Bruce who saved you at the church
.

She eyed him expectantly.

“I have a job to do,” he blurted, feeling like an idiot. He didn’t blurt anything. And why the hell was he explaining himself?

He sensed her scrutiny, felt the penetration of her gaze, and had the uncomfortable suspicion that she was seeing far more than he wanted her to.

“And nothing more,” she filled in.

He shrugged. “I’ve little time for anything else.”

A wry smile turned her mouth. “Are knights not permitted one day of entertainment and fun?”

Her response was lighthearted; his was not. “Nay. Not me, at least. Not with war on the horizon.”

He almost regretted his honesty when he saw the flash of alarm in her too-expressive big, blue eyes. It was clear the harsh reality of her father’s situation was not something she wanted to think about. Could she really be that naive, or was she living in some kind of fantasy world? A world of feasts and celebrations, happily ensconced in the bosom of her family, while war reigned in chaos beyond their gates.

His words had succeeded in doing what he’d wanted to do from the first. When she looked at him again, he didn’t detect even a hint of feminine interest in her gaze. She was looking at him as if he were any other warrior who’d come to serve her father. He hadn’t realized how differently she’d been looking at him until the look was gone.

“Your devotion to your duty is to be commended. I’m sure my father is fortunate to have a knight like you in his service.”

Arthur felt like laughing. If she only knew. Fortune was the last thing he would bring John of Lorn.

He wasn’t a knight, he was only playing one. He was a Highlander. The only code he lived by was win. Kill or be killed.

Suddenly, an older, plumper version of her sister Lady Mary appeared at her side.

“There you are, darling. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“What is it, Mother?”

The note of worry in Anna’s voice bothered him. She shouldn’t be upset.

“The men are talking about that horrible Robert Bruce again.” The still-beautiful older woman twisted her hands anxiously. “Your father is getting angry.” Fear crept into her voice. “You need to do something.”

Anna muttered something under her breath that sounded like “St. Columba’s bones.” When a frown gathered between her mother’s eyes, in an expression distinctly like her daughter’s, Arthur realized he’d heard her right. “Don’t worry,” Anna said, giving her mother’s hands a pat. “I’ll take care of it.”

He suspected she took care of quite a lot.

Her mother glanced over at him, seeming to realize she’d interrupted. She flashed him an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait for the next dance.”

There wasn’t a hint of embarrassed color in Anna’s cheeks when her gaze slid over him. “There is no dance,” she said firmly. “Sir Arthur was just leaving.”

Though there was nothing discourteous in her voice, Arthur knew he had just been dismissed. Without another glance, Anna followed her mother through the crowd.

He watched her longer than he should have, telling himself he should be happy. This was what he’d wanted. It would be for the best.

But it wasn’t happiness he felt at all. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was regret.

It was hours later when Anna knocked on the door of her father’s solar.

He bid her enter, then upon seeing it was her, dismissed his
luchd-taighe
guardsmen.

She waited for the clansmen to leave before coming forward. “You wished to see me, Father?”

John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, was seated behind a large wooden table and motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite him. After the exhaustion of the feast, she did so willingly. It had to be near midnight.

Her father’s serving man had caught her just before she retired for the evening. Though she could barely keep her eyes open, and every bone in her body ached, she didn’t think about refusing. A summons by her father could not be ignored. So she’d donned a velvet fur-lined robe to cover her chemise and hurried to his solar, wondering why he wanted to see her so late. Maybe, like Alan, he wanted to praise her for her efforts tonight?

He gave her a long look. “I have something I should like you to do for me.”

She tried not to feel disappointed. Her father had too many things on his mind, too many people to worry about, to concern himself with the feast. She knew he appreciated her; he didn’t need to tell her. She should have realized it would be something important to call for her this late at night.

“Of course,” she said without hesitation. “Do you wish me to visit your cousin the Bishop of Argyll again?”

He shook his head, a wry smile curving his mouth. “Nay, not this time.” He paused, giving her a knowing look. “I noticed you speaking with one of the new knights earlier.”

She bit her lip uncertainly. “I spoke to many of the men. Did I do something wrong? I thought you would wish me to help welcome the new arrivals.”

He brushed off her worries. “You did nothing wrong. Before your mother sent you over to distract me with all those foolish questions ...” He gave her a forbidding frown, but she simply grinned, not bothering to deny it. They were foolish, but she couldn’t think of anything other than food on the spur of the moment. “...  I noticed you talking to one of the Campbells.”

Her smile fell.
That
new knight. “Sir Arthur,” she provided, keeping her voice even.

But she felt a prickle of unease, suspecting what her father wanted her to do. She might not be able to wield a sword or join her brothers on the battlefield, but Anna did what she could to help put an end to the war in other ways. Including, on occasion, keeping an eye on knights or barons whom he didn’t trust. It wasn’t spying ... exactly.

“What do you think of him?”

The question didn’t surprise her. Her father often asked her impression of visitors or new soldiers. Most leaders wouldn’t deign to ask a woman’s opinion, but her father was not most men. He believed in using whatever tools he had at his disposal. Women were more perceptive than men, he believed, so he took advantage of their skill.

She gave a little shrug. “I spoke with him only briefly. Not more than a few words. He seemed ...” Rude. Aloof. Cold. “Dedicated to his duty.”

He nodded as if he agreed. “Aye, he’s an able knight. Not as lauded as his brother, perhaps, but an accomplished warrior. Was there nothing else?”

She could feel her father’s scrutiny and fought the flush that threatened to climb her cheeks. She’d noticed the knight was handsome and built like a rock, but she wasn’t going to mention that. She thought back to the feast. “He seems to prefer to keep to himself.”

His eyes sparked as if she’d said something to interest him. “What do you mean?”

“I noticed at the feast that he didn’t seem to talk much, even to his brothers. I don’t think he even has a squire. He barely drank, he wasn’t interested in flirting with any of the lasses or dancing, and he left as soon as he could.”

His mouth twisted to the side. “You seem to have noticed quite a bit about him.”

This time she couldn’t prevent the heat from flooding her face. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But it’s no matter.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t think he likes me very much.”

Her father couldn’t hide his amusement, which she thought a bit unfeeling in the circumstances.

“Actually, that’s why I called you here.”

“Because he doesn’t like me?”

“Nay, because I think it’s just the opposite, and I wonder why he’s going to such an effort to pretend otherwise.”

Anna thought her father seriously misread the situation, but she didn’t bother arguing. Like most fathers, he thought it inconceivable that any man would reject one of his beloved daughters. “Perhaps it’s the old feud,” she suggested. “His father died in battle with our clan, didn’t he?”

A strange look crossed his face, before he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. “Aye, many years ago. That could be some of it, but I don’t think all of it. Something about the lad bothers me. I can’t put my finger on it, but I want you to keep an eye on him. Just for a while. It’s probably nothing, but with the truce coming to an end, I don’t want to take any chances. But neither can I afford to give offense. The Campbells are formidable warriors and I need all the men I can get.”

Her stomach dropped. It was as she’d feared. After their conversation earlier, the last thing she wanted to do was keep an eye on Sir Arthur Campbell. “Father, he has made it clear—”

“He’s made nothing clear,” he snapped. “You are wrong about Campbell’s interest in you.” Then in a milder voice, he added, “I’m not asking you to seduce the man, just watch him.” He gave her a hard look. “I do not understand this reluctance. I thought you wished to help. I thought I could count on you.”

Chastened, she said hurriedly, “You can.”

His eyes narrowed. “Did something happen you are not telling me about? Did he touch you—”

“Nay,” she insisted. “I told you everything. Of course I will do as you bid. I was just suggesting it might not be easy.”

Whatever qualms she had paled in comparison to her vow to do whatever she could to see an end to the war and a victory for the MacDougalls. Even if it meant pursuing a man who did not want to be pursued. Even if it meant her pride was about to take a severe lashing.

Her father smiled. “I think it will be much easier than you imagine.”

She hoped he was right, but she suspected there wasn’t anything simple about Sir Arthur Campbell.

Arthur had almost made it. The gate wasn’t fifty feet away. Another minute and he would have been riding out on his way to gathering more information for Bruce.

“Sir Arthur!”

The soft, sweet feminine voice made every muscle in his body tense.
Not again
. He eyed the distance to the gate. He wondered if he could run for it.

Already he could hear the men around him start to snicker as the achingly—and he meant achingly, even his teeth had begun to hurt—familiar face appeared at his side.

She was smiling. She was
always
smiling. Why the hell did she have to smile so much? And why did it have to light up her entire face, from the soft curve of her too-pink lips to the bright twinkle in her deep-blue eyes? If he were prone to ruminating like a lovesick bard about poetic allusions to eye color, he would say they were like dark sapphires. But he had a hell of a lot more important things to do, so they were dark blue.

Sapphires ...

He jerked his gaze away. He should have kept his eyes on her face, but he made the mistake of dropping his gaze and had to smother a grunt of pain. The persistent throb between his legs jerked hard. A state to which he was growing painfully accustomed.

One look at her gown and he felt like dropping to his knees and begging God for mercy.

Was she trying to kill him?

Probably. Her flirting and increasingly bold overtures were getting harder to ignore. Seeking him out at meals, insisting on helping the healer when he’d taken a blow on the arm from a sword a few days ago (he’d been distracted, damn it, by her flouncing around the garden, laughing with her sisters), showing up at the stable at the same time he was due to ride out in the morning, and now this. Her sunny yellow satin surcote was fitted tight in all the wrong places. He didn’t know how she could breathe; it clung to her chest and slim waist as if she’d dampened it in the loch.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was how low the square neckline dipped on her chest. Her ample—mouthwateringly, prodigiously ample—chest.

Christ’s bones, he couldn’t take his eyes off the soft, pale flesh swelling—nay, spilling—over the bodice.
Ripe
and
lush
were two words that came to mind. But that didn’t even begin to describe the perfection of her magnificent breasts.

He’d just about chop off his left arm to see them naked. And he was having a damned hard time doing anything but imagining how they would look. How they would taste. How they would bounce when ...

Ah, hell
. He jerked his gaze away. His body was on fire under his armor. From lust, aye, but also from an irrational flare of anger. If she were his, he’d keep her locked up in his room for a week for wearing that gown in public.
After
he ripped it off her and burned it.

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had gotten him so ... bothered.