The Ranger (9 page)

Unaware of his violent thoughts, she gazed up at him eagerly. “I’m so glad I caught you,” she said, her breath coming in short gasps. Gasps that made him think of swiving. Hell, just about everything she did made him think of swiving.

She must have sprinted from the tower when she saw him ride out from the stable. It wasn’t the first time. He’d been wrong about discouraging her the night of the feast. Dead wrong. If anything, she’d only redoubled her efforts since then.

He’d been living on edge all week, never knowing when she would show up. It seemed wherever he went, she was there. His brothers and the other men thought it was hilarious.

He, not so much.

He wasn’t as immune to her as he wanted to be. It was hard not to like the chit. She was so ... fresh. Like the first flower in spring.

He cursed inwardly. What the hell was happening to him? He was beginning to sound like a bloody bard.

“If you have a moment, there is something I should like to speak with you about,” she added.

He tried to smile, but his teeth were grinding together, and he suspected it was more of a grimace. “I’m riding out for the day. It will have to wait.”

Her smile fell. He braced himself, told himself he wasn’t going to feel it again, but he did. Like an arse. The way he’d felt most of the week. Stepping on fluffy kitten tails apparently never got any easier.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” She blinked up at him so innocently, he felt those little kitten claws digging into his chest. “I don’t want to bother you, it’s just that this is important—”

“Go on, Arthur,” his brother said, unable to hide his smirk. “The lady says she needs you. You can ride out with us another time.”

Arthur just might have to kill his brother. Dugald was doing it purposefully—backing him into a corner, making it impossible to refuse—just to see him suffer.

Dugald’s attitude toward Lorn’s daughters had softened in the week since the feast. But Arthur knew that Dugald, the bloody bastard, was just as motivated by the enjoyment he got out of seeing Arthur squirm, guessing—although by this point it was probably obvious—how uncomfortable he was about the lass’s attention.

This was quickly becoming the longest week of his life. He’d almost rather go through MacLeod’s two weeks of warrior’s training, not-so-jokingly dubbed Perdition, than another day of this.

Anna’s eyes brightened and the smile returned to her face. “Are you sure it’s all right?” She didn’t wait for Arthur to disagree. “That would be wonderful. Where were you going?”

“It’s not important,” Arthur lied, biting back his anger. It was the first opportunity he’d had to scout out the terrain on the north side of Loch Etive. Now, he would have to look for another excuse. It wasn’t the first time the lass had gotten in the way of his mission the past week.

He’d managed to follow a few priests and keep a short surveillance on the castle chapel and the nearby priory, but most of his time had been spent dodging Anna.

This had to stop.

“Have fun, little brother,” Dugald said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. “See you when we return.”

Arthur watched them leave. He didn’t usually engage in petty forms of sibling revenge, but he was reconsidering.

He jumped down off his mount and started to lead the swift and agile Irish hobby that had given the lightly armored “hobelars” horsemen their name back to the stable.

Anna pranced happily along beside him. He was careful to keep a certain distance between them. The lass was prone to touch his arm when she talked and each time she did it, he felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin. Pure defensive warfare, but he wasn’t ashamed. At this point it was about survival.

He’d been trained to be one of the most elite warriors in Scotland. A secret, lethal weapon who would do whatever he needed to protect his cover. He could slip behind enemy lines, steal through an enemy camp, single-handedly take down a dozen warriors, and kill a man without making a sound. But there was one thing he hadn’t been trained to do: dodge an overenthusiastic lass.

He didn’t understand it. Most women were wary of him, sensing something about him that wasn’t quite right. Sensing the danger. But not her. She looked at him as if he were
normal
.

It was bloody unsettling.

He kept his eyes straight ahead so he wouldn’t notice how the sun picked up the golden strands in her long, silky hair. Or the softness of her skin. Or how incredible she smelled. The chit must bathe in rose petals.

Damn
. He shouldn’t think about her bathing. Because if he thought about her bathing, he would inevitably think of her naked, and then he would think of her breasts. But he wouldn’t stop there.

His gaze dropped to her chest, where it had rested too many times this past week. To the soft, creamy mounds of flesh straining and spilling out of her bodice.

He’d think of cupping those spectacular breasts in his hands. Lifting them to his mouth and sucking them.

Ah hell
. He jerked his eyes away, feeling the hard swell of heat in his loins.

“I hope you are not too disappointed to miss your ride,” she ventured conversationally.

He shrugged and grunted unintelligibly.

She appeared not to notice his lack of enthusiasm. He couldn’t quite tell whether she was purposefully ignoring his obvious disinterest or just so happy and good-natured that she wasn’t aware of it.

He handed off the horse to one of the stable lads and turned to face her. “What is it you would like to talk to me about?”

A crease appeared between her brows. “Wouldn’t you like to go inside? I can have one of the servants bring us something cool to drink—”

“Here is fine,” he said sharply.

Defensive warfare
, he reminded himself. The Hall would be quiet inside at this time of day. A yard full of people milling about was much safer.

Thank God MacGregor and MacSorley weren’t around to see this. He would never hear the end of it.

Apparently he did have a cowardly bone in his body. He’d have to tell his brother Neil the next time he saw him.

She pursed her mouth, trying to look disapproving. But it failed miserably, only making her nose wrinkle up—adorably, damn her.

“Very well.” She didn’t sound happy about it. “Your brother mentioned you were good with a spear.”

Dugald didn’t know the half of it. Arthur carefully kept the extent of his skill hidden, not wanting it turned against his friends. With his enemies he was good—but not so good as to attract notice. He downplayed his scouting skills even more. Dugald still liked to prod him about the “freakish” abilities he’d displayed as a lad. Only Neil knew they hadn’t disappeared but had actually been honed sharper.

“What does my ability with a spear have to do with anything?” His voice held the edge of impatience.

“I thought you might help organize the tests of skill for tomorrow’s games.”

He frowned. “What games?”

“Since we weren’t able to hold the Highland Games this year, I thought it would be fun to put together a series of challenges for the men. They can compete against one another instead of other clans. My father thought it was a wonderful idea.”

Arthur stared at her incredulously. “
This
is what is so important?” This was what she’d made him miss his ride for? Fun? Games? He fought to control his temper, but he could feel it slipping away. He didn’t have a temper, damn it. Nonetheless his fists were clenched tight. The chit was living in a fantasy world with no idea of how precarious her father’s situation was. “Do you know why the games weren’t held this year?”

Her eyes narrowed, not missing the patronizing tone. “Of course I do. The war.”

“And yet you devise games while men are trying to prepare for battle.”

He saw a spark in her eye. Good. He hoped she was angry. She might not want to think about the war, but neither could she ignore it. Maybe she’d see how ridiculous this was.

Just like it was ridiculous for him to be noticing how long and feathery her lashes were, or the delicate arch of her brow.

“It
is
training. The games are only a means to enliven it. The competition will be good for them, and it will be fun.”

“There is nothing fun about warfare,” he said angrily.

“Perhaps not,” she said softly, seeming to pick up on something in his voice. Then she did it again. Touched him. The gentle press of her hand on his arm made every nerve-ending blast off like one of William “Templar” Gordon’s explosions. Their eyes met and he could see her sympathy. He didn’t want it—or need it. It wasn’t him she should worry about but her father and clansmen. “But sometimes going into battle is not all about warfare. What of the men’s spirit? Is that not important as well?”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t completely agree, but he didn’t completely disagree either.

He could feel her eyes scanning his face. “If you do not wish to help me, I can find someone else.”

He clenched his jaw, knowing he should deny her. Let her torture some other poor fool. But he liked that idea even less. Instead he found himself asking through gritted teeth, “What do you need?”

She beamed, and the force of it hit him like a blow across the chest. He nearly staggered.

As he listened to her excited voice explain what she wanted him to do, Arthur knew he should have run for it when he’d had the chance.

The day of the “Games” dawned bright and sunny. A good portent, as it turned out, for the games themselves.

Anna had been right, she thought with a smile that might have held a twinge of smugness. This was good for the men. No matter what
he
said.

Thus far, the games had been a rousing success. Not just for the knights and men-at-arms participating in the challenges, but for the occupants of the castle and the villagers as well. Hundreds of clansmen had followed the warriors’ progress in the challenges of skill and strength, cheering for their favorites whether they won or lost.

In the morning the spectators had gathered near the galley house—which housed her father’s ships—to watch the boat races and swimming contests in the bay behind the castle. They’d moved to the
barmkin
for the sword and archery contest before the lavish midday meal, and now they’d clustered on patches of grass mixed into the rocky knoll just beyond the castle gates for the final event: spear throwing.

“There’s your knight,” her sister Mary teased, pointing to the group of warriors lining up below.

Anna winced. If Mary had noticed,
everyone
must have noticed. Her normally blissfully unaware sister defied their father’s rule that women were more perceptive than men.

“He’s not my knight,” she quipped.

Too adamantly, she feared, judging by her eldest sister Juliana’s grin. “It certainly looks like you want him to be. A little sisterly advice, though”—Anna could tell she was trying to hold back her laughter—”you might want to be a little more ... uh, subtle.”

Anna pursed her mouth. She’d tried that. It hadn’t worked.

She lifted her chin, pretending not to know what her sister was talking about. “I’m merely trying to be a good hostess. Being friendly to
all
the knights who have answered Father’s call.”

That caused both of her sisters to burst out into peals of hysterical laughter. “Lud, I hope you aren’t that friendly to
all
of them,” Juliana said. She leaned over Anna, who was seated on the plaid between them, to address Mary. “Did you see that dress she wore yesterday? It must have been five years old. It wouldn’t fit Marion,” she said, referring to their petite twelve-year-old niece.

“Mother was furious,” Mary nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You should have seen her face when she saw Anna come in for the midday meal. It was the angriest I’ve seen her since Father fell ill.”

At least one good thing had come of Anna’s humiliation. It had been wonderful to see her mother cast aside her worry, if only for a moment, to berate her. Lord knows, nothing else had come of it. She could have been wearing a sackcloth for all Sir Arthur took notice of the gown.

She knew she should be ashamed, stooping to such wanton lengths as donning an indecent dress to get his attention. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And after a week of making a fool of herself, chasing after a man who didn’t want to be chased, she was at her wit’s end. Sir Arthur Campbell was almost as much of a mystery to Anna as the first time she’d bumped into him. She knew that he was an able knight, who was focused on his duty and liked to keep to himself—but she’d known all of that before.

He was an impossible man to read. Faith, he was an impossible man to get in the same room! Inventing reasons to be near him wasn’t easy, and Anna had been growing increasingly frustrated in her efforts to keep an eye on him. None of the other men had ever been this much trouble. Probably because they hadn’t been trying to avoid her.

So far, she’d seen nothing to warrant suspicion—unless being monosyllabic and unforthcoming were reasons for suspicion. He had to be the most difficult man she’d ever tried to converse with. Sir Arthur was the master of the short reply, not to mention as prickly and cantankerous as a bear roused from its winter slumber. If this was an indication of his interest in her—not that she gave any credence to her father’s claim—she couldn’t imagine what he was like when he
wasn’t
interested.

Yesterday, however, she’d made an important discovery. She’d learned how to make him talk: Get him angry. Perhaps she’d been going about this all wrong.

Her eyes narrowed on the enigmatic knight, currently moving with the other participants to the far end of the field. Though he’d done nothing suspicious, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was hiding something. Whether this was due to her powers of womanly perception or simply her pricked pride, however, she didn’t know. But there was definitely something different about him.

When her sisters had finally stopped laughing, Juliana said, “I must admit I’m surprised by your
friendliness
toward the knight.” She bit back another laugh. “He’s handsome enough, but you usually avoid men of his sort.”