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  Arthur stilled, his heart pounding in his chest as he felt the lass’s gaze sweep over the crowd of soldiers, and then—bloody hell—return to him.

  Instinctively, his hand tightened around the handle of his sword. A cold sweat slid down his spine.

  This time there was no helm to shield his face, and he felt the intensity of her scrutiny full force. He stilled when a small furrow appeared between her brows.

  For one long heartbeat he waited for her to unmask him. For her voice to ring out with the words that would condemn him to death … and to failure.

  But the furrow only deepened.

  And then in one reckless moment he knew what he had to do. He had to be sure.

  Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.

  He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink as their eyes collided unhindered for the first time. Gazing into her eyes, as dark and deep a blue as the sea, he felt himself drowning. Lost, if only for an instant.

  When she gasped, he knew it was all over.

  BY MONICA MCCARTY

  The Ranger

  The Chief

  The Hawk

  Highland Warrior

  Highland Outlaw

  Highland Scoundrel

  Highlander Untamed

  Highlander Unmasked

  Highlander Unchained

  The Ranger is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original

  Copyright © 2010 by Monica McCarty

  Cover Design: Lynn Andreozzi

  Cover illustration: Franco Accornero

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-51827-9

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  v3.1

  To Andrea and Annelise who are always ready with champagne, pom-poms, or words of wisdom. In other words: bartender, cheerleader, and Obi Wan Kenobi all rolled into two fabulous agents. Thank you for everything.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A special thanks to the entire team at Ballantine without whose support along each step of the way—from art, to sales, to editorial, to production, and publicity—this book would not be possible. Taking point on all this, of course, is my fabulous editor, Kate Collins, whose enthusiasm and thoughtful feedback are invaluable. Can you believe it’s been three years and six books?

  Contrary to popular belief, writing is not a solitary endeavor. I am fortunate to have a wonderful group of writer friends to rely on when I need to bounce around ideas, come up with a solution for a plot issue, or flesh out characters. From daily phone calls (Jami Alden, stand up) to group lunches and emails (it’s your turn Bella Andre, Veronica Wolff, Barbara Freethy, Carol Culver, Penelope Williamson, Tracy Grant, and Anne Hearn), I don’t know what I’d do without you. My good fortune in writing friends has extended to the very highest peaks. Catherine Coulter is not only one of the all-time great romance authors, but also a fabulous hostess. Thank you for the delicious food, a beautiful view, and excellent company—your lunches are the best! When I feel the need for a little jump across the pond, I know exactly whom to call—fellow “Onica” Veronica, I can’t wait for Mommy Abandonment Tour 2010: The Yanks are Back (and our chance to redeem ourselves at the pub quiz). When it comes to navigating the business side of writing and learning about the industry, RWA national has become a fun barroom classroom where I get to learn from the best: Barbara Samuel and Christy Ridgeway, I’m already looking forward to next year!

  Thanks to Emily and Estella at Wax Creative not only for a beautiful website, but also for keeping up on the latest and the greatest so that I don’t have to.

  And finally to Dave, my constant source of inspiration (seriously, I’m not laughing … it’s really more of an overenthusiastic smile with sound), and Reid and Maxine who never miss the opportunity to promote my books by yelling across the bookstore, “Mom, they have your book!”

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  The Highland Guard

  Foreword

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  THE HIGHLAND GUARD

  Winter 1307–1308

  With King Robert Bruce:

  Tor “Chief” MacLeod: Team leader and expert swordsman

  Erik “Hawk” MacSorley: Seafarer and swimmer

  Gregor “Arrow” MacGregor: Marksman and archer

  Eoin “Striker” MacLean: Strategist in “pirate” warfare

  Ewen “Hunter” Lamont: Tracker and hunter of men

  Lachlan “Viper” MacRuairi: Stealth, infiltration, and extraction

  Magnus “Saint” MacKay: Mountain guide and weapon forging

  William “Templar” Gordon: Alchemy and explosives

  Robert “Raider” Boyd: Physical strength and hand-to-hand combat

  Alex “Dragon” Seton: Dirk and close combat

  With the English:

  Arthur “Ranger” Campbell: Scouting and reconnaissance

  FOREWORD

  The Year of Our Lord thirteen hundred and seven. The tide has turned, but Robert the Bruce is still far from being able to claim victory in his quest to claim the Scottish throne.

  With England in turmoil following the death of his greatest foe, King Edward I of England, Bruce turns to vanquishing the enemies within. Many of his own countrymen still oppose him, foremost among them the Comyns, the MacDowells, the Earl of Ross, and the MacDougalls.

  With the help of his secret band of elite warriors known as the Highland Guard, Bruce continues his revolutionary strategy of “pirate” warfare, cutting a swath of destruction across the lands of his enemies that will be remembered for generations.

  He subdues the MacDowells in Galloway before starting the march north into the Highlands. After securing temporary truces with Ross and the MacDougalls, Bruce attacks the Comyns at Inverlochy, Urquhart, Inverness, and Nairn.

  But just when victory seems to be in his grasp, Bruce is struck with a strange sickness, leaving the would-be king hovering near death. The enemy becomes cold and hunger, as his men are forced to wait out the winter in uncertainty.

  The year before, when all seemed lost, and Bruce was forced to flee from his kingdom a fugitive, he turned to the warriors of the Highland Guard to help him survive. Now, to defeat the powerful nobles who stand in his way, he will need them more than ever.

  Prologue

  St. John’s Church, Ayr, Scotland, April 20, 1307

  Arthur
Campbell wasn’t there—or at least he wasn’t supposed to be. He’d told King Robert Bruce about the silver changing hands at the church tonight on its way north to the English garrison at Bothwell Castle. His part of the mission was over.

  Bruce’s men were concealed in the trees not fifty yards away, waiting for the riders to appear. Arthur didn’t need to be here. In fact, he shouldn’t be here. Protecting his identity was too important. After more than two years of pretending to be a loyal knight to King Edward, he’d invested too much to risk it on a “bad feeling.” It wasn’t just explaining himself to the English that he had to worry about. If King Robert’s men discovered him, they would think he was exactly what he appeared to be: the enemy.

  Only a handful of men knew Arthur’s true allegiance. His life depended on it.

  Yet here he was, hiding in the shadows of the tree-shrouded hillside behind the church, because he couldn’t shake the twinge of foreboding that something was going to go wrong. He’d spent too many years relying on those twinges to start ignoring them now.

  The clang of the church bell shattered the tomb of darkness. Compline. The night prayer. It was time.

  He held perfectly still, keeping his senses tuned for any sign of approaching riders. From his initial scouting of the area, he knew that Bruce’s men were positioned in the trees along the road approaching the church. It gave them a good view of anyone arriving, but left them far enough away to be able to make a quick escape in the event the occupants of the church—which was serving as a makeshift hospital for English soldiers—were alerted by the attack.

  Admittedly, St. John’s wasn’t the ideal place to stage an attack. If the wounded English soldiers inside weren’t enough of a threat, the garrison of soldiers stationed not a half-mile away at Ayr Castle should give Bruce’s men pause.

  But they had to operate with the intelligence they had. Arthur had learned that the silver would change hands tonight at the church, but not by which road it would leave. With at least four possible routes out of the city to Bothwell, they couldn’t be certain which one the riders would take.

  In this case the reward was worth the risk. The silver—perhaps as much as fifty pounds—intended to pay the English garrison at Bothwell Castle could feed Bruce’s four hundred warriors hiding in the forests of Galloway for months.

  Moreover, capturing the silver wouldn’t just be a boon to Bruce, it would also hurt the English—which was exactly what these surprise attacks were calculated to do. Quick, fierce attacks to keep the enemy unsettled, interfere with communication, take away the advantage of superior numbers, weaponry, and armor, and most of all, to instill fear in their hearts. In other words, they would fight the way he’d always fought: like a Highlander.

  And it was working. The English cowards didn’t like to travel in small groups without an army to protect them, but Bruce and his men had been giving them so much trouble, the enemy had been forced to use furtive tactics in attempting to sneak the silver through by using a few couriers and priests.

  Suddenly, Arthur stilled. Though there hadn’t been a sound, he sensed someone approaching. His gaze shot to the road, scanning back and forth in the darkness. Nothing. No sign of riders approaching. But the hairs at the back of his neck were standing on edge, and every instinct warned him otherwise.

  Then he heard it. The soft but unmistakable crackle of leaves crushed underfoot, coming from behind him.

  Behind.

  He swore. The couriers were arriving via the path from the beach, not the road from the village. Bruce’s men would see them, but the attack would be much closer to the church than they wanted. They’d been trained to expect the unexpected, but this was going to be close … very close.

  He hoped to hell the priest didn’t decide to come out and investigate. The last thing he wanted was a dead churchman on his soul—it was black enough already.

  He listened harder. Two sets of footsteps. One light, the second heavy. A twig cracked, and then another. They were getting closer.

  A moment later, the first of two cloaked figures came into view on the path below him. Tall and bulky, he stomped forcefully up the winding path, pushing branches out of the way for the soldier trailing behind. As he strode past, Arthur could just make out the glint of steel and the colorful tabard beneath the heavy folds of wool. A knight.

  Aye, it was them all right.

  The second figure drew closer. Shorter and slimmer than the first, and with a much more graceful step. Quickly dismissing him as the lesser threat, Arthur started to turn back to the first when something made him stop. His gaze sharpened on the second figure. The darkness and hooded cloak blotted out the details, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. The soldier almost seemed to be gliding along the path below him. There was something under his arm. It looked like a basket—

  His stomach dropped. Ah, hell. It wasn’t the courier, it was a lass. A lass with extremely bad timing.

  Arthur’s senses hadn’t failed him. Something bad was going to happen all right. If the lass didn’t get out of here, he had no doubt Bruce’s men would make the same mistake he had. But they wouldn’t have time to correct it. They’d be attacking as soon as she and her knightly companion came into view—which would be at any moment.

  He tensed as she swept right by him, the faint scent of roses lingering in her wake.

  Turn back, he urged her silently. When she paused and tilted her head slightly in his direction, he thought she might have heard his silent plea. But she shook it off and continued along the path, walking right into a death trap.

  Christ. What a damned mess. This mission had just gone straight to hell. Bruce’s men were about to lose their element of surprise—and kill a woman in the process.

  He shouldn’t interfere. He couldn’t risk discovery. He was supposed to stay in the shadows. Operate in the black. Not get involved. Do whatever he had to do to protect his cover.

  Bruce was counting on him. The prized scouting skills that had landed him in the elite fighting force known as the Highland Guard had never been as valuable as they were now. Arthur’s ability to hide in the shadows and penetrate deep behind enemy lines to gather intelligence about terrain, supply lines, and enemy strength and positions, was even more important for the surprise attacks that had become a hallmark of Bruce’s war strategy.

  One lass wasn’t worth the risk.

  Hell, he wasn’t even supposed to be here.

  Let her go.

  His heart hammered as she drew closer. He didn’t get involved. He stayed in the shadows. It wasn’t his problem.

  Sweat gathered on his brow beneath the heavy steel of his helm. He had only a fraction of an instant to decide …

  Bloody hell.

  He stepped out from behind the trees. He’d been playing a knight for so long he must have started to believe it. He was a damned fool, but he couldn’t stand by and let an innocent lass go to her death without trying to do something. Maybe he could intercept them before they came into view. Maybe. But he couldn’t be sure where all of Bruce’s men were positioned.

  He moved stealthily through the shadows, coming on her from behind. In one smooth motion, he slid his hand around to cover her mouth before she could scream. Hooking his arm around her waist, he jerked her hard against him.

  A little too hard. He could feel every one of her soft, feminine curves plastered against him—particularly the nicely rounded bottom saddled against his groin.

  Roses. He smelled them again. Stronger now. Making him feel strangely lightheaded. He inhaled reflexively and noticed something else. Something warm and buttery, with the faint tinge of apple. Tarts, he realized. In her basket.

  Her struggles roused him from the momentary lapse. “I mean you no harm, lass,” he whispered.

  But his body was responding to her in a manner that might be construed otherwise, crackling like wildfire at her movement. A hard shock of awareness coursed through him. She had a tiny waist, but he could feel the unmis
takable heaviness of very full, very lush breasts on his arm. A rush of heat pooled in his groin.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a woman.

  Hell of a time to think about it now.

  Her guardsman must have heard the movement. The knight spun around. “M’lady?”

  Seeing her in Arthur’s hold, he reached for his sword.

  “Shhh …” Arthur warned softly. He kept his voice low, both to avoid being heard and to disguise his voice. “I’m trying to help. You need to get out of here.” He relaxed his hold on her mouth. “I’m going to let go of you, but don’t scream. Not unless you want to bring them down on us. Do you understand?”

  She nodded, and slowly he released her.

  She spun around to face him. In the tree-shrouded moonlight, all he could see were two big, round eyes staring up at him from under the deep hood of her cloak.

  “Bring who down on us? Who are you?”

  Her voice was soft and sweet, and thankfully low enough not to carry. He hoped.

  Her gaze slid over him. He’d traveled lightly tonight as he always did when he was working, wearing only a blackened habergeon shirt and coif of mail, and gamboissed leather chausses. But they were fine, and from his helm (which he’d lowered to cover his face) and weaponry, it was clear he was a knight. “You’re not a rebel,” she observed, confirming what he’d already guessed of her sympathies. She was no friend of Bruce.

  “Answer the lady,” her companion said, “or you’ll feel the point of my sword.”