The Ranger Page 2

  Arthur resisted the urge to laugh. The knight was all brute strength and moved about as deftly as a barge. But cognizant of the situation, he didn’t want to take the time to prove the soldier wrong. He needed to get them out of here as quickly and quietly as possible.

  “A friend, my lady,” he said. “A knight in the service of King Edward.”

  For now at least.

  Suddenly, he stilled. Something had changed. He couldn’t describe how he knew, other than a disturbance in the back of his consciousness and the sensation that the air had shifted.

  Bruce’s men were coming. They’d been discovered.

  He cursed. This wasn’t good. No more time to convince her gently. “You must leave now,” he said in a steely voice that brokered no argument.

  He caught the flare of alarm in her gaze. She, too, must have sensed the danger.

  But it was too late. For all of them.

  He gave her a hard shove, pushing her behind the nearest tree moments before the soft whiz of arrows pierced the night air. The arrow meant for the lass landed with a thud in the tree that now shielded her, but another had found its mark. Her guardsman groaned as a perfectly shot arrow pierced through his mail shirt to settle in his gut.

  Arthur barely had time to react. He turned his shoulder at the last moment as the arrow meant for his heart pinned his shoulder instead. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the shaft and snapped it off. He didn’t think the arrowhead had penetrated deeply, but he didn’t want to risk trying to pull it out right now.

  Bruce’s men thought he was one of the couriers. An understandable mistake, but one that put him in the horrible predicament of battling his compatriots to defend himself or betray his cover.

  He could still get away.

  Maybe they would realize it was a lass? But he couldn’t make himself believe it. If he left, she would die.

  Arthur barely had time to process the thought, for in the next moment all hell broke loose. Bruce’s men were on them, bursting out of the darkness like demons from hell. The lady’s guardsman, still staggering from the arrow, took a spear in the side and a battle-axe in the head. He toppled to the ground like a big oak tree, landing with a heavy thud.

  Arthur heard a startled cry behind him and, anticipating the impulse, blocked the lass’s path before she could rush forward to help the fallen soldier. He was past help.

  But one of Bruce’s men must have caught the movement.

  Arthur’s next move was nothing but instinct. It was too fast to be anything else. A spear hurtled through the air, heading straight for her. He didn’t think, he reacted. Reaching up, he snatched the spear in his hand midair, catching it only a few feet from her head. In one swift movement he brought it down across his knee and snapped it in two, tossing the splintered pieces to the ground.

  He heard her startled gasp but didn’t dare take his eyes from the score of men rushing toward him. “Get behind the damned tree,” he shouted angrily, before turning to block a blow of a sword from the right. The man left him an opening, which Arthur didn’t take.

  He swore, fending off another. What the hell should he do? Reveal himself? Would they believe him? He could fight his way out, but there was the lass to consider …

  A moment later the decision was taken from him.

  A man’s voice rang out from the trees, “Hold!” The warriors seemed confused but immediately did as the newcomer bid, stopping in their tracks. Seconds later, a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows. “Ranger, what in the hell are you doing here?”

  Shaking his head with disbelief, Arthur stepped forward to greet the black-clad warrior who’d emerged from the trees. Gregor MacGregor. That certainly explained the perfect arrow shot he’d noticed earlier. MacGregor was the best archer in the Highlands, giving proof to the nom de guerre of “Arrow” chosen by Bruce to protect his identity as a member of the Highland Guard.

  Arthur wasn’t sure whether or not he should be grateful to see his former enemy turned Highland Guard partner, and at one time, the closest thing he had to a friend. That had changed when Arthur had been forced to leave the Highland Guard over a year and a half ago. At the time, none of his fellow guardsmen—including MacGregor—had known the truth. When they’d heard he’d joined with the enemy they’d thought him a traitor. Though they’d eventually learned the truth, his role had kept him apart.

  They clasped forearms, and despite his initial hesitation, Arthur found himself grinning beneath his helm. Damn, it was good to see him. “I see that no one’s messed up that pretty face of yours yet,” he said, knowing how much MacGregor’s renowned good looks bothered him.

  MacGregor laughed. “They’re working on it. It’s damned good to see you. But what are you doing here? You’re lucky I saw you catch that spear.”

  Arthur had once saved MacGregor’s life doing the same thing. It wasn’t as difficult as it looked—if you could get past the fear. Most couldn’t.

  “Sorry about the arrow,” MacGregor said, pointing toward Arthur’s left shoulder where blood was oozing from around the splintered staff, an inch of which was still protruding from his arm.

  Arthur shrugged. “It’s nothing.” He’d had worse.

  “You know this traitor, Captain?” one of the men asked.

  “Aye,” MacGregor said, before Arthur could caution him. “And he’s no traitor. He’s one of ours.”

  Damn. The lass. He’d forgotten about the lass. Any hope that she might not have heard MacGregor or grasped the significance was dashed when he heard her sharp intake of breath.

  MacGregor heard it, too. He reached for his bow, but Arthur shook him off.

  “It’s safe,” he said. “You can come out now, lass.”

  “Lass?” MacGregor swore under his breath. “So that’s what this is about.”

  The woman moved out from behind the tree. When Arthur reached to take her elbow, she stiffened as if his touch offended. Aye, she’d heard all right.

  Her hood had slid back in the chaos, revealing long, shimmering locks of golden-brown hair falling in thick, heavy waves down her back. The sheer beauty of it seemed so out of place, it temporarily startled him. And when a sliver of moonlight fell upon her face, Arthur’s breath caught in a hard, fierce jolt.

  Christ, she was lovely. Her tiny heart-shaped face was dominated by large, heavily lashed eyes. Her nose was small and slightly turned, her chin pointed, and her brows softly arched. Her lips were a perfectly shaped pink bow and her skin … her skin was as smooth and velvety as cream. She had that sweet, vulnerable look of a small, fluffy animal—a kitten or a rabbit, perhaps.

  The innocent breath of femininity was not what he was expecting and seemed utterly incongruous in the midst of war.

  He could only stare in stunned silence as MacGregor—the whoreson—stepped forward, peeled off his nasal helm, and gallantly bowed over her hand.

  “My apologies, my lady,” he said with a smile that had felled half the female hearts in the Highlands—the other half he’d yet to meet. “We were expecting someone else.”

  Arthur heard the lass’s predictable gasp when she beheld the face of the man reputed to be the most handsome in the Highlands. But she quickly composed herself and, to his surprise, seemed remarkably lucid. Most women were babbling by now. “Obviously. Does King Hood make war on women now?” she asked, using the English slur for the outlawed king. She eyed the church up ahead. “Or merely priests.”

  For someone surrounded by enemies, she showed a surprising lack of fear. If the fine ermine-lined cloak hadn’t given her away, he would have known she was a noblewoman from the pride in her manner alone.

  MacGregor winced. “As I said, it was a mistake. King Robert makes war only on those who deny him what is rightfully his.”

  She made a sharp sound of disagreement. “If we are done here, I’ve come to fetch the priest.” Her eyes fell on her fallen guardsman. “It is too late for my man, but perhaps he can still give release to those who await him at the castle.”
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  Last rites, Arthur realized. Probably for those wounded in the battle of Glen Trool a week’s past.

  Though the helm covered his face, he kept his voice low, to further mask his identity. His cover had been jeopardized enough—he didn’t want there to be any chance that she would be able to identify him.

  She had to be related to one of the nobles who’d been called to Ayr to hunt Bruce. He’d make sure to stay away from the castle—far away. “What is your name, my lady? And why do you travel with such a paltry guard?”

  She stiffened, looking down her tiny nose at him. With the adorable little upturn, it should have been ridiculous, but she managed a surprisingly effective amount of disdain. “Fetching a priest is usually not a dangerous task—as I’m sure even a spy can attest.”

  Arthur’s mouth fell in a hard line. So much for gratitude. Perhaps he should have left her to her fate.

  MacGregor stepped forward. “You owe this man your life, my lady. If he hadn’t interfered,” he nodded toward her fallen guardsman, “you both would have been dead.”

  Her eyes widened, and tiny white teeth bit down on the soft pillow of her lower lip. Arthur felt another unwelcome tug beneath his belt.

  “I’m sorry,” she said softly, turning to him. “Thank you.”

  Gratitude from a beautiful woman was not without effect. The tug in his groin pulled a little harder, the lilting huskiness of her voice making him think of beds, naked flesh, and whispered moans of pleasure.

  “Your shoulder …” She gazed up at him uncertainly. “Is it hurt badly?”

  Before he could form a response, he heard a noise. His gaze shot through the trees to the church, noticing the signs of movement.

  Damn. The sound of the attack must have alerted the occupants of the church.

  “You need to go,” he said to MacGregor. “They’re coming.”

  MacGregor had seen firsthand Arthur’s skills too many times to hesitate. He motioned his men to go. As quickly as they’d arrived, Bruce’s warriors slipped back into the darkness of the trees.

  “Next time,” MacGregor said, before following them.

  Arthur met his gaze in shared understanding. There would be no silver tonight. In a few moments the church would be swarming with men and lit up like a beacon, warning anyone who approached of the danger.

  Because of one lass, Bruce would not have the silver to provision his men. They would have to rely on what they could hunt and scavenge from the countryside until another opportunity came.

  “You had best go, too,” the lass said stiffly. He hesitated, and she seemed to soften. “I’ll be fine. Go.” She paused. “And thank you.”

  Their eyes met in the darkness. Though he knew it was ridiculous, for a moment he felt exposed.

  But she couldn’t see him. With his helm down, the only openings in the steel were the two narrow slits for him to see and the small pinpricks for him to breathe.

  Still, he felt something strange. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a connection. But he didn’t have connections with strange women. Hell, he didn’t have connections with anyone. It kept things simpler that way.

  He wanted to say something—though hell if he knew what—but he didn’t have the chance. Torches appeared outside the church. A priest and a few of the wounded English soldiers were heading this way.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, and slipped back into the shadows where he belonged. A wraith. A man who didn’t exist. Just the way he liked it.

  Her sob of relief as she threw herself into the arms of the priest followed him into the darkness.

  He knew he should regret what happened tonight. In saving her life, he’d sacrificed not only the silver, but also his cover. But he couldn’t regret it. There would be more silver. And their paths were unlikely to cross again—he’d make sure of it.

  His secret was safe.

  One

  Dunstaffnage Castle, Argyll, Scotland, May 24, 1308

  Please, let him be dead. Please, let it finally be over.

  Anna MacDougall set her basket down and knelt at her father’s feet, praying to hear the news that would put an end to the war that had marked every day of her life.

  Literally.

  Anna had been born on a momentous day in the history of Scotland: the nineteenth of March, the year of Our Lord twelve hundred eighty-six. The very day that King Alexander III had ignored the advice of his men and raced to Kinghorn in Fife on a stormy night to be with his young bride—sliding off a cliff and falling to his death on the way. The king’s lust had left his country without a direct heir to the throne, resulting in twenty-two years of war and strife to determine who should wear its crown.

  At one time there had been fourteen competitors for the throne. But the true battle had always been between the Balliol-Comyn faction and the Bruces. When Robert Bruce took matters into his own hands two years ago and killed his chief competitor, John “The Red” Comyn—her father’s cousin—he’d made a blood enemy of the MacDougalls forever. Only their MacDonald kinsmen were despised as much as Robert Bruce. Bruce’s actions had forced the MacDougalls into an uneasy alliance with England.

  Even Edward Plantagenet was better than having a Bruce on the throne.

  And it was Bruce’s death that she prayed for now. Ever since word had arrived that in the middle of his campaign north he’d taken to his sickbed with a mysterious illness, she’d prayed for the ailment to claim him. For nature to vanquish their enemy. Of course, it was a terrible sin to pray for a man’s death. Any man’s death. Even a murderous scourge like Robert Bruce. The nuns at the abbey would be horrified.

  But she didn’t care. Not if it meant the end to this bloody, godforsaken war. The war that already had claimed her brother and fiancé, and had taken its toll not only on her aging grandfather, Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, but also on his son—her father, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn.

  Her father had barely recovered from the most recent bout of chest pains. She didn’t know how much more he could take. Bruce’s recent success had only made it worse. Her father hated to lose.

  It was hard to believe that a little over a year ago “King Hood” had been on the run with only a handful of supporters, his cause all but lost. But the fugitive king had returned and, thanks in large part to the death of Edward I of England, resurrected his bid for Scotland’s throne.

  So sinful or not, she prayed for the death of their enemy. She would gladly do the penance for her wicked thoughts if it meant protecting her father and clan from the man who would see them destroyed.

  Besides, as the nuns had told her countless times before, she’d never been destined for the life of a nun anyway. She sang too much. Laughed too much. And most importantly, had never been as devoted to God as she was to her family.

  Anna studied her father’s face, gauging it for any reaction, as he tore open the missive and read. In his anxiousness, he hadn’t even bothered to call for his clerk. She’d been fortunate to find him alone in his solar, having just finished a council with his men. Her mother, usually found anxiously fussing at his side, had gone to the garden to oversee the picking of herbs for a new tincture suggested by the priest to help clear the bogginess from her father’s lungs.

  She could tell right away that the news was not good. A dangerous flush reddened his well-lined face, his eyes grew bright as if with fever, and his mouth fell in a thin white line. It was a look that struck fear in the hearts of the most hardened of warriors, but in Anna it only provoked concern. She knew the loving father beneath the gruff warrior’s exterior.

  She clutched the arm of the thronelike chair upon which he sat, the carving biting into her palm. “What is it, Father? What’s happened?”

  His gaze lifted to hers. She felt a flash of fear, seeing the rising anger. Her father’s apoplectic rage had always been a terrifying sight—rivaling the infamous Angevin temper of the Plantagenet kings of England—but never more so than after his attack. Anger is what had caused the pains i
n his arm and chest last time. Pains that had frozen him, cut off his breath, and put him in bed for nearly two months.

  He crumpled the parchment in a ball in his fist. “Buchan has fled. The Comyns have been defeated.”

  She blinked. It took her a moment to comprehend what he’d said as it seemed impossible. John Comyn, the Earl of Buchan—kinsman to John Comyn the murdered Lord of Badenoch—was one of the most powerful men in Scotland.

  “But how?” she asked. “Bruce was hovering near death.”

  Her father had always encouraged his children to ask questions. He deplored ignorance, even in women, which was why he’d insisted that all his daughters be educated at the convent. But seeing his face flame and body stiffen with rage, she almost wished her question back.

  “Even from his sickbed the scourge manages miracles,” he said disgustedly. “The people already think him some kind of hero—like the bloody second coming of Arthur and Camelot. Buchan had the bastard pinned near Inverurie, but his men faltered when they saw ‘The Bruce’ at the head of the army.” He slammed his fist down on the table beside him, sending wine sloshing from his goblet. “The Comyns ran like cowards at the sight of a sick man being carried into battle. They fled from a damned invalid!”

  His face turned so red that the veins in his temples started to bulge.

  Fear clutched her chest. Not because she feared his anger, but because of the danger to his health. She fought back the tears that sprang to her eyes. Her fiercely proud father would see her tears as a sign that she thought him weak. He was a powerful warrior, not a man who needed to be coddled.

  But this war was killing him as surely as a slow poison. If she could just get him through this trouble with Bruce, everything would be all right. Why couldn’t the false king have just succumbed to illness the way he was supposed to? This would all be over.

  She had to calm him. Instead of using tears and pleas, she took his hand and forced a teasing smile to her face. “You’d better not let Mother hear you talk like that around me. You know she blames you for my ‘unmaidenly’ vocabulary.” For a moment she feared her words had not penetrated, but slowly the haze of anger started to dissipate. When he finally looked at her as if he really saw her, she added innocently, “Perhaps I should I call for her?”