The Ranger Page 5

  Strange that she’d thought of that night again. It was the second time this week. She thought she’d put that terrifying episode behind her and had stopped looking at every man as if he could be the one. The man who was both a traitor and her savior. Ranger. What kind of name was that? Rangers were men who roamed across the countryside to protect and instill law and order—hardly fitting for a spy.

  Or was it? From her account and description of that night, her father suspected the two men might have been part of Bruce’s secret band of phantom warriors. Part bogeyman, part mythological hero, the warriors had sent waves of terror through the English and their Scottish allies.

  Right now all she could think about was the man holding her. He smelled divine. Warm and soapy from the bath he must have just taken. His dark hair was still damp, curling in loose waves at his neck and forehead. He’d shaved, although she could still see the shadow of his beard along his strong, chiseled jawline.

  Chiseled described him well. All hard angles and rough cuts. Blatantly masculine in a way that had never appealed to her before. She preferred men more refined in manner and appearance.

  She didn’t usually look at warriors. They reminded her too much of war.

  But he was undeniably a warrior. Build like a siege engine, if the steely muscles in his arms were any indication. Funny that she hadn’t noticed how tall and muscular he was the first time she’d seen him. But then again, with all that mail and armor, knights pretty much all looked the same to her.

  Anna wasn’t particularly short for a woman, but she had to crank her head back to look up at him. Heavens, he must be at least four inches over six feet! And his shoulders were nearly as wide as the entry into the hall.

  Their eyes met.

  She felt a shock reverberate through her. She’d never seen eyes that color before. Amber with flecks of gold. Not brown, as she’d thought. And framed by ridiculously long, soft lashes to inspire envy in any woman’s heart.

  She saw the flicker of recognition before he released her.

  Dropped her, actually. So suddenly that she avoided that hard landing on her bottom by only the narrowest and most ungainly of margins. She stumbled back, waved her arms like some kind of clucking chicken, and—thankfully—managed to find her balance.

  So much for impressing him with her grace. Not that his expression indicated the slightest chance of impressing him.

  A young man had never looked at her with such … blatant indifference. Good thing she wasn’t vain. Or at least she hadn’t thought she was, but she had to admit feeling a little sting of something right now.

  Realizing she was looking up at him like some moonstruck girl right out of the convent, she quickly lowered her gaze. He couldn’t have made his disinterest more plain. He’d nearly dropped her, for heaven’s sake! Maybe he’d missed the gallantry part of knight’s training.

  Trying to muster some semblance of composure, she smiled and said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you standing there.”

  He gave her a long look that seemed to hold a hint of arrogant impatience. “Obviously.”

  Her smile fell. She furrowed her brow, not sure what to say next. Awkward moments were uncharted seas for her. Apparently, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. “I was late,” she explained.

  He stepped back to allow her to move past him. “Then don’t let me detain you any further.”

  Though he kept his voice neutral and there was nothing wrong with his words on the surface, she felt the distinct nip of coldness.

  He doesn’t like me.

  Suddenly feeling like a fool, Anna hurried past him. What did she care if he liked her or not? A warrior was the very last type of man to interest her. She’d had enough war to last her a lifetime. Peace. Quiet. A happy home and a husband whose conversation didn’t revolve around war and weaponry. Children. That’s what her future held.

  Right before getting swallowed up by the large crowd swarming the Great Hall, she chanced a glance over her shoulder.

  His gaze flickered away. But he’d been watching her.

  Arthur was counting the minutes until he could leave.

  He wasn’t much for feasts and drunken celebrations under normal circumstances, but thanks to Anna MacDougall, he was finding it difficult even to pretend to relax and enjoy himself.

  He was the one who watched and observed, not the other way around. He didn’t need keen awareness or razor-sharp senses to feel her eyes on him. He was seated in the back corner of the hall, about as far away from the dais as possible, but he might as well have been right beside her, so intently did he feel her scrutiny. Feminine interest, and something far more dangerous—curiosity. And he didn’t like it.

  Why wouldn’t she stop looking at him? And worse, why was he finding it so damned hard not to look back?

  She was pretty—beautiful even. But beautiful women weren’t such a rarity that he should be struggling to ignore her. He wasn’t having any trouble keeping his gaze from her sister Mary, and she was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen.

  But something about Anna MacDougall drew the eye. Even in a room full of hundreds of celebrating clansmen with plenty of attractive young lasses vying for attention, she sparkled like a diamond among glass.

  Beauty wasn’t it—or all of it, at least. Her appeal went deeper. It wasn’t only male gazes that followed her; women watched her, too. There was something infectious about her laugh, endearing in her smile, captivating about the twinkle in her deep-blue eyes, and delightfully naughty in her dimples. Dimples. Of course she had to have dimples. What adorable sprite did not?

  But other than a quick glance or two, he assiduously avoided looking at her. Restraint. Control. Discipline. These were the traits he prided himself on. They were what made him an elite warrior.

  His pride took a blow, however, when the dancing started. One glance at her flushed cheeks and laughing eyes, and he’d been just as entranced as the rest of them. She was vivid and vivacious, brimming with youthful strength and vitality.

  It sounded so damned trite, but her joy of life was written on her face. For a man who’d known nothing but death, destruction, and turmoil for as long as he could hold a sword, who’d lived in the shadows for years avoiding the attention she reveled in, who’d never experienced that kind of joy in his life, the light was nearly blinding.

  He tried to focus on her imperfections. But alas, he could find no stray hairs or unsightly moles to mar the smoothness of her skin. Her nose was perhaps a little pert. Her mouth a bit wide. Her chin a tad pointed. But it all added up to adorable and sweet.

  Despite his initial impression being exactly that, he told himself she was probably spoiled and haughty. Or calculating and cunning like her father.

  He’d just about convinced himself when he saw her stumble. He was almost out of his seat before he caught himself. Her feet slid out from under her, and she landed with a hard thud on her bottom.

  The music stopped, followed by a stunned silence.

  From the horrified look on the young clansman’s face who stood behind her, Arthur figured it was his bump that had sent her sprawling.

  Arthur waited for the tears or angry diatribe at the man who’d caused her embarrassment. He was to be disappointed.

  Anna MacDougall took one look at herself on the floor and broke out into laughter. After her partner had helped her to her feet, he could see her teasing the horror from the young clansman’s face.

  So much for spoiled and haughty. He picked up his goblet of ale and took a long swig, feeling the sudden urge for drink.

  He could have watched her for hours. But he forced his gaze away, knowing he was playing with fire. He sure as hell didn’t want her to catch him looking at her.

  Given who she was, his fascination with the chit angered him. He should be repulsed by her name alone. She was Lorn’s daughter, for Christ’s sake.

  But when she’d tumbled in his arms earlier, repulsion was not what he’d felt at all.

  H
e’d felt hard. Aroused. Hot.

  He’d wanted to sink into that softness. Press her body closer to his. Feel the fullness of her breasts on his chest and her hips on his cock. The intensity of his reaction had startled him, causing him to let go of her too quickly.

  But lust, though annoying, was easily controlled. It was nothing compared to the danger her interest in him posed.

  He’d been doing this long enough to know that the only thing he could count on with every mission was that something would go wrong. But fending off unwanted attention from a beautiful lass wasn’t the kind of problem he’d anticipated.

  Arthur’s experience with women was limited to more primal relations. Although he was not as ridiculously fine of face as MacGregor—thank God—Arthur could attract far more female admirers if he wanted. But his demeanor did not encourage them. Which was how he preferred it.

  Women in general were far more perceptive than men. Usually they sensed something different about him, and instinct warned them away.

  Usually. But with Anna MacDougall he’d been forced to take harsher measures. His attempt to discourage her, however, hadn’t worked. Unless succeeding in making himself feel like an arse counted. Charm and gallantry might not come naturally to him—that was his brother’s domain—but neither did outright rudeness. His cold treatment of her didn’t sit well, even if it had been necessary.

  He shook his head. What the hell was the matter with him? Anna MacDougall was the last lass in the world who should concern him. A few curt words was nothing compared to what he’d come here to do.

  Her world was about to be destroyed.

  Not that you’d know it by the jubilant smiles on the faces of the people around him. Didn’t they know that the tide had turned? That their most powerful allies—the Comyns and England—had deserted them? That Bruce would be coming as soon as the truce expired?

  Hell, even his brother was acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, he and his men laughing and jesting as loudly as the rest of them. Louder, perhaps.

  “Don’t you like the ale, Sir Arthur?”

  He turned to see Dugald’s squire beside him on the bench. “Well enough,” he said with a wry turn of his mouth. “Though perhaps not as much as my brother.”

  The lad smiled. He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I couldn’t help noticing the lady, sir.” Arthur didn’t need to look to know to whom he was motioning. “She’s been watching you. Perhaps you will ask her to dance?”

  Unfortunately, he hadn’t lowered his voice enough—or Arthur’s brother wasn’t as drunk as he’d thought. Dugald interrupted loudly. “Don’t waste your time, Ned. My brother would rather dance with his sword than a young, marriageable lady.” The others laughed, not missing the ribald jest.

  Though Dugald had finished eating, he still held the horn hilt of his eating knife in his hand. Arthur noticed the squire stiffen, his eyes widening anxiously, when Dugald started to toss the knife up in the air, catching it with one hand. Unconsciously, the lad started to rub his hands and inch forward on the bench.

  Arthur understood the squire’s reaction only too well. One glance down at his own hands—scarred by dozens of knife marks—said why. It was Dugald’s idea of a game. He’d toss the knife—or dagger or spear—around for a while, and then suddenly throw it at someone, expecting that person to catch it. It was supposed to improve reflexes and build alertness, awareness, and readiness.

  It did, albeit with a considerable amount of pain and blood.

  God, how he’d dreaded that damned knife—a sentiment shared by the squire if the ashen, edgy look on his face was any indication.

  “He hasn’t courted a lass since he was a pissant squire like you,” Dugald continued. “What was her name, brother?”

  Arthur slid his finger over the rim of his goblet carelessly. Dugald was prodding him, but he wouldn’t bite. “Catherine.”

  “What happened, sir?” the squire asked Arthur, casting furtive sidelong glances toward Dugald—never completely taking his eyes off the five-inch steel blade.

  Arthur shrugged. “We didn’t suit.”

  Dugald laughed. “After you scared her senseless. By God, you were a strange lad.” Thankfully, he didn’t explain, but looked back to the squire. He made a quick motion with his hand, faking a throw of the dagger, chuckling when the lad flinched. “He was even more of a hapless fighter than you. A runt, if you can believe it.” From the way the others turned to him in astonishment, it was clear they couldn’t. “Puny and weak. He could barely lift a sword until he was twelve. We all despaired of ever making him a warrior.”

  Except for Neil. Neil had always believed in him.

  “But look at him now,” Dugald said. “A knight our father would be proud of.” With a deft sleight of hand, he tossed the dagger high in the air, caught it, and immediately flipped it toward the squire. Arthur would have knocked it down, but the lad was ready. Eyes fixed on the flashing blade, he managed to get enough of the handle to catch it. Dugald let out a belly roar of laughter. “Ha! Mayhap there’s hope for you after all.”

  The others laughed.

  The offhanded compliment about Arthur’s warrior skills mattered more than he wanted it to. He and Dugald would never be close, but they were brothers. On opposite sides, he reminded himself.

  The squire moved away, and the rest of the men returned to their drink, but Dugald quietly looked around the room. Arthur knew what—or who—he was looking for. The Lady Mary MacDougall had captured his brother’s attention—a rarity for any lass.

  “It’s a damned shame,” Dugald said roughly.

  He nodded. “Aye, brother, that it is.”

  John of Lorn’s daughters were not for them.

  Four

  Anna had even more flaws than she’d realized. After today, she would have to add arrogance and vanity to the list, which already included her well-known stubbornness (it was she who’d threatened—nicely—to tie her father to his bed if he attempted to get up), outspokenness (women weren’t supposed to have opinions, let alone voice them—but she wouldn’t take the full blame for that; it was her father’s fault for encouraging her), and the very unmaidenly penchant to repeat her brothers’ and father’s favorite oaths (which she wouldn’t add to her sins by giving examples of).

  Now, she’d discovered a rather perverse need to be liked. Surely it was the height of arrogance to think that everyone should like her? Of course it was. Even if they usually did. It shouldn’t bother her that the young knight never once looked at her. Not once. All night.

  But it did. Especially when she found herself doing nothing but look at him.

  As she laughed until her sides split, danced until her feet hurt, ate until her belly ached, and drank until her head swam, she found her gaze drifting around the room with anything but aimlessness, searching for the darkly handsome knight who couldn’t have made his disinterest in her more plain.

  She frowned. Why didn’t he like her?

  She’d been perfectly friendly, smiling and attempting to make conversation. She didn’t have warts on her nose, hairs sprouting from her chin, or rotting teeth. Actually, she’d been told many times before—and not just from the men in her family—that although she certainly wasn’t as beautiful as Mary (who could be?), she was quite pleasing to look upon.

  Thus, her descent into vanity.

  Perhaps it was lingering animosity from the old feud between the Campbells and the MacDougalls? She’d been only a child at the time and knew little of the circumstances. She could always ask her father. Though why she was so desperate to find an explanation for his apparent disregard, she didn’t know.

  It shouldn’t matter. She didn’t even know him. And he was a warrior—there was nothing refined about him at all. That should be enough.

  What was one man? Plenty of men liked her. Including Thomas MacNab, a perfectly pleasant scholar, who’d just gone to fetch her a goblet of the sweetened wine that she loved while she recovered from their energetic
dance—and her embarrassing fall—near the open window. She’d like to say she wasn’t usually so clumsy, but she couldn’t. She didn’t consider it a fault, more of an affliction.

  She leaned against the stone sill, inhaling fresh breaths of air as her gaze traveled around the Great Hall. The room was sweltering, heated not by the peat fire but by the lively energy of the celebrants swirling all around. If the smiles and laughter on the faces of the men and women were any indication, the feast had been a resounding success.

  Her smile fell. Except for one person.

  Don’t look …

  But of course she did. She supposed she should add an appalling lack of self-control to the list. Her gaze immediately went to the figure in the far right corner of the room. He was still there—which was surprising, since he seemed to be watching the door as if he couldn’t wait to leave. In her experience, warriors were always anxious to leave. Eager to get to the next battlefield.

  Unlike the other men around him, Sir Arthur wasn’t availing himself of the MacDougall wine and ale. His flagon had barely moved from the table in front of him.

  Seated with his back to the wall and a blank expression on his face, he’d positioned himself with a view to the entire room. She wondered if it was intentional. Though he seemed perfectly at ease—leaning back against the wall and occasionally cracking a smile at something one of his companions said—she sensed a watchfulness to him. As if he were constantly assessing and always on guard. It was so subtle she didn’t notice it at first. But it was there, in the steadiness of his gaze and the stillness of his position.

  Though he sat with a group of other warriors, including his two brothers whom he’d been with the first day, he seemed more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation. He seemed detached. Apart. And something about it bothered her.

  She didn’t like to see anyone left out. Maybe she should see if—

  Before she could finish the thought, she found herself lifted off the ground from behind and spun around in the air.