The Ranger Page 7

  “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.

  Five

  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.

  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 ho
w 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.