The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  “No one to dance with, brat?” he teased. “Should I order one of my men to partner you?”

  She laughed with delight, knowing exactly who it was. Though it had been a long time since she’d heard the teasing lilt in his voice. “Don’t you dare. I can find my own partners.” She pushed at his thick arm, trying to wriggle out of his bearlike hold. “Let go of me, you big oaf.”

  He set her feet back on the floor and spun her around to face him, a stern look on his face. “Big oaf? You need to show proper respect to your elders, little one.”

  “Did I say big oaf?” She batted her eyes innocently. “I meant Sir big oaf.”

  He chuckled, the same blue eyes as hers crinkling at the edges.

  Her heart swelled to see the smile on his face. It was the happiest she’d seen her brother since his wife had died giving birth to their third child, nearly a year ago.

  Though Alan was only ten years her senior, the recent months had aged him. The affection he’d borne for his wife was etched deeply in the lines on his face. His dark-blond hair had receded at the temples, and perhaps thinned a little on top, but he was still a handsome man. Especially when he smiled—which wasn’t often for the serious heir of Lorn and Argyll.

  He reached down and wriggled her nose between his thumb and forefinger the way he used to do when she was a child. “You were right, you know.”

  “What was that?” She put her hand to her ear. “It’s so loud I can’t hear you.”

  He shook his head. “Brat. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The feast. This is exactly what we needed.”

  She beamed. She couldn’t help it. Her brother’s opinion meant much to her. It always had. “You really think so?”

  He nodded. “I do.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Though not as tall as a certain young knight, Alan was a formidable man. Nearly six feet in height, he had the thick, bulky build of their father and grandfather. Ewen and Alastair, her two other brothers, were slimmer in stature.

  A shadow of sadness passed over her. Somhairle had been somewhere in between. Tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with lean muscle, he’d cut an impressive figure. The quintessential warrior. Not unlike Sir Arthur (why did she keep thinking of him?). But Somhairle, her second-eldest brother, had died fighting alongside Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk almost exactly ten years ago. He’d been twenty years old.

  Not wanting to spoil Alan’s rare good humor, she pushed aside the sad thoughts.

  “Where are all those men who’ve been flocking around you all night?” her brother asked with an overprotective gleam in his eye.

  She rolled her eyes. “If there were any, I’m sure they scattered when they saw you coming.”

  His mouth curved in a satisfied grin. “As well they should.”

  She harrumphed. “Thomas MacNab went to fetch me some wine; I’m sure he’ll return when you leave.”

  Alan folded his thick arms across his chest and frowned. “That pretty—” He stopped himself. “Any man who lacks courage to face one harmless brother …”

  She snorted. “Three overbearing brutes, you mean. I saw all of you glaring at him earlier.”

  He gave her a chastising look and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “… isn’t worthy of you. You want a man who will stand down dragons and crawl on his knees through the fires of hell to protect you.”

  Anna wrapped her arms around his broad chest and gave him a big squeeze. Alan didn’t understand her preference for a quiet, scholarly man like Thomas MacNab—who wouldn’t know what to do with a sword even if he could carry one—when an impressive knight like Sir Hugh Ross had wanted to marry her. “I thought that’s what I have you, Father, Alastair, and Ewen for.”

  He squeezed her back. “Aye, Annie-love, that you do.” He held her back to look at her. “Is there no one else but the tutor who interests you?”

  Without thinking, her gaze flickered to the back corner of the room, landing momentarily on Sir Arthur Campbell. It was long enough. Her observant brother took note. “Who were you looking at?”

  “No one,” she said quickly.

  Too quickly. Her brother’s eyes narrowed as he glanced in the direction where she’d looked. “Campbell?”

  Drat her fair skin! She could feel the flush creep up her cheeks.

  He looked surprised. “Sir Dugald? He’s a fine warrior.” He frowned. “A bit too popular with the lasses, though.”

  She wasn’t about to correct him. It didn’t matter. She was a bit attracted to Sir Arthur, that was all. His indifference had only tweaked her womanly vanity.

  “Careful, love. If he tries anything—”

  Anna scooted him away. “I know just who to call. Now, why don’t you go over there and ask Morag to dance. She’s been casting glances at you all night.”

  She expected an immediate refusal and was surprised to see instead a speculative glint in his eye.

  “She has?” His gaze settled on the pretty young widow. He didn’t say anything more, but the flicker of interest gave Anna hope that her brother’s coma-like existence might be at an end. He’d mourned his wife deeply. Though his sadness was a testament to his love for her, he had not died with her.

  She looked over the crowd for Thomas and held out at least another thirty seconds before glancing back toward the corner. She was just in time to see three young clanswomen—who happened to be pretty, buxom, and the most notorious flirts in the castle—approach the Campbells’ table.

  Anna’s fingers clenched the soft velvet of her skirts. She felt a spike of something vaguely resembling irritation. Extreme irritation. It didn’t help that she knew it was irrational. Of course the girls were interested in them. Why shouldn’t they be? The newcomers were knights, handsome, and as far as Anna knew, unmarried. An irresistible combination to any young unmarried lass.

  Nor was she surprised when the girls were quickly welcomed to join them. But when one of the women—Christian, the lovely raven-haired, blue-eyed daughter of her father’s henchman—sat beside Sir Arthur, Anna’s spine stiffened. The room seemed to grow even warmer. A hot flush rose to her cheeks, and her heartbeat took a sudden erratic jump. She told herself it was none of her business, but she couldn’t force herself to look away.

  She needn’t have worried. After a few flirtatious advances went unappreciated—including coquettish smiles and a not-so-subtle dip forward to give Sir Arthur a good view of her ample bosom—Christian gave up and turned her attention to one of his companions.

  Though Anna was more relieved than she wanted to admit, something about the interaction made her frown. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe Sir Arthur hadn’t meant to be rude, but was simply gruff like her father. Or shy around women, like her brother Ewen?

  As much as she wanted to convince herself that was it—so she could forget about him—she couldn’t. Earlier he hadn’t acted shy at all. Actually he’d acted annoyed. A little angry, even. As if she were bothering him. Like a midge in summer or a recalcitrant pup under his heels.

  She had slammed into him, of course, but it was an accident. And he certainly looked strong enough to weather a little jostling from a woman. Lord, he looked as if he could weather a blow from a sledgehammer!

  She might not have noticed his size at first, but she was noticing now. Despite the loose, bulky fit of his wool tunic and relaxed posture, the man was built like a rock. All tight, steely hard muscle. Why, he’d barely even moved when she’d come barreling into him.

  And when he’d held her in his arms, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of safety and security. As if nothing could possibly harm her with this big, powerful man holding her.

  Before he dropped her, that is.

  He pushed back from the table and bent over to say something to his brother Sir Dugald.

  Her heart took a strange jump when Sir Arthur started to walk toward the door. He was leaving. Leaving! But it wasn’t even dark yet. The feast would go on for hours.


  He couldn’t leave. He hadn’t even danced yet.

  She glanced to her left, seeing Thomas threading his way back through the crowd, and then back to the young knight.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she was striding purposefully toward the door. Not running, but not exactly walking, either.

  He was only a few feet from the entry where she’d crashed into him earlier, when she cut in front of him.

  He didn’t look happy to see her.

  The forbidding glower on his face gave her a moment’s pause, but it was too late to turn back now. She’d always preferred the straightforward approach, though, she thought with a belated flush of embarrassment, it usually didn’t involve chasing after strange men.

  She wasn’t chasing … exactly. It was her duty to see that all their guests enjoyed themselves, wasn’t it? Moreover, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might have misjudged him.

  Ignoring his expression, she smiled. “I hope I am not the cause of your early departure?”

  If the lift of a brow was any indication, she’d managed to surprise him.

  She smiled teasingly and explained, “I feared you might be nursing bruises from my clumsiness earlier.”

  His mouth quirked, but only for a moment. “I believe I shall recover,” he said dryly.

  Lord, when he smiled he was a handsome devil. She felt that same funny flutter in her stomach and jump in her pulse, but it was even worse standing so close to him. She’d been surrounded by tall, muscular men her entire life, but never had she been so acutely aware of a man’s masculinity and her own femininity.

  He unnerved her. Made her feel nervous. Discombobulated. Flush with impulses she didn’t understand. She wanted to move closer. Put her hand on his chest and feel the strength underneath. Stare at his face and memorize every hard angle, every line, every scar. It was outrageous to the point of ridiculous.

  She’d been attracted to a handsome man before, but this was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Nothing like the fondness she’d felt for Roger, her former fiancé. It was deeper. More intense. More visceral. It reached inside and pulled, compelling her to him.

  He was waiting for her to say something. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this any easier on her. “Then I hope it is not the food and entertainment?”

  He shook his head. “It’s a fine feast, my lady.” His gaze flickered to the door in a none-too-subtle indication of his wish to leave.

  She stepped to the side, putting herself firmly in his path. “Don’t you like to dance?”

  When he arched his brow again, she blushed, realizing how forward her question had sounded. It sounded as if she wanted him to ask her to dance. Which she did, but it was hardly ladylike to solicit it so brazenly.

  But perhaps it was what he needed. She hated to think of anyone being left out of the fun.

  “Sometimes.” He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he would ask her. But then his gaze flickered over her shoulder, and he tensed. If she hadn’t been watching him so carefully, she wouldn’t have noticed the steely cold glint in his eye.

  He turned back to her, letting his gaze slide down the length of her body.

  She sucked in her breath. No one had ever looked at her so boldly. It might have been a little exciting if it weren’t also utterly dispassionate—as if she were a horse at market. And not a very impressive one at that.

  “But not today.”

  His meaning couldn’t have been more clear. He didn’t want to dance with her. She hadn’t misjudged him or misinterpreted anything. It wasn’t his brusque warrior’s manners.

  The stab of hurt she felt by his rejection was surprisingly sharp for someone she’d just met. For a man who shouldn’t have interested her at all.

  This shouldn’t be so bloody difficult. But standing there, watching the emotions flit across her face as easy to read as words on a page, Arthur felt as though he was being twisted in a vise or splayed out on the rack.

  He didn’t like hurting her—or any woman, he corrected. But when he’d caught Lorn watching them, he knew he had to put an end to this. Whatever this was.

  He couldn’t believe he’d actually been considering dancing with the chit. Her genuine friendliness and innocent-kitten expression were not without effect. But her father’s interest had brought him harshly back to reality.

  He hoped his crude glance cured her of any romantic illusions.

  It had. Her eyes widened, taking on a stricken look that made him feel like a clod who’d just stepped on her fluffy white tail.

  “Of course,” she said softly, her cheeks pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  She lowered her gaze and took a step back.

  He felt it again. That strange compulsion that he’d experienced at the church. The inability to let her walk away.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to fight the urge, to calm the sudden restlessness teeming inside him. It didn’t work.

  Ah, hell. He reached out. “Wait,” he said, grabbing her arm.

  She stiffened at his touch, not looking at him, color still high on her cheeks.

  He dropped his hand.

  When he didn’t say anything, she finally lifted her chin and tilted her face slightly toward him. He wished the soft candlelight had hid the quiver in her chin.

  “Yes?” she asked.

  Their eyes met, and Arthur cursed himself for a bloody fool. What the hell had he thought to say? I’m flattered, but it would never work; I’m here to destroy your father. Or how about, I can’t dance with you because I’m afraid you might realize I’m the spy for Bruce who saved you at the church.

  She eyed him expectantly.

  “I have a job to do,” he blurted, feeling like an idiot. He didn’t blurt anything. And why the hell was he explaining himself?

  He sensed her scrutiny, felt the penetration of her gaze, and had the uncomfortable suspicion that she was seeing far more than he wanted her to.

  “And nothing more,” she filled in.

  He shrugged. “I’ve little time for anything else.”

  A wry smile turned her mouth. “Are knights not permitted one day of entertainment and fun?”

  Her response was lighthearted; his was not. “Nay. Not me, at least. Not with war on the horizon.”

  He almost regretted his honesty when he saw the flash of alarm in her too-expressive big, blue eyes. It was clear the harsh reality of her father’s situation was not something she wanted to think about. Could she really be that naive, or was she living in some kind of fantasy world? A world of feasts and celebrations, happily ensconced in the bosom of her family, while war reigned in chaos beyond their gates.

  His words had succeeded in doing what he’d wanted to do from the first. When she looked at him again, he didn’t detect even a hint of feminine interest in her gaze. She was looking at him as if he were any other warrior who’d come to serve her father. He hadn’t realized how differently she’d been looking at him until the look was gone.

  “Your devotion to your duty is to be commended. I’m sure my father is fortunate to have a knight like you in his service.”

  Arthur felt like laughing. If she only knew. Fortune was the last thing he would bring John of Lorn.

  He wasn’t a knight, he was only playing one. He was a Highlander. The only code he lived by was win. Kill or be killed.

  Suddenly, an older, plumper version of her sister Lady Mary appeared at her side.

  “There you are, darling. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  “What is it, Mother?”

  The note of worry in Anna’s voice bothered him. She shouldn’t be upset.

  “The men are talking about that horrible Robert Bruce again.” The still-beautiful older woman twisted her hands anxiously. “Your father is getting angry.” Fear crept into her voice. “You need to do something.”

  Anna muttered something under her breath that sounded like “St. Columba’s bones.” Wh
en a frown gathered between her mother’s eyes, in an expression distinctly like her daughter’s, Arthur realized he’d heard her right. “Don’t worry,” Anna said, giving her mother’s hands a pat. “I’ll take care of it.”

  He suspected she took care of quite a lot.

  Her mother glanced over at him, seeming to realize she’d interrupted. She flashed him an apologetic grin. “I’m sorry, sir, you’ll have to wait for the next dance.”

  There wasn’t a hint of embarrassed color in Anna’s cheeks when her gaze slid over him. “There is no dance,” she said firmly. “Sir Arthur was just leaving.”

  Though there was nothing discourteous in her voice, Arthur knew he had just been dismissed. Without another glance, Anna followed her mother through the crowd.

  He watched her longer than he should have, telling himself he should be happy. This was what he’d wanted. It would be for the best.

  But it wasn’t happiness he felt at all. If he didn’t know better, he’d think it was regret.

  It was hours later when Anna knocked on the door of her father’s solar.

  He bid her enter, then upon seeing it was her, dismissed his luchd-taighe guardsmen.

  She waited for the clansmen to leave before coming forward. “You wished to see me, Father?”

  John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, was seated behind a large wooden table and motioned for her to sit in the chair opposite him. After the exhaustion of the feast, she did so willingly. It had to be near midnight.

  Her father’s serving man had caught her just before she retired for the evening. Though she could barely keep her eyes open, and every bone in her body ached, she didn’t think about refusing. A summons by her father could not be ignored. So she’d donned a velvet fur-lined robe to cover her chemise and hurried to his solar, wondering why he wanted to see her so late. Maybe, like Alan, he wanted to praise her for her efforts tonight?

  He gave her a long look. “I have something I should like you to do for me.”

  She tried not to feel disappointed. Her father had too many things on his mind, too many people to worry about, to concern himself with the feast. She knew he appreciated her; he didn’t need to tell her. She should have realized it would be something important to call for her this late at night.