“There’s your knight,” her sister Mary teased, pointing to the group of warriors lining up below.
Anna winced. If Mary had noticed, everyone must have noticed. Her normally blissfully unaware sister defied their father’s rule that women were more perceptive than men.
“He’s not my knight,” she quipped.
Too adamantly, she feared, judging by her eldest sister Juliana’s grin. “It certainly looks like you want him to be. A little sisterly advice, though”—Anna could tell she was trying to hold back her laughter—“you might want to be a little more … uh, subtle.”
Anna pursed her mouth. She’d tried that. It hadn’t worked.
She lifted her chin, pretending not to know what her sister was talking about. “I’m merely trying to be a good hostess. Being friendly to all the knights who have answered Father’s call.”
That caused both of her sisters to burst out into peals of hysterical laughter. “Lud, I hope you aren’t that friendly to all of them,” Juliana said. She leaned over Anna, who was seated on the plaid between them, to address Mary. “Did you see that dress she wore yesterday? It must have been five years old. It wouldn’t fit Marion,” she said, referring to their petite twelve-year-old niece.
“Mother was furious,” Mary nodded, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “You should have seen her face when she saw Anna come in for the midday meal. It was the angriest I’ve seen her since Father fell ill.”
At least one good thing had come of Anna’s humiliation. It had been wonderful to see her mother cast aside her worry, if only for a moment, to berate her. Lord knows, nothing else had come of it. She could have been wearing a sackcloth for all Sir Arthur took notice of the gown.
She knew she should be ashamed, stooping to such wanton lengths as donning an indecent dress to get his attention. But desperate times called for desperate measures. And after a week of making a fool of herself, chasing after a man who didn’t want to be chased, she was at her wit’s end. Sir Arthur Campbell was almost as much of a mystery to Anna as the first time she’d bumped into him. She knew that he was an able knight, who was focused on his duty and liked to keep to himself—but she’d known all of that before.
He was an impossible man to read. Faith, he was an impossible man to get in the same room! Inventing reasons to be near him wasn’t easy, and Anna had been growing increasingly frustrated in her efforts to keep an eye on him. None of the other men had ever been this much trouble. Probably because they hadn’t been trying to avoid her.
So far, she’d seen nothing to warrant suspicion—unless being monosyllabic and unforthcoming were reasons for suspicion. He had to be the most difficult man she’d ever tried to converse with. Sir Arthur was the master of the short reply, not to mention as prickly and cantankerous as a bear roused from its winter slumber. If this was an indication of his interest in her—not that she gave any credence to her father’s claim—she couldn’t imagine what he was like when he wasn’t interested.
Yesterday, however, she’d made an important discovery. She’d learned how to make him talk: Get him angry. Perhaps she’d been going about this all wrong.
Her eyes narrowed on the enigmatic knight, currently moving with the other participants to the far end of the field. Though he’d done nothing suspicious, she couldn’t quite shake the feeling that he was hiding something. Whether this was due to her powers of womanly perception or simply her pricked pride, however, she didn’t know. But there was definitely something different about him.
When her sisters had finally stopped laughing, Juliana said, “I must admit I’m surprised by your friendliness toward the knight.” She bit back another laugh. “He’s handsome enough, but you usually avoid men of his sort.”
Warriors, her sister meant. She was right.
“His brother is the far more handsome of the two,” Mary interjected, her gaze fastened on Sir Dugald’s impressive form below.
Anna didn’t agree, but she certainly wasn’t going to give them any more reason to tease her.
“And Sir Arthur is not nearly as popular with the ladies, either,” Juliana pointed out as a way of warning to Mary.
She spoke from experience. Juliana had been widowed years before, but her marriage had not been a happy one. Her husband Sir Godfrey de Clare, an English baron, had blamed her for their inability to produce an heir and according to her sister, lifted every skirt he could find to try to prove it.
Anna desperately hoped Juliana’s next husband was a man her sister could love. Though love usually had nothing to do with how marriages were arranged, the sisters were more fortunate than most. Three marriageable daughters was a treasure trove for any nobleman seeking to enrich his lands and connections, but their father was not unreasonable. He took their wishes into consideration when finding them potential husbands.
Juliana had wanted to marry Sir Godfrey—at least initially. Just as Anna had wanted to marry Roger.
Sir Roger de Umfraville had been the third son of the old Earl of Angus’s younger brother. They’d met when Anna had accompanied her father to Stirling Castle a few years back for Parliament. She’d been immediately drawn to the quiet young scholar with the winsome smile and dry sense of humor.
Educated at Cambridge, Roger had been considered a great scholar and promising politician. He abhorred bloodshed. As a third son, he should have been safe from the war. But when his two elder brothers died—one at Falkirk and the other from a fever—Roger had felt it his duty to take up the sword. Anna had been heartbroken when he’d died after a seemingly insignificant wound he’d suffered at Methven festered.
Unlike her sisters, Mary had yet to settle on a husband. That her father hadn’t pressed, Anna suspected, was because he hoped for an important alliance—preferably English—from her beautiful sister. Once Bruce was subdued, her father would be able to find them all husbands.
Her chest squeezed. When the war was over.
“I thought Father was going to arrange a match with Sir Thomas or some nice, staid English baron for you when King Hood is brought to heel?” her sister said.
“Faith, Juliana, this has nothing to do with marriage! I barely even know the man,” Anna said truthfully. She was attracted to him—perversely intrigued by his indifference, even—but a Highland warrior wasn’t the husband for her. A life of quiet and peace, a father who would know his children, that was what she wanted.
But why did Thomas MacNab’s face suddenly seem … womanly? Pretty Alan had called him. She bit her lip, suddenly agreeing.
She was tempted to tell them what it was really about, but her father wished for her to keep her tasks on his behalf between them. Probably so her mother wouldn’t find out.
Whether her sisters believed her explanation or just decided to give up teasing her because the challenge was about to start, she couldn’t be sure, but she was grateful when they turned to the field below. Their seat on the edge of a rocky hillside gave them a perfect vantage of the entire field below.
It had been Sir Arthur’s idea to have the entrants not simply toss the spears at a different range of targets but do so in armor from horseback at a full gallop.
In his terse, matter-of-fact tones, he’d quickly and efficiently helped organize the different challenges. She suspected it was partly in the effort to be finished with her as soon as possible. What she’d hoped would take all day had taken only a few hours. He’d also elicited plenty of help from other men-at-arms, probably to avoid being alone with her.
Sighing, she turned her attention back to the field. One by one, the men urged their mounts to a gallop down the path and threw their spears at the straw buttes secured to a post. If this were the real Highland Games, there would be both spear throwing and thrusting. For the latter, a longer spear was used and the rider would position the spear under his arm in the manner of a joust.
The challenge was harder than it looked, as evidenced by the number of spears that went wide or fell short of the target. But a few of the contestants w
ere quite good, including her brother Alan. She cheered along with her sisters when his spear landed with precision in the center of the target. Only Alexander MacNaughton, the keeper of the royal Frechelan Castle on Loch Awe, had done as well.
Sir Arthur brought his steed around to the start, and Anna found herself inching forward on the rocks. As did the other contestants, he wore a steel helm, full mail, and a tabard emblazoned with his arms to match his shield. All of the Campbell arms had the gyronny of eight in or and sable—basically a pie of alternating black and gold triangles—but his was individualized by the bear in the middle, a reference no doubt to the Gaelic artos, from which his name was derived.
He held the spear in his left hand, the reins in his right, and started forward. Being left-handed, he would be at a disadvantage. Unlike the other contestants, he would have to throw across his body to the target.
Anna’s pulse spiked as he picked up speed. An avid rider herself, she noticed right away that he was an exceptional horseman. Strong and powerful, he moved with remarkable fluidity, as if he were one with his mount.
He neared the target.
Her breath caught high in her throat as, never hesitating, he heaved the weapon in one smooth motion toward the butte. It landed with a definitive thud a few inches below the center of the target. Her breath released in an excited cry as she joined the other cheers. It was an excellent shot. Not as good as her brother’s or MacNaughton’s, but it was still only the first round.
The field of competitors narrowed with each round. By the end of the third, however, the result was the same. Though Anna knew it was unwarranted, she felt a twinge of disappointment. For some reason, she’d expected him to win. It was silly—based on nothing but a feeling. He’d acquitted himself exceptionally well, coming in third behind MacNaughton and her brother.
Yet it was strange. He seemed to miss by precisely the same amount each time—a few inches off where her brother’s or MacNaughton’s had landed.
The men had taken off their helms and had handed off their mounts to the stable lads. Rather than stand around and accept the congratulations of the crowd, Sir Arthur looked as if he intended to follow his horse back to the stables.
Anna stood up quickly, wanting to rush down and catch him before he could escape. Perhaps she’d insist the top competitors join the high table on the dais for the evening meal tonight? That ought to make him angry enough for a few sentences at least.
She stepped around Mary, who was taking her sweet time getting up from the blanket.
“Where are you going in such a rush?”
Anna’s cheeks grew hot. “I wish to congratulate Alan, don’t you?”
She picked her way along the rocky path on the edge of the cliffside, trying not to look down as she silently urged the crowd of spectators down the hill faster.
“Are you sure it’s not the young Campbell you wish to congratulate, Annie-love?” Juliana teased from behind her. “Don’t look now,” she whispered, though with the boisterous crowd it was unnecessary. “But I think he’s looking at you.”
Of course she looked.
Anna turned over her left shoulder and gazed down.
She sucked in her breath. Juliana was right. He was staring right at her. Their eyes met in a sudden jolt that reverberated like a powerful shock through her body. For the first time, he wasn’t looking at her with indifference. Actually, it looked like alarm.
Too busy gazing at him, she wasn’t watching where she was going.
“Anna, watch out!” Mary warned.
But it was too late.
She stepped on a rock. Her ankle twisted and she started to lose her balance (which even in the best of circumstances wasn’t very good). Propelled backward, she stepped back to catch herself—which would have been fine if it wasn’t the edge of the hillside and if the rocks hadn’t given way beneath her foot.
“Anna!” Mary shrieked, reaching for her.
Oh God! For one horrifying moment time seemed to hold still as she hung in midair.
Then she was falling.
She could see her sisters’ horrified faces swimming above her as momentum carried her backward. A loud rush of air drowned out the cries of the crowd and for a moment it was eerily quiet—as if she were in a strange, airless tunnel.
Ten feet.
Twenty.
No time to shift her position to try to land on her feet.
She braced herself for impact and hit the ground.
But she didn’t hit the ground.
She gasped, realizing she wasn’t lying in a painful mass of twisted limbs and broken bones. Nay, she blinked up into the handsome visage of Sir Arthur Campbell.
My God, he’d caught her! But how? How could he have gotten there so quickly?
“Are you all right?”
She nodded, because she couldn’t speak. It’s wasn’t fear from her fall that caught her tongue, but something else.
His voice. The look in his incredible eyes.
It wasn’t indifference.
At the first crack in his steely facade, a flutter of awareness shuddered through her. Maybe her father wasn’t wrong after all.
Six
Arthur inhaled deeply, letting his lungs fill with the pungent air.
Freedom, even reeking of cow shite, still smelled sweet. Five days away from the castle, patrolling (or in his case surreptitiously scouting) the eastern borders of Lorn’s lands, and now, courtesy of the good friar, he’d bought himself a couple days more.
In other words, he would have an entire week of freedom from the blue-eyed, honey-haired enchantress who’d tormented him with her innocent flirting and pushed him to the end of his tether.
It wasn’t until she’d fallen—and he’d caught her—that he knew he had to get the hell out of there. So much for his plan to go unnoticed; the entire castle could speak of nothing else. Even the devil’s spawn Lorn had thought to honor him by insisting that Arthur sit beside him at the lord’s table that night. He might as well have been eating nails—that was all he’d tasted. It had taken every ounce of his skill at deception to mask his hatred throughout the long meal.
Apparently, the cold-hearted bastard had a weakness: his daughters. It seemed even the devil could care about something. Arthur had detected the fear in Lorn’s eye when the story of Anna’s tumble off the hillside was relayed to him, and his gratitude toward Arthur had been real enough.
Though Lorn accepted his account of the day’s events, Anna MacDougall wasn’t as easy to fool. He knew she didn’t believe his “I was just lucky enough to be in the right place when she fell” explanation. The lass was entirely too perceptive, and that meant dangerous. The last thing he needed was for Dugald—or worse, Lorn—to start asking questions.
What a mess! Bad luck heaped upon bad. First, the lass he rescued—the one woman who could unmask him—happens to be the daughter of the man he intends to destroy. Then, for some God-knows-why reason, she sets her fancy on him. And worse, she takes a tumble off a cliff, forcing him to betray the abilities that could draw even more unwanted attention his way and making him the MacDougalls’ latest hero—not to mention giving the men another source of amusement. He didn’t know how many times over the course of the journey one of the men had climbed up on a rock and pretended to jump off while yelling dramatically, “Catch me, Sir Arthur!” in a high voice.
Hilarious. Almost made him miss MacSorley.
The “Games” themselves hadn’t been as much of a waste of time as he’d thought. She’d been right: The competition had been good for the men’s spirit. Moreover, he’d learned much about the caliber of the enemy soldiers and would be able to pass on the information to Bruce.
But knowing he needed to tread carefully around the lass—or better yet, tread far away from the lass—he’d jumped at the first opportunity to leave. That it also provided an opportunity to scout Lorn’s lands for Bruce was even better.
He needed to focus on his mission. He was one of the most elite, hi
ghly trained warriors in the country, in the middle of the most important mission of his life, but at times he felt as though he were playacting in some schoolgirl’s farce.
He’d never had this kind of trouble before. It was why he liked to work alone. On the outside. Infiltration was too personal. Too close.
His spot of good fortune continued when on the way back to the castle with his brothers and the other men who’d gone on the patrol—mostly MacNabs and MacNaughtons—they’d come upon Friar John near Tyndrum. The good friar had come from St. Andrews and was walking across Scotland through Lorn on his way to the Isle of Lismore. Lismore, the small, narrow island just off the coast, was the traditional seat of the Bishop of Argyll—who just happened to be a MacDougall and a kinsman of Lorn.
Having long suspected that the MacDougalls were passing messages through the churches, Arthur volunteered to escort the friar as far as Oban—just south of the castle—where he would catch the ferry. It was the direction he was headed anyway, Arthur insisted. The friar could ride behind him. Though they would travel at a much slower pace than the others, he was in no hurry to return. He got a few snickers at that.
When the friar tried to refuse, it made Arthur even more hopeful that he was on to something. Perhaps he’d found the source of the MacDougalls’ messages?
He frowned. The only misfortune was that at the last minute, Dugald had decided to go as well. Probably to torment him to death with the constant talk of the spear contest.
“If you’d aimed a bit higher and let your wrist snap down like I’ve told you, you might have won.”
Arthur gritted his teeth and kept his gaze fixed on the path before him. “I did my best,” he lied, not knowing why Dugald’s attempts to improve his skills were grating on him.
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