The thick stone walls of the castle suddenly felt like thin panes of glass, ready to shatter.
Their situation was dire—desperate even. But there was a way she could make it less so.
Time seemed to still. Dread formed a tight knot in her stomach. The anxious flutter in her chest quickened as she realized what she would have to do. The answer had been lurking in the back of her mind for months, but she hadn’t wanted to consider it.
Her fingers clenched the folds of her cloak as if she were grasping for a rope to hold on to. “What of Ross?” she asked softly. “There is still time for him to come.”
Her father gave her a sharp glance. “Aye, but as I told you before, he won’t.”
Was that a rebuke in his gaze? Did he now regret having given her a choice?
Anna took a deep, ragged breath, trying to still the frantic race of her pulse. A cold sheen of perspiration settled over her icy skin. Her chest squeezed so tightly it was hard to breathe. Every instinct rebelled against what she was about to suggest. But she had no choice. A husband was a small price to pay for the survival of her clan. She would marry the devil himself if she had to. “What if I gave him a reason to reconsider?”
Her father’s gaze held hers. From the speculative gleam in his eyes, she knew he’d guessed what she was going to suggest—or maybe had intended her to suggest it all along.
“What if I make a personal appeal to the earl?” She paused, her grasp on the woolen cloak squeezing the blood from her fingers. The frantic sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her stomach tossed queasily. It will be all right. I will make it work. He’s not that frightening. Sir Arthur was tall, muscular, and darkly handsome, and she wasn’t nervous around him. Perhaps she’d gotten over her unease of warriors.
Sir Arthur. Her heart tugged. An image of his face flashed before her eyes, but she pushed it away. He meant nothing to her. If her heart had momentarily fluttered in his direction, it no longer mattered. Even if it might have been different, he’d made his feelings—or lack of them—painfully clear.
But she’d spend a lifetime trying to forget that kiss.
Her father was waiting for her to continue, but the words didn’t come easily. “What if …” She stopped and forced her throat to open. “If Sir Hugh is still willing, I will agree to accept his proposal of marriage. In return, perhaps the earl will see the benefit of joining forces.”
Her father didn’t say anything for a moment, studying her face with an intensity that made her feel like squirming. “Do you think he will still have you? He wasn’t happy when you refused him.”
Her cheeks flamed, embarrassed not to have considered the possibility. Her father was right. The young knight had been furious, his nobleman’s pride pricked by her refusal. “I don’t know, but it is worth a try.”
Her pride had taken a beating lately; what was one more blow?
“Your mother won’t like it,” he said with a glance to the door. “With Bruce and his men on the loose, the roads could be dangerous.”
Anna had already considered that. “If Alan is with me, she won’t worry. We’ll take a large guard.”
He nodded, stroking his chin. “Aye,” he said. “Your brother will keep you safe.” He smiled, and Anna fought the twinge of disappointment. Part of her had hoped he would refuse. He bent over and kissed the top of her head. “You are a good girl, Annie-love.”
Normally, Anna would bloom with delight at her father’s praise, but instead she felt like crying. Her happiness was a small price to pay, but still it was a price.
He tipped her chin and forced her gaze to his. She blinked through the hot, watery haze. “You know I wouldn’t ask this of you if there was another way.”
A single tear slid down her cheek. Her mouth trembled, but she managed a smile. “I know.”
Right now, this was their only hope. No matter how wrong it felt, she would do what she had to do to secure this alliance.
There wasn’t anyone else anyway.
But when Anna left her father’s solar, the tears she’d been holding back burst in a storm of extinguished hope—hope that she hadn’t realized she’d been harboring.
Arthur’s return to the castle—alone—wasn’t as difficult to explain as he’d anticipated. Lorn was eager for a report of what his son had discovered of their enemies to the west.
The fight for supremacy between the three main branches of Somerled’s descendants—the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, and MacRuairis—had dominated West Highland politics for years. The fight had narrowed, with the MacRuairis losing power when the previous chief had died, leaving his daughter Christina of the Isles as his only legitimate heir. Lachlan and his brothers were all bastards born (and in Lachlan’s case, it was a title well earned).
Arthur’s report from Ewen that the MacDonalds appeared to be mobilizing their forces along the western seaboard could hardly be a surprise, but it nonetheless provoked substantial fury and, though Lorn had tried to hide it, concern. But perhaps not as much as it should have, which made Arthur wonder what the scheming bastard had planned.
And now, thanks to his discovery at the priory, he knew just how to find out.
But, as it was already late in the evening when he’d returned to the castle, his reunion with Lady Anna would have to wait until morning. If he was anxious, he told himself it was only because he needed to find a good reason for what would appear to be a sudden turnaround: instead of avoiding her, he would be looking for reasons to be near her. But he didn’t want to give the lass false hope. Despite the mistake he’d made in kissing her—and God, what a mistake that had been—a romantic relationship between them was impossible.
He knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The lass had probably been thinking about that kiss for a week. God knows, he’d been unable to think of anything else.
Though he’d seen her across the yard of Ardchattan, when she walked into the Great Hall the next morning his senses fired as if seeing her for the first time. Everything seemed sharper, more intense. Never had he been so aware of anyone as he was at that moment of Lady Anna MacDougall.
He drank her in—every detail, every nuance, from the golden wisps of hair that had escaped the pale blue veil to frame her forehead and temples to the fine silk embroidered cote-hardie that hugged her curvy figure in all the right places.
Don’t …
His gaze dipped to her breasts. His mouth went dry. He could see (or maybe he just imagined) the faint outline of her nipples beading against the stretch of fabric.
The memories accosted him, sending a flood of heat surging to his groin. His cock swelled as he recalled the lush softness in his hand. How amazing it had felt to cup her and hold the weight of all that perfectly rounded flesh in his palm, as his thumb caressed the taut bead of her nipple. He swore inwardly, the all-too-visceral memories growing uncomfortable.
He was hot. Aroused. Hungry.
How the hell could he look at her and not remember how her body had felt pressed against him? How could he see the sensual pink bow of her mouth and not remember how sweet she’d tasted, how soft her mouth had felt under his, how deeply she’d responded, and how the erotic sensation of her tongue twisting against his had sent him into a whirlpool of desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt before? He’d never be able to look at the pale, baby-soft skin that had felt like velvet under his fingertips and not remember touching her.
Hell, what he wanted to do was toss her down on his bed, wrap her legs around his hips, and plunge into mindless oblivion.
Jesus, he needed to stop thinking about it. Stop torturing himself with things that were impossible. He’d always been able to cut himself off before, but with Anna it was different.
She was different. And it didn’t make him happy to acknowledge it.
He was aware of his brother’s scrutiny, but he couldn’t turn away. With every step that brought her closer, his heart pounded harder, every nerve ending standing on edge as he steeled himself for the moment when sh
e noticed him.
But as she drew near, he felt a prickle of unease. Something was wrong.
She wasn’t smiling. Her eyes weren’t sparkling with mischief and joy. And her laugh … the light, effervescent sound that he could have listened to for hours was acutely silent. He’d grown so accustomed to her perpetual good cheer, to the lighthearted charm that seemed to brighten the room, the void of its absence seemed darker.
Damn, had he hurt her more than he’d realized? Guilt pricked him.
For a moment he thought she would walk right past him, but then she sensed the weight of his gaze.
Their eyes locked.
Everything went completely still.
He waited for her reaction. Waited to see the color flood her cheeks, her breath hitch, and the pulse in her neck flutter. Waited for her awareness.
Instead, she stiffened.
Lady Anna wore her thoughts and feelings on her face. It was one of the things that he found so captivating and irresistible about her. The childlike innocence and excitement, the precious vulnerability. But the expression that had always been open to him was closed. He felt her cool regard for only a brief instant before her gaze swept past him.
As if he’d ceased to exist.
As if she’d never melted in his arms.
As if the kiss that he couldn’t stop thinking about had never happened.
As if she hadn’t almost been under him.
Her indifference ate like acid through his chest. Burning. Aching. Filling him with a wild recklessness. The primitive urge to do something crazed, like press her up against the wall and kiss her until she surrendered to him once more.
He was controlled. Restrained. Different. He didn’t have urges like that. But with one cool glance, Anna MacDougall had brought out every barbaric impulse stirring in his blood.
It seemed he’d achieved his objective. His cruel rejection had worked. Ironically, when he no longer wanted her indifference he had it.
Or maybe she’d never been interested in him at all. Maybe it was only about keeping an eye on him.
His mouth tightened and his muscles tensed, more bothered by the thought than he wanted to admit. Unfortunately, his brother was proving unusually perceptive.
Dugald shivered dramatically. “My, it’s feeling a little wintry around here. Seems the lass’s infatuation is over, little brother. With all the effort you’ve gone to to discourage her, I thought you’d be happy.” He paused to shake his head. “Could it be a woman has finally gotten to you? I didn’t think it possible.”
Arthur leaned back against the stone wall behind him, projecting a carelessness he didn’t feel. She had gotten to him, but he’d be damned if he’d let Dugald know of his weakness. “She’s a sweet girl, nothing more.”
“Made even sweeter because you can’t have her.”
Arthur shrugged, taking a long swig of cuirm, emptying his cup. “What I want from her is not something an innocent young noblewoman can give.”
Dugald chuckled and slapped him on the upper arm. “I feel your pain, little brother. I’m experiencing some of it myself. I know a lass whose talented mouth will do much to ease it; I’ll send her to you.”
Arthur’s gaze slid to the dais where Lady Anna had just taken her seat. He was tempted. Damned tempted. But he wasn’t interested in one of his brother’s women.
One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry half-smile. “Sharing, brother? It isn’t like you. But in this case it isn’t necessary. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble finding my own relief.” If he wanted, he had a few women to choose from. The problem was that he didn’t want. Them, at least.
Dugald shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He leaned over and grinned. “But you don’t know what you’re missing. The lass could milk a cow dry with her mouth, and she does this thing with her tongue …”
Dugald’s voice faded into the background. The wicked skills proffered by Dugald’s jade didn’t interest him.
His gaze shifted to the dais.
She interested him, damn it. Though God knows she shouldn’t.
But he might as well have been invisible—not once did she look in his direction. He clenched the pewter goblet in his fist, filling it more than once as the meal drew on, his irritation growing with every minute.
His plan to stay close to her side was going to be more difficult than he’d anticipated, but if she thought she could dismiss him so easily, she was bloody well wrong.
He’s back.
Anna jerked back the unwelcome tug of yearning in her chest and forced herself not to look at him. Not to think about him.
Sir Arthur wasn’t for her. He never had been. Her course was set. She’d made her decision. Her father—her clan—was counting on her. It was too late for regrets or second-guessing, even if seeing him had brought all those unwelcome emotions rushing back.
How could she not have noticed him at first, when now it seemed she could notice no one else? The proud young knight with his dark good looks was the most handsome in the room. And undoubtedly the strongest. Her cheeks heated. One look at his tall, broad-shouldered form and the memories of his naked chest came rushing back. Every sculpted muscle. Every rigid band. Every lean ounce of flesh.
She tried to ignore him, but she could feel his eyes on her as she ate. Or tried to eat. But her mouth was too dry, and the food tasted bland and chalky.
He watched her with a dark intensity that made her want to flee. Which she did at the first opportunity.
Hurrying from the Great Hall with as much ambivalence as she could muster, she ran up the stairs to her tower chamber and started tearing through her ambry, looking for her riding cloak.
She needed to get out of there.
One day. She had to avoid him for only one day, and then she would be gone. They were scheduled to leave for Auldearn Castle, the royal stronghold held by the Earl of Ross in the north, the next morning.
Why couldn’t he have stayed away until she was gone? It would have made it so much easier.
She dug frantically through the piles of wool and silk hanging in the ambry, not caring about the mess she was making in her eagerness to escape.
Where was it?
She was about to forget the morning chill and leave anyway, when she realized that her maidservant had probably already packed the cloak in her trunk for her journey. She flipped open the wooden lid and let out a sigh of relief when she saw the gray, blue, and green checked wool folded at the top.
Quickly tossing it around her shoulders, she gathered Squire in her arms—fearing the puppy would run straight for the prodigal knight—and hurried back down the stairs.
She peeked out from behind the door to make sure the barmkin was clear before exiting. She didn’t want to take any chances of running into him. She knew she was being ridiculous. Sir Arthur had done everything possible to avoid her. But something in the way he was watching her during the meal urged caution.
Crossing the yard, she headed for the stables. Once safely inside, she released the squirming dog from her arms and sent the stable lad to fetch Robby while she readied her horse.
Anna didn’t have any destination in mind, just as long as it was outside the castle. The massive stone fortification with its great barmkin walls suddenly felt too small.
Having finished, she bent down to scoop up Squire again when the door opened. The puppy burst out into an excited flurry of yips and yelps, and shot out of her grasp like an arrow.
“Damn!” The oath slipped between her lips before she could catch it back.
She didn’t need to look to know who it was.
If Squire’s reaction hadn’t told her, her body’s would have. The air shifted. Her skin prickled. Her senses flared. The room suddenly felt hot. And the faint hint of male spice seemed to filter through the pungent, earthy smells of the stable.
She closed her eyes, said a prayer for strength, and then slowly stood to face him.
Their eyes met. The jolt of awareness cracked through her like
a whip. The shock never seemed to lessen. Her breath hitched and the sharp flash of tightness wrapped around her chest, squeezing. She felt a poignant moment of longing rise inside her, before she quickly—harshly—tamped it down.
He didn’t mean anything to her. Not anymore. Not after what happened in the barracks. Not after he’d left at the first opportunity.
He’d showed her how wrong he was for her. She should believe him.
She schooled her features into an impassive mask, calling on every ounce of royal blood that flowed in her veins. She was the descendant of kings, including great-granddaughter six times over of the mighty Somerled. She gave a short nod of her head, and said coolly, “Sir Arthur, I see you have returned.”
Her attempt at imperiousness was somewhat ruined by the soft tremble in her voice. It was one thing to pretend not to be affected by him in a crowded Hall; it was quite another in a small stable. Alone. With him looking at her so … intensely. Angrily.
His face was red—except for the lines around his mouth and his throbbing temple. Those, unfortunately, were white.
Her heart fluttered nervously. Where was Iain? The stable boy should be back by now.
He must have read her thoughts. His gaze darkened, which, as it was already forbidding enough, only unnerved her further. He had no reason to be angry at her.
“The lad’s not coming. I told him I would take you wherever you need to go.”
Good God, no! She didn’t want to go anywhere with him. Or be near him, for that matter.
She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed by the danger she sensed emanating from him. She’d done nothing wrong. But she hoped he couldn’t see her hands shaking. “That won’t be necessary.”
He took a step closer, and she had to force herself to stand still. But her pulse jumped in her throat.
And he saw it. The smile that curved his lips made her feel like a mouse in a cat’s eye. “I’m afraid it will. If you leave the castle, I’m going with you.” His gaze swept over her in a way that made her skin flush with heat. “I think you’ve forgotten something.”
The Ranger Page 16