The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(10)

This was the closest Arthur had been to the man who’d killed his father in years, and the intense hatred that gripped him surprised him. He wasn’t used to such fierce emotion, but his chest burned with it.

He’d been waiting so many years for this moment, he thought it might be anticlimactic. It wasn’t. If anything, he was surprised by how anxious he was to see it done. It would be easy—and damned tempting—to surprise him with a dirk in his back. But unlike his enemy, he would kill him face-to-face. On a battlefield.

And killing Lorn wasn’t part of his mission. Yet.

His enemy had aged, he realized. Gray now streaked his dark hair and the lines that marked his face had started to sag. Arthur had heard rumors of an illness and wondered if there might be some truth to them. But the eyes were the same. Cold and calculating. The eyes of a despot who would stop at nothing to win.

Afraid of what he might unconsciously reveal, or that MacDougall would somehow be able to sense the threat, Arthur forced his gaze away from the dais.

He had to be careful. Damned careful to give nothing away. If he was discovered, Arthur knew the best he could hope for was a quick death. The worst was a long one.

But he wasn’t overly concerned. There were at least a score of knights and five times that many men-at-arms who’d answered Lorn’s call. He wouldn’t be noticed. Neil was right; he was good at fading into the background and not drawing attention to himself.

Though he wished he could say the same for his brother. He winced as Dugald let out a loud bellow of laughter, cuffing his squire in the jaw with the back of his hand. Blood dripped from his lip.

Arthur felt a twinge of sympathy for the lad, having been on the bad side of his brother’s fist more times than he could count when he was a youth. But sympathy wouldn’t do the lad any good. Not if he wanted to be a warrior. It was part of the lad’s training, intended to toughen him up. Eventually he would learn to stop reacting. Not feeling would take longer.

“What lass is going to notice a whelp like you with me around?” Dugald laughed.

The squire blushed hotly, and Arthur felt even sorrier for him. The lad was going to be miserable until he learned to control his emotions. Dugald would hone in on that weakness until it was pounded out of him. Like their father, being a warrior—a fierce warrior—was all that was important to him. Except for the lasses.

Dugald might be an overbearing braggart at times, but it was not without cause. Though not quite as tall as Arthur, his brother was powerfully built and undeniably a formidable warrior. He was also reputed to be the most handsome of the six brothers and took to his role with relish.

“I didn’t think they’d look at me,” the squire said, his deep red face matching the color of his hair. “I just wondered if they’d be as fair as they are reputed to be.”

“Who?” Arthur said.

“St. Columba’s bones, little brother.” For a moment, Dugald looked as if he wanted to cuff Arthur, too. But Arthur wasn’t a lad anymore. He would fight back. Though he’d been careful to keep his skills hidden—initially as a means of self-preservation, and now to not have those skills used against his compatriots—he wondered if Dugald sensed that the balance of power had shifted between them. He pushed him, but only so far. “Where have you been living? In a cave with King Hood?” Dugald laughed even louder, drawing a few eyes in their direction. “Lorn’s daughters are reputed to be rare beauties—particularly the middle one, the fair Lady Mary.”

Arthur wasn’t the least bit intrigued. Reports of noblewomen’s beauty were often exaggerated. Besides, he doubted any of them could hold a candle to MacLeod’s wife. He’d seen Christina Fraser only once, but he’d thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Another face flashed before his eyes—this one more sweet than classically beautiful—before he pushed it away with a frown. Strange that he still thought of the lass from the church though more than a year had passed. The king had been furious to lose the silver—especially when they learned it was double the amount they’d originally thought—but had understood why Arthur interfered.

“They have one fatal flaw,” he pointed out.

The squire looked confused, but Dugald understood. His brother’s expression fell, his mouth tightening in a hard line. His ambitious brother might have seen the advantage of siding with Ross and King Edward—and by necessity the MacDougalls—but Dugald didn’t like Lorn any better than Arthur did. “Aye, you’re right about that, little brother.”

“What flaw?” the squire ventured to ask. The lad had courage, Arthur thought, knowing what was to come.

Dugald clopped the boy again. “You’d better hope it’s blindness, if you want any of the lasses to notice you.”

Another hour of his brother’s loud conversation passed before it was their turn. At last, Arthur followed his brother forward to pledge his sword to MacDougall. As the head of the family, at least as far as England and the Earl of Ross were concerned (his three older brothers having been declared rebels), Dugald spoke for them all. Alexander MacDougall handled the formalities, but Arthur sensed Lorn’s immediate interest.

“Sir Dugald of Torsa….” Lorn left off contemplatively. “One of Colin Mor’s sons,” he said, giving him a long, steady look. “Not the eldest, though.”