The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(109)

Her brother looked properly mortified by her sharing of the too-personal details of a subject that shouldn’t be mentioned at all. Anna was appalled at herself for the nature and depth of her duplicity, but she needed as much time as possible to get away.

She had to get back to the castle. She couldn’t explain it, but ever since she’d left her father’s solar this morning, she hadn’t been able to shake the overwhelming sense of foreboding. Perhaps it had been triggered by something her father said, but she knew something was wrong—terribly wrong. The feeling had only gotten worse as the castle faded into the sunlight behind them. She didn’t know what she was going to do; she just knew that she had to do something.

They might not have a future, but she didn’t want him to die.

Since her father had left the castle just before they did, this was her chance.

Mustering as much dignity as she could—given the humiliation of having roughly twenty men watching her tread off to relieve herself—she accepted the aid of her brother’s squire to slide down off her horse, handed him the reins, and walked regally into the dense canopy of trees and bracken. The moment she was out of sight, she picked up the edge of her skirts and started to run.

It would take her about ten minutes to run back to the castle from here. How long it would take her to talk her way into the guard room where the prisoners were housed, she didn’t know. But she hoped she could reach it before her brother realized she was missing. It wouldn’t take Ewen long to figure out where she’d gone. And unlike her, he would be on a horse.

She raced through the trees, running parallel to but out of sight of the road, trying to make as little sound as she could. But the dry leaves and branches littering the forest floor made silence impossible.

She heard a sound behind her and wanted to howl with anger. How had they discovered her missing so fast? She ducked behind a large rock, hoping to hide, but found herself lifted off the ground from behind.

“Let go of me,” she said, trying to twist free. As she was expecting it to be her brother or one of his men, when she turned and found herself looking into the steely-eyed gaze of a brutish, nasal-helmed warrior, the blood drained from her body. She let out a cry of alarm that was muffled by his hand.

“Shush, lass, I don’t want to hurt you.”

His fearsome visage didn’t inspire a lot of confidence. He was built like a mountain, with rugged, rough-hewn features to go along with his bulk.

She forced herself to still, pretending to believe him, then as soon as he relaxed, she kicked him as hard as she could with the edge of her booted heel and shoved her elbow as deep as she could into his leather-clad chest, wincing when she connected with the bits of steel.

He let out a grunt of surprise, but never loosened his hold enough for her to free herself.

She gazed back at him in frustration again, and she stilled—this time for real. There was something familiar about him. Nay, not about him, but about his attire.

She sucked in her breath. The blackened helm, the black leather cotun studded with mail, the strangely fashioned plaid ...

It was the same distinctive warrior’s garb worn by the handsome warrior in Ayr and by her uncle. This man was part of Bruce’s secret guard.

A fact that was confirmed only a moment later. “I don’t think my former niece believes you, Saint.”

Anna gazed in stunned surprise as Lachlan MacRuairi emerged from the trees alongside another warrior.

“Saint, Templar,” he motioned toward her, “May I present the Lady Anna MacDougall.” He waved off the man holding her. “You can release her. She won’t scream unless she wants to see her brother and his men killed.”

Anna rubbed her mouth as soon as she was free, trying to return the sensation. She looked around. “There are only three of you.”

The men looked genuinely amused by her comment. “Two more than we need,” the third man said. He was slightly smaller of stature than the other two men—she was beginning to think being a muscle-strapped giant was a requirement for becoming a member of Bruce’s secret army—and beneath the shadow of his nasal helm his grin was both good-natured and friendly.

Templar, her uncle had called him. What a strange name. He was far too young to have fought against the infidel. The last crusade was over thirty-five years ago.

And he’d called the man who’d been holding her Saint. They must be noms de guerre—war names—she realized.

Ranger! That was what the handsome man in the forest had called Arthur. Was that his war name?

“What are you doing here, Uncle?” It felt strange to call someone only ten years or so her senior Uncle. He didn’t look much older than Arthur, though he must be three or four and thirty.

“Perhaps I should ask the same thing of you. Why did you flee from your brother and his men?”

She wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t answered her. He’d either been scouting the area or watching the castle. As they were very close to the coast, she figured he’d come by boat. Lachlan MacRuairi was a seafaring pirate to the bone.

“You are supporting Bruce’s attack against my father from the sea,” she said, guessing at his purpose.

He shrugged evasively. “Now, tell me, Lady Anna, why I find you running through the forest.”

“I need to return to the castle.”

“Why?”