The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(115)

She caught sight of Ewen exiting the square donjon. “Any word?” she asked, though she already knew his answer. She would have heard the call go up if anyone was approaching.

He shook his head. “Nay, not yet.”

She knew the wait was hard on her brother too, albeit for different reasons. He wanted to fight. But if he blamed her for his banishment to Innis Chonnel while the battle waged on, he did not show it.

She chewed on her lower lip. “I wish I knew what was happening.”

He smiled. “I do as well. But as soon as there is anything to report—”

“Ships approaching, sir!” The call came from one of the guards in the high tower.

Anna followed her brother as he raced up the stairs to the ramparts. She could just make out the three square sails bearing down on them from the north. They were coming fast.

“It’s father,” Ewen said, his voice despondent.

A chill of foreboding ran down her spine. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Ewen didn’t bother to try to hide the truth from her. “He would only be coming here if it were necessary.”

Necessary. Her heart dropped. Meaning if he were in retreat.

They’d lost!

She wobbled a little, her legs suddenly feeling like jelly. Gripping the stone edge of the rampart with her fingers to steady herself, she watched the ships approaching and prayed for another explanation. Anything but that Bruce had won.

She squinted into the sunlight, seeing something else. “What’s that?” she said, pointing just beyond the oncoming ships. “Behind them?”

But Ewen was already shouting orders. “Attack! To your positions!”

The men sprang into action, while Anna, unable to look away, watched in stunned horror as the ships approached. Her father’s men didn’t seem to be aware they were being chased.

“Behind you!” she shouted, trying to warn them. But the wind carried her voice away.

Ewen shouted up to her. “Anna, get away from there. It isn’t safe. Go to the tower and bar the door.”

Mutely, she nodded and did as he bid. Once inside, she raced to her second-floor chamber to look out the small window. As the donjon tower was on the southern corner of the castle, she couldn’t see the boats until they’d nearly reached the landing area.

Heart in her throat, she watched as the battle broke out right below her.

She could see her father at the rear of his men, shouting orders, as the ship of enemy warriors—

She stopped, her heart catching with a fierce, thudding jolt. She blinked. No, it wasn’t a dream. Her heart squeezed as a hard swell of relief rose inside her.

Arthur was alive.

He was dressed in unfamiliar battle garb, his hair and face shielded by a nasal helm, on the surface unrecognizable from the other warriors around him. But she knew it was him.

Thank God.

Then, suddenly, the full import of his presence hit her. Horror washed over her, clinging in an icy embrace. If he was here, it was for one reason.

She raced to the door, knowing she had to do something. She had to stop him. She couldn’t let him kill her father.

* * *

The moment Arthur had been waiting for was here. Somehow it seemed fitting that the final reckoning would take place on the small island of Innis Chonnel, in the hulking shadow of the castle that had once been his home.

The race had been close, but in the end Lachlan MacRuairi had given proof that his reputation was well earned. Hiding in the black hole of the bright sunlight, he bore down on Lorn’s retreating ships undetected, catching up with the three birlinns as they neared the landing.

Only then did Arthur launch a barrage of arrows on the unsuspecting MacDougalls.

MacRuairi had gathered forty of his pirate clansmen, which given the roughly three times as many MacDougalls should have been an uneven fight. But MacRuairi’s men were more than up to the challenge. Brigands, cutthroats, ruffians—that was describing them generously—the MacRuairis had earned their reputation as the greatest scourge of the sea.

But they fought just as fiercely on land.

The MacRuairi warriors were already jumping out of the boat—swords raised, letting go a cry of “For the Lion”—as MacRuairi pulled their purloined ship up to the landing on the heels of the MacDougall ships. Arthur was right there with them, leading the charge.

Lorn had positioned his men at the end of the jetty, expecting to easily cut down MacRuairi’s men as they attempted to reach land.

But the MacDougall warriors weren’t any match for the vicious onslaught of their kinsmen. Though both clans were descended from sons of Somerled—the Norse king who’d ruled the Isles over 150 years ago—they’d battled often over the generations for supremacy. The MacDougalls had won after Largs, growing in favor with the Scottish kings, but assimilation had taken them farther away from their Viking roots. The MacRuairis fought like the barbarians that they had been not so long ago—that most might still call them.

They broke through the wall of MacDougall soldiers easily, sending the battle onto the rocky shores of the island.

With only one arm—not to mention his weakened condition—Arthur was at a disadvantage. But while nowhere near his normal fighting abilities, he managed to hold his own. Plowing determinedly through the clansmen, he kept his eye on Lorn the entire time.

Lorn was at the rear of the battle, in the protective circle of his men. One of whom was his henchman.