The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(15)

Arthur understood the squire’s reaction only too well. One glance down at his own hands—scarred by dozens of knife marks—said why. It was Dugald’s idea of a game. He’d toss the knife—or dagger or spear—around for a while, and then suddenly throw it at someone, expecting that person to catch it. It was supposed to improve reflexes and build alertness, awareness, and readiness.

It did, albeit with a considerable amount of pain and blood.

God, how he’d dreaded that damned knife—a sentiment shared by the squire if the ashen, edgy look on his face was any indication.

“He hasn’t courted a lass since he was a pissant squire like you,” Dugald continued. “What was her name, brother?”

Arthur slid his finger over the rim of his goblet carelessly. Dugald was prodding him, but he wouldn’t bite. “Catherine.”

“What happened, sir?” the squire asked Arthur, casting furtive sidelong glances toward Dugald—never completely taking his eyes off the five-inch steel blade.

Arthur shrugged. “We didn’t suit.”

Dugald laughed. “After you scared her senseless. By God, you were a strange lad.” Thankfully, he didn’t explain, but looked back to the squire. He made a quick motion with his hand, faking a throw of the dagger, chuckling when the lad flinched. “He was even more of a hapless fighter than you. A runt, if you can believe it.” From the way the others turned to him in astonishment, it was clear they couldn’t. “Puny and weak. He could barely lift a sword until he was twelve. We all despaired of ever making him a warrior.”

Except for Neil. Neil had always believed in him.

“But look at him now,” Dugald said. “A knight our father would be proud of.” With a deft sleight of hand, he tossed the dagger high in the air, caught it, and immediately flipped it toward the squire. Arthur would have knocked it down, but the lad was ready. Eyes fixed on the flashing blade, he managed to get enough of the handle to catch it. Dugald let out a belly roar of laughter. “Ha! Mayhap there’s hope for you after all.”

The others laughed.

The offhanded compliment about Arthur’s warrior skills mattered more than he wanted it to. He and Dugald would never be close, but they were brothers. On opposite sides, he reminded himself.

The squire moved away, and the rest of the men returned to their drink, but Dugald quietly looked around the room. Arthur knew what—or who—he was looking for. The Lady Mary MacDougall had captured his brother’s attention—a rarity for any lass.

“It’s a damned shame,” Dugald said roughly.

He nodded. “Aye, brother, that it is.”

John of Lorn’s daughters were not for them.

Four

Anna had even more flaws than she’d realized. After today, she would have to add arrogance and vanity to the list, which already included her well-known stubbornness (it was she who’d threatened—nicely—to tie her father to his bed if he attempted to get up), outspokenness (women weren’t supposed to have opinions, let alone voice them—but she wouldn’t take the full blame for that; it was her father’s fault for encouraging her), and the very unmaidenly penchant to repeat her brothers’ and father’s favorite oaths (which she wouldn’t add to her sins by giving examples of).

Now, she’d discovered a rather perverse need to be liked. Surely it was the height of arrogance to think that everyone should like her? Of course it was. Even if they usually did. It shouldn’t bother her that the young knight never once looked at her. Not once. All night.

But it did. Especially when she found herself doing nothing but look at him.

As she laughed until her sides split, danced until her feet hurt, ate until her belly ached, and drank until her head swam, she found her gaze drifting around the room with anything but aimlessness, searching for the darkly handsome knight who couldn’t have made his disinterest in her more plain.

She frowned. Why didn’t he like her?

She’d been perfectly friendly, smiling and attempting to make conversation. She didn’t have warts on her nose, hairs sprouting from her chin, or rotting teeth. Actually, she’d been told many times before—and not just from the men in her family—that although she certainly wasn’t as beautiful as Mary (who could be?), she was quite pleasing to look upon.

Thus, her descent into vanity.

Perhaps it was lingering animosity from the old feud between the Campbells and the MacDougalls? She’d been only a child at the time and knew little of the circumstances. She could always ask her father. Though why she was so desperate to find an explanation for his apparent disregard, she didn’t know.

It shouldn’t matter. She didn’t even know him. And he was a warrior—there was nothing refined about him at all. That should be enough.

What was one man? Plenty of men liked her. Including Thomas MacNab, a perfectly pleasant scholar, who’d just gone to fetch her a goblet of the sweetened wine that she loved while she recovered from their energetic dance—and her embarrassing fall—near the open window. She’d like to say she wasn’t usually so clumsy, but she couldn’t. She didn’t consider it a fault, more of an affliction.

She leaned against the stone sill, inhaling fresh breaths of air as her gaze traveled around the Great Hall. The room was sweltering, heated not by the peat fire but by the lively energy of the celebrants swirling all around. If the smiles and laughter on the faces of the men and women were any indication, the feast had been a resounding success.