The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(16)

Her smile fell. Except for one person.

Don’t look ...

But of course she did. She supposed she should add an appalling lack of self-control to the list. Her gaze immediately went to the figure in the far right corner of the room. He was still there—which was surprising, since he seemed to be watching the door as if he couldn’t wait to leave. In her experience, warriors were always anxious to leave. Eager to get to the next battlefield.

Unlike the other men around him, Sir Arthur wasn’t availing himself of the MacDougall wine and ale. His flagon had barely moved from the table in front of him.

Seated with his back to the wall and a blank expression on his face, he’d positioned himself with a view to the entire room. She wondered if it was intentional. Though he seemed perfectly at ease—leaning back against the wall and occasionally cracking a smile at something one of his companions said—she sensed a watchfulness to him. As if he were constantly assessing and always on guard. It was so subtle she didn’t notice it at first. But it was there, in the steadiness of his gaze and the stillness of his position.

Though he sat with a group of other warriors, including his two brothers whom he’d been with the first day, he seemed more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation. He seemed detached. Apart. And something about it bothered her.

She didn’t like to see anyone left out. Maybe she should see if—

Before she could finish the thought, she found herself lifted off the ground from behind and spun around in the air.

“No one to dance with, brat?” he teased. “Should I order one of my men to partner you?”

She laughed with delight, knowing exactly who it was. Though it had been a long time since she’d heard the teasing lilt in his voice. “Don’t you dare. I can find my own partners.” She pushed at his thick arm, trying to wriggle out of his bearlike hold. “Let go of me, you big oaf.”

He set her feet back on the floor and spun her around to face him, a stern look on his face. “Big oaf? You need to show proper respect to your elders, little one.”

“Did I say big oaf?” She batted her eyes innocently. “I meant Sir big oaf.”

He chuckled, the same blue eyes as hers crinkling at the edges.

Her heart swelled to see the smile on his face. It was the happiest she’d seen her brother since his wife had died giving birth to their third child, nearly a year ago.

Though Alan was only ten years her senior, the recent months had aged him. The affection he’d borne for his wife was etched deeply in the lines on his face. His dark-blond hair had receded at the temples, and perhaps thinned a little on top, but he was still a handsome man. Especially when he smiled—which wasn’t often for the serious heir of Lorn and Argyll.

He reached down and wriggled her nose between his thumb and forefinger the way he used to do when she was a child. “You were right, you know.”

“What was that?” She put her hand to her ear. “It’s so loud I can’t hear you.”

He shook his head. “Brat. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The feast. This is exactly what we needed.”

She beamed. She couldn’t help it. Her brother’s opinion meant much to her. It always had. “You really think so?”

He nodded. “I do.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Though not as tall as a certain young knight, Alan was a formidable man. Nearly six feet in height, he had the thick, bulky build of their father and grandfather. Ewen and Alastair, her two other brothers, were slimmer in stature.

A shadow of sadness passed over her. Somhairle had been somewhere in between. Tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with lean muscle, he’d cut an impressive figure. The quintessential warrior. Not unlike Sir Arthur (why did she keep thinking of him?). But Somhairle, her second-eldest brother, had died fighting alongside Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk almost exactly ten years ago. He’d been twenty years old.

Not wanting to spoil Alan’s rare good humor, she pushed aside the sad thoughts.

“Where are all those men who’ve been flocking around you all night?” her brother asked with an overprotective gleam in his eye.

She rolled her eyes. “If there were any, I’m sure they scattered when they saw you coming.”

His mouth curved in a satisfied grin. “As well they should.”

She harrumphed. “Thomas MacNab went to fetch me some wine; I’m sure he’ll return when you leave.”

Alan folded his thick arms across his chest and frowned. “That pretty—” He stopped himself. “Any man who lacks courage to face one harmless brother ...”

She snorted. “Three overbearing brutes, you mean. I saw all of you glaring at him earlier.”

He gave her a chastising look and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “... isn’t worthy of you. You want a man who will stand down dragons and crawl on his knees through the fires of hell to protect you.”

Anna wrapped her arms around his broad chest and gave him a big squeeze. Alan didn’t understand her preference for a quiet, scholarly man like Thomas MacNab—who wouldn’t know what to do with a sword even if he could carry one—when an impressive knight like Sir Hugh Ross had wanted to marry her. “I thought that’s what I have you, Father, Alastair, and Ewen for.”

He squeezed her back. “Aye, Annie-love, that you do.” He held her back to look at her. “Is there no one else but the tutor who interests you?”