The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(21)

Christ’s bones, he couldn’t take his eyes off the soft, pale flesh swelling—nay, spilling—over the bodice. Ripe and lush were two words that came to mind. But that didn’t even begin to describe the perfection of her magnificent br**sts.

He’d just about chop off his left arm to see them naked. And he was having a damned hard time doing anything but imagining how they would look. How they would taste. How they would bounce when ...

Ah, hell. He jerked his gaze away. His body was on fire under his armor. From lust, aye, but also from an irrational flare of anger. If she were his, he’d keep her locked up in his room for a week for wearing that gown in public. After he ripped it off her and burned it.

He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had gotten him so ... bothered.

Unaware of his violent thoughts, she gazed up at him eagerly. “I’m so glad I caught you,” she said, her breath coming in short gasps. Gasps that made him think of swiving. Hell, just about everything she did made him think of swiving.

She must have sprinted from the tower when she saw him ride out from the stable. It wasn’t the first time. He’d been wrong about discouraging her the night of the feast. Dead wrong. If anything, she’d only redoubled her efforts since then.

He’d been living on edge all week, never knowing when she would show up. It seemed wherever he went, she was there. His brothers and the other men thought it was hilarious.

He, not so much.

He wasn’t as immune to her as he wanted to be. It was hard not to like the chit. She was so ... fresh. Like the first flower in spring.

He cursed inwardly. What the hell was happening to him? He was beginning to sound like a bloody bard.

“If you have a moment, there is something I should like to speak with you about,” she added.

He tried to smile, but his teeth were grinding together, and he suspected it was more of a grimace. “I’m riding out for the day. It will have to wait.”

Her smile fell. He braced himself, told himself he wasn’t going to feel it again, but he did. Like an arse. The way he’d felt most of the week. Stepping on fluffy kitten tails apparently never got any easier.

“Of course. I’m sorry.” She blinked up at him so innocently, he felt those little kitten claws digging into his chest. “I don’t want to bother you, it’s just that this is important—”

“Go on, Arthur,” his brother said, unable to hide his smirk. “The lady says she needs you. You can ride out with us another time.”

Arthur just might have to kill his brother. Dugald was doing it purposefully—backing him into a corner, making it impossible to refuse—just to see him suffer.

Dugald’s attitude toward Lorn’s daughters had softened in the week since the feast. But Arthur knew that Dugald, the bloody bastard, was just as motivated by the enjoyment he got out of seeing Arthur squirm, guessing—although by this point it was probably obvious—how uncomfortable he was about the lass’s attention.

This was quickly becoming the longest week of his life. He’d almost rather go through MacLeod’s two weeks of warrior’s training, not-so-jokingly dubbed Perdition, than another day of this.

Anna’s eyes brightened and the smile returned to her face. “Are you sure it’s all right?” She didn’t wait for Arthur to disagree. “That would be wonderful. Where were you going?”

“It’s not important,” Arthur lied, biting back his anger. It was the first opportunity he’d had to scout out the terrain on the north side of Loch Etive. Now, he would have to look for another excuse. It wasn’t the first time the lass had gotten in the way of his mission the past week.

He’d managed to follow a few priests and keep a short surveillance on the castle chapel and the nearby priory, but most of his time had been spent dodging Anna.

This had to stop.

“Have fun, little brother,” Dugald said, not bothering to hide the amusement in his voice. “See you when we return.”

Arthur watched them leave. He didn’t usually engage in petty forms of sibling revenge, but he was reconsidering.

He jumped down off his mount and started to lead the swift and agile Irish hobby that had given the lightly armored “hobelars” horsemen their name back to the stable.

Anna pranced happily along beside him. He was careful to keep a certain distance between them. The lass was prone to touch his arm when she talked and each time she did it, he felt like he was jumping out of his damned skin. Pure defensive warfare, but he wasn’t ashamed. At this point it was about survival.

He’d been trained to be one of the most elite warriors in Scotland. A secret, lethal weapon who would do whatever he needed to protect his cover. He could slip behind enemy lines, steal through an enemy camp, single-handedly take down a dozen warriors, and kill a man without making a sound. But there was one thing he hadn’t been trained to do: dodge an overenthusiastic lass.

He didn’t understand it. Most women were wary of him, sensing something about him that wasn’t quite right. Sensing the danger. But not her. She looked at him as if he were normal.

It was bloody unsettling.

He kept his eyes straight ahead so he wouldn’t notice how the sun picked up the golden strands in her long, silky hair. Or the softness of her skin. Or how incredible she smelled. The chit must bathe in rose petals.