The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(28)

The lady in question seemed to pick up on the sudden tension between the two brothers. “No one needs to take me anywhere. I’m perfectly fine with Robby.”

Arthur felt himself backed into the corner again. He knew his brother: Dugald had dug in his heels and would not retreat. Arthur had challenged his authority, and he couldn’t afford to get in a pissing match with his brother. If someone was going to accompany her, it would have to be him.

But that would mean giving up on a chance to see whether the friar was one of Lorn’s messengers.

He should just let her go. Most likely she’d be fine.

Most likely.

The days were long. It probably would still be light when she returned.

Probably.

His fists clenched as the frustration coiled inside him. “I’m sure you are fine,” he said, to preserve the lad’s tender pride. “But it would be my honor to see you back to the castle, my lady.”

Anna wasn’t happy to see him at all.

After weeks of avoiding her—leaving at the first opportunity—now the contrary man decides to anoint himself her stalwart protector?

Of course, she hadn’t forgotten what he’d done for her. When she’d looked up into those amazing dark golden eyes and realized that he’d caught her, realized that he’d saved her, realized he was cradling her in his arms ...

It had been the most romantic moment of her life.

The most romantic single moment. Because the next he’d set her on her feet, told her to be more careful, and left her standing there gaping at him.

How had he reached her so quickly? She remembered the flash of alarm in his eyes. It was almost as if he knew she’d been about to fall. Which of course was ridiculous ... wasn’t it?

But unconsciously she tucked her basket closer to her side. The man was entirely too watchful; she would have to think of something to distract him.

“Come along then, if you insist.” She spun on her heel and started back down the path.

His hand on her elbow, however, stopped her in her tracks. Her heart stopped as well, before kicking into a sudden race. He wasn’t gripping her hard, but she could feel every one of his fingers burning into her skin. A blast of awareness flooded her skin with heat.

She’d told herself she’d exaggerated the intensity of her reaction to him. But she hadn’t. Why him? Her attraction to him was inexplicable.

“Where is your horse?” he demanded. “The castle is in the other direction.”

“I’m not yet returning to the castle. I’ve still a few more villagers to visit.”

“It will be dark soon.”

Lud, he had a forbidding frown. She carefully extracted her elbow from his hand. “It won’t be dark for at least four hours. I’ve plenty of time.”

And before he could argue, she started off down the path, waving her quick goodbyes to Brother Rory, the friar, and Sir Dugald.

From his disapproving expression, she could tell that Arthur wasn’t pleased with the arrangement, but he followed along beside her like a brooding, unwelcome shadow.

They visited three more homes. The first belonged to Malcolm, who’d lost his sword arm fighting against the rebels at Glen Trool and was having a difficult time adjusting to life away from the battlefield.

Yet covered in scars and missing an arm, Anna knew he’d give another one if only he could go back. She didn’t understand this love some men had for war, and probably never would. She was tired of scars, of missing limbs, of wives without husbands and children without fathers.

Her nose wrinkled and she cast a surreptitious glance at the man in the corner. Not all scars bothered her, it seemed. Some were rather ... attractive.

He had scars. One along his jaw that stood out when he clenched his teeth—which around her he seemed to do often—and a small nick on his right cheek. His hands were littered with them. He probably had some on his arms. And on his chest.

Her body flooded with heat as an image of his broad, powerfully muscled chest sprang to mind. Naked.

Nails to the cross, what was wrong with her? Fantasies—were she to engage in any—were utterly inappropriate in the middle of the day while trying to read to an injured man.

She might not be able to put a stop to the war, but she would do what she could to help, no matter how small. Malcolm’s wife, Seonaid, said he drank less uisge-beatha after she read to him, so Anna continued to bring her prized copy of Thomas of Britain’s Tristan. The old warrior loved the doomed tale of love between the knight and the Irish princess almost as much as she did.

She ignored the man brooding near the door, but she could feel him watching her.

It wasn’t until they’d left that he said, “You know how to read.”

She shrugged, knowing it wasn’t common in the Highlands. “My father thought it important that all of his children be educated.” She met his gaze, challenging him to say something. “Even the girls.”

He gave her a long look—frowning again—but didn’t comment.

The next house she visited belonged to the village healer. Afraig was getting old and didn’t travel around the countryside as easily as before, so whenever she visited, Anna brought a few herbs and plants that she’d collected in the forest near Dunstaffnage.

Anna saved the most important stop for last. Her recently widowed friend Beth had been left with five children, including baby Catrine—Cate—born not three months ago, six months after the poor babe’s father had been killed in an ambush by Bruce’s men near Inverlochy Castle, right before it fell to the rebels.