The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(4)

“Aye,” MacGregor said, before Arthur could caution him. “And he’s no traitor. He’s one of ours.”

Damn. The lass. He’d forgotten about the lass. Any hope that she might not have heard MacGregor or grasped the significance was dashed when he heard her sharp intake of breath.

MacGregor heard it, too. He reached for his bow, but Arthur shook him off.

“It’s safe,” he said. “You can come out now, lass.”

“Lass?” MacGregor swore under his breath. “So that’s what this is about.”

The woman moved out from behind the tree. When Arthur reached to take her elbow, she stiffened as if his touch offended. Aye, she’d heard all right.

Her hood had slid back in the chaos, revealing long, shimmering locks of golden-brown hair falling in thick, heavy waves down her back. The sheer beauty of it seemed so out of place, it temporarily startled him. And when a sliver of moonlight fell upon her face, Arthur’s breath caught in a hard, fierce jolt.

Christ, she was lovely. Her tiny heart-shaped face was dominated by large, heavily lashed eyes. Her nose was small and slightly turned, her chin pointed, and her brows softly arched. Her lips were a perfectly shaped pink bow and her skin ... her skin was as smooth and velvety as cream. She had that sweet, vulnerable look of a small, fluffy animal—a kitten or a rabbit, perhaps.

The innocent breath of femininity was not what he was expecting and seemed utterly incongruous in the midst of war.

He could only stare in stunned silence as MacGregor—the whoreson—stepped forward, peeled off his nasal helm, and gallantly bowed over her hand.

“My apologies, my lady,” he said with a smile that had felled half the female hearts in the Highlands—the other half he’d yet to meet. “We were expecting someone else.”

Arthur heard the lass’s predictable gasp when she beheld the face of the man reputed to be the most handsome in the Highlands. But she quickly composed herself and, to his surprise, seemed remarkably lucid. Most women were babbling by now. “Obviously. Does King Hood make war on women now?” she asked, using the English slur for the outlawed king. She eyed the church up ahead. “Or merely priests.”

For someone surrounded by enemies, she showed a surprising lack of fear. If the fine ermine-lined cloak hadn’t given her away, he would have known she was a noblewoman from the pride in her manner alone.

MacGregor winced. “As I said, it was a mistake. King Robert makes war only on those who deny him what is rightfully his.”

She made a sharp sound of disagreement. “If we are done here, I’ve come to fetch the priest.” Her eyes fell on her fallen guardsman. “It is too late for my man, but perhaps he can still give release to those who await him at the castle.”

Last rites, Arthur realized. Probably for those wounded in the battle of Glen Trool a week’s past.

Though the helm covered his face, he kept his voice low, to further mask his identity. His cover had been jeopardized enough—he didn’t want there to be any chance that she would be able to identify him.

She had to be related to one of the nobles who’d been called to Ayr to hunt Bruce. He’d make sure to stay away from the castle—far away. “What is your name, my lady? And why do you travel with such a paltry guard?”

She stiffened, looking down her tiny nose at him. With the adorable little upturn, it should have been ridiculous, but she managed a surprisingly effective amount of disdain. “Fetching a priest is usually not a dangerous task—as I’m sure even a spy can attest.”

Arthur’s mouth fell in a hard line. So much for gratitude. Perhaps he should have left her to her fate.

MacGregor stepped forward. “You owe this man your life, my lady. If he hadn’t interfered,” he nodded toward her fallen guardsman, “you both would have been dead.”

Her eyes widened, and tiny white teeth bit down on the soft pillow of her lower lip. Arthur felt another unwelcome tug beneath his belt.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, turning to him. “Thank you.”

Gratitude from a beautiful woman was not without effect. The tug in his groin pulled a little harder, the lilting huskiness of her voice making him think of beds, naked flesh, and whispered moans of pleasure.

“Your shoulder ...” She gazed up at him uncertainly. “Is it hurt badly?”

Before he could form a response, he heard a noise. His gaze shot through the trees to the church, noticing the signs of movement.

Damn. The sound of the attack must have alerted the occupants of the church.

“You need to go,” he said to MacGregor. “They’re coming.”

MacGregor had seen firsthand Arthur’s skills too many times to hesitate. He motioned his men to go. As quickly as they’d arrived, Bruce’s warriors slipped back into the darkness of the trees.

“Next time,” MacGregor said, before following them.

Arthur met his gaze in shared understanding. There would be no silver tonight. In a few moments the church would be swarming with men and lit up like a beacon, warning anyone who approached of the danger.

Because of one lass, Bruce would not have the silver to provision his men. They would have to rely on what they could hunt and scavenge from the countryside until another opportunity came.

“You had best go, too,” the lass said stiffly. He hesitated, and she seemed to soften. “I’ll be fine. Go.” She paused. “And thank you.”