The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(42)

* * *

Anna barely made it out the door before the tears of hurt and humiliation burst through the dam of pride. She wouldn’t let him see how badly he’d hurt her. Devastated—not only by the kiss, but also by the cruel rejection that followed—she took refuge in her chamber. She was fortunate that everyone seemed to be at the evening meal, as she was in no state to see anyone.

Pleading a headache to her maid—who took one look at her face and must have known she was lying but was friend enough to go along with the pretense—Anna feigned sleep when her sisters returned. The last thing she wanted to do was answer questions or talk about what had happened. She didn’t even want to think about what had happened.

God, he’d been right. Horribly right. She’d been a hair’s breadth—or in this case, a puppy’s whinge—away from doing something disastrous.

His kiss. His tongue. Dear Lord, the incredible sensations of his hands on her br**sts. They’d felt too good. She hadn’t wanted it to stop. She’d been swept up in desire far beyond her experience to resist. Instinct had overtaken caution, pleasure had overtaken reason, the primal urge to join with him had drowned everything else in its wake.

Her body had been tingling for him. Flushed and eager for his touch. The place between her legs had been—her cheeks heated—damp.

He could have taken her innocence with little resistance. Tears poured from her eyes and a harsh sob tore from her chest. Nay, with no resistance.

Her heart squeezed at the appalling truth. She’d wanted him. Enough to do something inconceivable. Something rash and foolish that could never be undone.

But it hadn’t been just about lust. At least not for her. When he’d held her in his arms and kissed her, Anna had been overwhelmed with emotion. What she felt for him was intense ... powerful ... different.

Yet the kiss that had meant so much to her had merely been some cruel lesson to him—a means of discouraging her “shadowing him.”

The accusation was all the more humiliating for its truth. She had been chasing after him, and if it had been only about her father’s request, it might not have been so bad. But after what had just happened, she was forced to admit the truth: it hadn’t been about just doing a job for her father. Her interest in him had been just as much about her as it had her father. Perhaps more so.

His cruel lesson worked. The next morning, with the tears if not the hurt that spawned them behind her, Anna reported her findings to her father. Sir Arthur Campbell was exactly as he appeared: an able, ambitious knight focused on the upcoming battle. Any lingering doubts that he was hiding something, she pushed aside.

Satisfied by her estimation, her father instructed her to cease her efforts. Her attention in the young knight had been remarked upon and her father didn’t want Sir Arthur to grow suspicious.

Anna didn’t tell him that it was too late for that.

Relieved to be free of her duty, she kept to her room for the remainder of the day. Though she loved nothing more than to be surrounded by her family and a brimming Hall full of clansmen, today was the rare occasion when she wanted to be by herself. She also feared her low spirits would be obvious and didn’t want to draw unwanted concern from her well-meaning mother and sisters. Moreover, she was still feeling far too vulnerable after that kiss to chance running into him.

It was cowardly, perhaps, but she needed time to think. She’d replayed what had happened over and over in her mind, and each time she became more convinced that she hadn’t been wrong.

He couldn’t kiss her like that and not feel something. He’d wanted her to think it had been only lust, but in her heart she knew it was something more.

Yet, for some reason he was intent on pushing her away. His coldness and cruel words seemed calculated to do just that.

But why?

And more importantly, why was she so desperate to find a reason?

Because she cared, and it seemed she was harboring some silly, childish hope that maybe he hadn’t meant what he’d said. That maybe he cared, too.

It shouldn’t matter. He was all wrong for her. A cold, remote warrior who didn’t care about anyone or anything other than fighting the next battle.

But as much as she wanted to put him in that box, he didn’t quite fit.

He wasn’t nearly as unfeeling as he wanted her to think. She had seen glimpses of emotion when he’d caught her after she’d stumbled off the hillside, and when he’d saved her and Squire from the wolves. Then, the way he’d kissed her had left no doubt that he was a man capable of deep emotion.

She’d never been attracted to warriors before, but with Arthur it was just the opposite: she’d never been so attracted to a man—or his body—in her life. Who knew muscles could be so ... arousing? His battle-hard physique should represent everything she hated about war, but in his arms she’d never felt so safe and protected.

And the sketch. That had been the most surprising thing. That the same hand that wielded a sword and spear with such devastation could draw with such deft skill and beauty ...

Arthur Campbell wasn’t a typical warrior. There was more to him. From the first she’d sensed something different about him. Not just that he kept to himself, but the strange intensity simmering under the surface that set him apart.

Perhaps it was also the hint of loneliness and sadness that drew her. Even with his brother and the other men he’d seemed like a contented outsider—a man who didn’t need anyone.