The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(48)

He couldn’t be that much of a fool.

Another month, he told himself. Stay away from her for a few more weeks and this will all be over. Once he had the identity of the messenger, he would see what he could discover of the MacDougall battle plan. But when the battle started, his mission would be done. He would leave and never look back.

Realizing he hadn’t eaten since morning, he took out a piece of dried beef and oatcake, ate it, and washed it down with the water from the stream where he’d filled his skin. Absently, he scanned the grassy landscape.

His heart jerked to a violent stop. For a moment he stood transfixed. Hunger rose hard inside him, a yearning so intense it claimed his breath. Like a starving man, he watched as the lass he’d been thinking about for the past week seemed to materialize out of his dreams. Though she was still a good distance away and wore a hooded cloak over her golden hair, he knew it was her. He felt her nearness in his bones. In his blood.

Every nerve ending stood on edge as he watched her alight from a small skiff and begin to make her way up the grassy pathway from the small jetty to the cloister.

He struggled to catch a glimpse of her face in the fading daylight. The need to see her, to assure himself she was well, almost made him forget where he was. He took a step forward before realizing what he’d done.

Swearing, he slipped behind the tree before anyone noticed him standing there like a love-struck fool.

What the hell was she doing here?

She had that basket with her, and once again, only a solitary guardsman accompanied her. The lass had a singular ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like at the church in Ayr—

He went utterly still. The truth struck him right between the eyes.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

But he didn’t believe in coincidence. Either Anna MacDougall had an uncanny knack for showing up exactly where she shouldn’t, or she was the messenger.

She’s the messenger.

The messages were in her basket, buried in the tarts or whatever else she carried with her. He recalled how jumpy she’d been at the village. How she’d handed him the baby and taken the basket with her to the kitchen. How she’d paled when he mentioned that the smell of the rolls was making him hungry.

And she’d been the one to pick up the silver in Ayr.

The truth had been right under his nose the entire time. How could he have been so blind?

His mouth hardened. He knew how: he’d underestimated her. Twice. Because she was pretty and young and innocent, because she seemed so vulnerable and sweet, because she was a lass, he’d never questioned her presence that night—even after he’d learned that she was spying on him.

Damn, it was brilliant. Using women as couriers. He thought of the women he’d seen coming and going from the churches. He’d never given them a second thought. They’d slipped right through his net.

He might have admired it, had he not been consumed by a far greater realization. His blood chilled to a trickle sliding down the back of his neck.

God’s wounds, how could her father use her like this? If Arthur wasn’t already planning it, he could kill MacDougall for putting her in such danger. Didn’t they realize what would have happened to her that night had he not been there to save her from MacGregor and his men? She could have been killed.

His heart pounded fiercely as she approached the door. He clenched his fists, struggling not to rush over there, toss her over his shoulder, and get her the hell out of here. He felt a primal urge to take her someplace safe, where he could lock her up and protect her.

Not your job. Not your responsibility.

Not yours.

A cold sweat had gathered on his brow. When he thought of the risk she was taking, it nearly drove him mad with ...

He flinched at the realization. Jesus, it was fear.

He hadn’t felt like this since Dugald tried to cure him of his aversion to rats by locking him in a dark storage shed crawling with them—without a weapon.

She knocked on the door. A moment later a priest answered. Though Arthur kept his ears pinned, they spoke in low tones and he couldn’t hear what they said. But from the monk’s apologetic expression and the shake of his head, Arthur knew he was telling her there was nothing. Her shoulders seemed to droop. They exchanged a few more words, and then she quickly returned to the skiff.

Arthur watched her go and knew that his mission had just gotten a whole hell of a lot more complicated.

Bloody hell, why did it have to be her?

He fought against what he had to do. But staying away from Anna MacDougall was no longer an option. No matter what his instincts warned him against, his mission demanded that he stay as close to her as possible. He needed to keep apprised of the MacDougalls’ plans.

A battle was about to begin. But for once, Arthur questioned his ability to escape unscathed.

Eleven

Anna pushed back her hood as she entered her father’s solar. After setting down her basket on the table, she joined him and her mother beside the smoldering peat fire. Even in summer, the stone walls of the castle kept it cool and drafty inside.

Her mother glanced up from the new silk banner she was working on and frowned. “Where have you been, Annie-love? It’s late.”

Anna leaned down and gave her a kiss. “I took some tarts to the monks at the priory.”

She met her father’s gaze. His expression darkened. A small shake of her head had answered his unspoken question.