The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(49)

Before her mother could voice further objection, her father coughed. Though Anna knew it had been done purposefully, the raspy, wet sound concerned her.

“Didn’t you mention something about a new herb brew Father Gilbert recommended to help clear the bogginess from my lungs?”

Her mother gasped and jumped to her feet, tossing aside her embroidery. “I’d forgotten. I shall ask Cook to prepare it right now.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, her father said, “King Edward has not responded?”

Anna shook her head. “We should have heard from him by now.”

Her father stood up and started pacing before the hearth, his anger growing with each step. “Bruce’s damned brigands must have intercepted it. It seems like over half our messages are not reaching their destination—even with the help of the women.” His mouth fell in a hard line. “But as we’ve heard no word of soldiers on the march, I think we can assume that none will be forthcoming. Young Edward is too busy trying to save his own hide to worry about ours.”

After all her father had done for the first King Edward, Anna couldn’t believe the new king would abandon him like this.

Lay down with dogs ...

The old adage slipped to mind but she pushed it away; it seemed somehow disloyal. Her father hadn’t had a choice. The first King Edward had been too powerful. After Wallace’s defeat at Falkirk, it was either ally with the English king or see their lands forfeited. When Bruce had stolen the crown, the alliance had become even more necessary. With Bruce and the MacDonalds on one side, the MacDougalls could stand only on the other—with England.

“Should we try to send another message?”

“There isn’t time,” her father snapped, clearly annoyed by what he perceived as a foolish question. “The English move slowly. With all their household plate and furniture, it would take them weeks to march this far north. Even were Edward to change his mind, he would need time to gather the men. King Hood and his murderous band of marauding cateran will be here before the English have time to load the carts with all their finery.”

Anna tried not to take her father’s anger personally. He had every right to be short-tempered. Their enemy was bearing down on them and no one was coming to their aid. Like King Edward, the Earl of Ross had yet to respond to their pleas to join forces.

It was becoming painfully clear that they were going to be left on their own to face Bruce—eight hundred men to the usurper’s reported three thousand.

Fear closed around her throat. The MacDougalls were fierce fighters, and her father was one of the best battle commanders in Scotland, but could they overcome such odds? Her father had nearly defeated Bruce before, but then the outlaw king had been on the run with only a few hundred men to her father’s much larger force. This time the MacDougalls would be the ones greatly outnumbered.

It didn’t matter, she thought fiercely. Her father would win anyway. One MacDougall was worth five rebels.

But no matter how many times she told herself that John of Lorn could overcome even the gravest of odds, she couldn’t deny the faintest, tiniest possibility her loyal heart would allow that they could ... lose.

Lose.

A shudder ran through her. Even thinking the word seemed the vilest of blasphemies. She couldn’t let that happen. The ramifications were too hideous to consider. But everything that she held dear, all her dreams of a happy future, seemed to be balanced on the point of a pin—or in this case, a sword. The barest nudge could send it all careening over the edge.

The thick stone walls of the castle suddenly felt like thin panes of glass, ready to shatter.

Their situation was dire—desperate even. But there was a way she could make it less so.

Time seemed to still. Dread formed a tight knot in her stomach. The anxious flutter in her chest quickened as she realized what she would have to do. The answer had been lurking in the back of her mind for months, but she hadn’t wanted to consider it.

Her fingers clenched the folds of her cloak as if she were grasping for a rope to hold on to. “What of Ross?” she asked softly. “There is still time for him to come.”

Her father gave her a sharp glance. “Aye, but as I told you before, he won’t.”

Was that a rebuke in his gaze? Did he now regret having given her a choice?

Anna took a deep, ragged breath, trying to still the frantic race of her pulse. A cold sheen of perspiration settled over her icy skin. Her chest squeezed so tightly it was hard to breathe. Every instinct rebelled against what she was about to suggest. But she had no choice. A husband was a small price to pay for the survival of her clan. She would marry the devil himself if she had to. “What if I gave him a reason to reconsider?”

Her father’s gaze held hers. From the speculative gleam in his eyes, she knew he’d guessed what she was going to suggest—or maybe had intended her to suggest it all along.

“What if I make a personal appeal to the earl?” She paused, her grasp on the woolen cloak squeezing the blood from her fingers. The frantic sound of her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her stomach tossed queasily. It will be all right. I will make it work. He’s not that frightening. Sir Arthur was tall, muscular, and darkly handsome, and she wasn’t nervous around him. Perhaps she’d gotten over her unease of warriors.

Sir Arthur. Her heart tugged. An image of his face flashed before her eyes, but she pushed it away. He meant nothing to her. If her heart had momentarily fluttered in his direction, it no longer mattered. Even if it might have been different, he’d made his feelings—or lack of them—painfully clear.