The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(5)

Their eyes met in the darkness. Though he knew it was ridiculous, for a moment he felt exposed.

But she couldn’t see him. With his helm down, the only openings in the steel were the two narrow slits for him to see and the small pinpricks for him to breathe.

Still, he felt something strange. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it was a connection. But he didn’t have connections with strange women. Hell, he didn’t have connections with anyone. It kept things simpler that way.

He wanted to say something—though hell if he knew what—but he didn’t have the chance. Torches appeared outside the church. A priest and a few of the wounded English soldiers were heading this way.

“You’re welcome,” he said, and slipped back into the shadows where he belonged. A wraith. A man who didn’t exist. Just the way he liked it.

Her sob of relief as she threw herself into the arms of the priest followed him into the darkness.

He knew he should regret what happened tonight. In saving her life, he’d sacrificed not only the silver, but also his cover. But he couldn’t regret it. There would be more silver. And their paths were unlikely to cross again—he’d make sure of it.

His secret was safe.

One

Dunstaffnage Castle, Argyll, Scotland, May 24, 1308

Please, let him be dead. Please, let it finally be over.

Anna MacDougall set her basket down and knelt at her father’s feet, praying to hear the news that would put an end to the war that had marked every day of her life.

Literally.

Anna had been born on a momentous day in the history of Scotland: the nineteenth of March, the year of Our Lord twelve hundred eighty-six. The very day that King Alexander III had ignored the advice of his men and raced to Kinghorn in Fife on a stormy night to be with his young bride—sliding off a cliff and falling to his death on the way. The king’s lust had left his country without a direct heir to the throne, resulting in twenty-two years of war and strife to determine who should wear its crown.

At one time there had been fourteen competitors for the throne. But the true battle had always been between the Balliol-Comyn faction and the Bruces. When Robert Bruce took matters into his own hands two years ago and killed his chief competitor, John “The Red” Comyn—her father’s cousin—he’d made a blood enemy of the MacDougalls forever. Only their MacDonald kinsmen were despised as much as Robert Bruce. Bruce’s actions had forced the MacDougalls into an uneasy alliance with England.

Even Edward Plantagenet was better than having a Bruce on the throne.

And it was Bruce’s death that she prayed for now. Ever since word had arrived that in the middle of his campaign north he’d taken to his sickbed with a mysterious illness, she’d prayed for the ailment to claim him. For nature to vanquish their enemy. Of course, it was a terrible sin to pray for a man’s death. Any man’s death. Even a murderous scourge like Robert Bruce. The nuns at the abbey would be horrified.

But she didn’t care. Not if it meant the end to this bloody, godforsaken war. The war that already had claimed her brother and fiancé, and had taken its toll not only on her aging grandfather, Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, but also on his son—her father, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn.

Her father had barely recovered from the most recent bout of chest pains. She didn’t know how much more he could take. Bruce’s recent success had only made it worse. Her father hated to lose.

It was hard to believe that a little over a year ago “King Hood” had been on the run with only a handful of supporters, his cause all but lost. But the fugitive king had returned and, thanks in large part to the death of Edward I of England, resurrected his bid for Scotland’s throne.

So sinful or not, she prayed for the death of their enemy. She would gladly do the penance for her wicked thoughts if it meant protecting her father and clan from the man who would see them destroyed.

Besides, as the nuns had told her countless times before, she’d never been destined for the life of a nun anyway. She sang too much. Laughed too much. And most importantly, had never been as devoted to God as she was to her family.

Anna studied her father’s face, gauging it for any reaction, as he tore open the missive and read. In his anxiousness, he hadn’t even bothered to call for his clerk. She’d been fortunate to find him alone in his solar, having just finished a council with his men. Her mother, usually found anxiously fussing at his side, had gone to the garden to oversee the picking of herbs for a new tincture suggested by the priest to help clear the bogginess from her father’s lungs.

She could tell right away that the news was not good. A dangerous flush reddened his well-lined face, his eyes grew bright as if with fever, and his mouth fell in a thin white line. It was a look that struck fear in the hearts of the most hardened of warriors, but in Anna it only provoked concern. She knew the loving father beneath the gruff warrior’s exterior.

She clutched the arm of the thronelike chair upon which he sat, the carving biting into her palm. “What is it, Father? What’s happened?”

His gaze lifted to hers. She felt a flash of fear, seeing the rising anger. Her father’s apoplectic rage had always been a terrifying sight—rivaling the infamous Angevin temper of the Plantagenet kings of England—but never more so than after his attack. Anger is what had caused the pains in his arm and chest last time. Pains that had frozen him, cut off his breath, and put him in bed for nearly two months.