The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(50)

But she’d spend a lifetime trying to forget that kiss.

Her father was waiting for her to continue, but the words didn’t come easily. “What if ...” She stopped and forced her throat to open. “If Sir Hugh is still willing, I will agree to accept his proposal of marriage. In return, perhaps the earl will see the benefit of joining forces.”

Her father didn’t say anything for a moment, studying her face with an intensity that made her feel like squirming. “Do you think he will still have you? He wasn’t happy when you refused him.”

Her cheeks flamed, embarrassed not to have considered the possibility. Her father was right. The young knight had been furious, his nobleman’s pride pricked by her refusal. “I don’t know, but it is worth a try.”

Her pride had taken a beating lately; what was one more blow?

“Your mother won’t like it,” he said with a glance to the door. “With Bruce and his men on the loose, the roads could be dangerous.”

Anna had already considered that. “If Alan is with me, she won’t worry. We’ll take a large guard.”

He nodded, stroking his chin. “Aye,” he said. “Your brother will keep you safe.” He smiled, and Anna fought the twinge of disappointment. Part of her had hoped he would refuse. He bent over and kissed the top of her head. “You are a good girl, Annie-love.”

Normally, Anna would bloom with delight at her father’s praise, but instead she felt like crying. Her happiness was a small price to pay, but still it was a price.

He tipped her chin and forced her gaze to his. She blinked through the hot, watery haze. “You know I wouldn’t ask this of you if there was another way.”

A single tear slid down her cheek. Her mouth trembled, but she managed a smile. “I know.”

Right now, this was their only hope. No matter how wrong it felt, she would do what she had to do to secure this alliance.

There wasn’t anyone else anyway.

But when Anna left her father’s solar, the tears she’d been holding back burst in a storm of extinguished hope—hope that she hadn’t realized she’d been harboring.

Arthur’s return to the castle—alone—wasn’t as difficult to explain as he’d anticipated. Lorn was eager for a report of what his son had discovered of their enemies to the west.

The fight for supremacy between the three main branches of Somerled’s descendants—the MacDonalds, MacDougalls, and MacRuairis—had dominated West Highland politics for years. The fight had narrowed, with the MacRuairis losing power when the previous chief had died, leaving his daughter Christina of the Isles as his only legitimate heir. Lachlan and his brothers were all bastards born (and in Lachlan’s case, it was a title well earned).

Arthur’s report from Ewen that the MacDonalds appeared to be mobilizing their forces along the western seaboard could hardly be a surprise, but it nonetheless provoked substantial fury and, though Lorn had tried to hide it, concern. But perhaps not as much as it should have, which made Arthur wonder what the scheming bastard had planned.

And now, thanks to his discovery at the priory, he knew just how to find out.

But, as it was already late in the evening when he’d returned to the castle, his reunion with Lady Anna would have to wait until morning. If he was anxious, he told himself it was only because he needed to find a good reason for what would appear to be a sudden turnaround: instead of avoiding her, he would be looking for reasons to be near her. But he didn’t want to give the lass false hope. Despite the mistake he’d made in kissing her—and God, what a mistake that had been—a romantic relationship between them was impossible.

He knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The lass had probably been thinking about that kiss for a week. God knows, he’d been unable to think of anything else.

Though he’d seen her across the yard of Ardchattan, when she walked into the Great Hall the next morning his senses fired as if seeing her for the first time. Everything seemed sharper, more intense. Never had he been so aware of anyone as he was at that moment of Lady Anna MacDougall.

He drank her in—every detail, every nuance, from the golden wisps of hair that had escaped the pale blue veil to frame her forehead and temples to the fine silk embroidered cote-hardie that hugged her curvy figure in all the right places.

Don’t ...

His gaze dipped to her br**sts. His mouth went dry. He could see (or maybe he just imagined) the faint outline of her ni**les beading against the stretch of fabric.

The memories accosted him, sending a flood of heat surging to his groin. His c**k swelled as he recalled the lush softness in his hand. How amazing it had felt to cup her and hold the weight of all that perfectly rounded flesh in his palm, as his thumb caressed the taut bead of her nipple. He swore inwardly, the all-too-visceral memories growing uncomfortable.

He was hot. Aroused. Hungry.

How the hell could he look at her and not remember how her body had felt pressed against him? How could he see the sensual pink bow of her mouth and not remember how sweet she’d tasted, how soft her mouth had felt under his, how deeply she’d responded, and how the erotic sensation of her tongue twisting against his had sent him into a whirlpool of desire stronger than anything he’d ever felt before? He’d never be able to look at the pale, baby-soft skin that had felt like velvet under his fingertips and not remember touching her.