The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(58)

Justice. Revenge. Righting a wrong. Blood for blood. It was what had driven him for as long as he could remember. He’d devoted his life to becoming the greatest warrior he could be, with one goal in mind: destroying Lorn.

Cold purpose had been his companion for fourteen years. The steely resolve to see a mission through to the end, no matter what the cost. Despite the wide differences in personality—from MacSorley’s irrepressible good humor, to Seton’s hotheadedness, to MacRuairi’s surliness—it was the one thing all the members of the Highland Guard had in common. But he’d never struggled so hard to hold on to it.

He took a step back, trying to clear the haze of desire that gripped him. But his body teemed with unspent lust. Lust that he was finding harder and harder to ignore. Walking around with his c**k wedged to his stomach wasn’t doing much for his temper. His hand barely took the edge off.

When he didn’t answer right away, she said, “Well?”

Had he changed his mind? He shook his head. “Nay.”

Nothing had changed. She was still the daughter of the man he’d come to destroy. The only thing the future held for them was betrayal. He wouldn’t make it worse.

If she was disappointed by his response, she didn’t show it. If anything, she’d seemed to expect it. “Then why are you doing this? Why are you acting as if you care who I marry? You don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to want me either, is that it?”

He muttered a curse, dragging his fingers through his hair. “It’s not like that.”

Actually, it was exactly like that. She’d nailed his problem squarely on the head. He was jealous, damn it. Even if he had no right to be. Even if he’d discouraged her. Even if there was no chance for them. The thought of her marrying another man sent him into fits of youthful jealousy.

She met his gaze. “Then explain it to me,” she said quietly. “How do you feel about me?”

Jesus. That was the last thing he wanted to think about. Only she would ask such a question. Anna MacDougall didn’t have a shy and retiring bone in her body. Straightforward. Direct. No pretense.

God, she was amazing.

All the training in the world couldn’t stop him from shifting his feet. Not since his brothers had backed him against a ledge over a cliffside, taunting him to defend against their sword blows, had he felt this cornered. “It’s complicated,” he hedged.

Her eyes wouldn’t leave his face, searching for something that wasn’t there. “Complicated isn’t good enough.” She dropped her gaze. “I don’t want you here.” Her voice was as stiff as the set of her narrow shoulders.

He didn’t want to be there either, but he had no choice.

She lifted her eyes to his once more. The warmth had fled from their brilliant blue depths. “Please, just leave me alone.”

The soft plea in her voice tugged at his conscience, but it burned in his chest. She turned and walked away as regally as a queen.

For both their sakes he wished he could. But his mission had to come first. A few more weeks. He could make it through a few more weeks. He’d withstood far more dangerous challenges. All he had to do was shore up his defenses, batten down the hatches, and dig in for the final siege.

Thirteen

Something wasn’t right.

Arthur was scouting ahead of the rest of the group with two of MacDougall’s men when he felt it. The shift in the air. The cool shiver blowing across the back of his neck. The sudden alertness that set all of his nerve-endings on edge.

Danger.

It was late on the third day of their journey. The day’s ride along the west bank of Loch Ness had taken longer than anticipated, due not to avoiding Bruce’s men but to a washed-out bridge at Invermoriston. Had Anna not been there, they might have attempted to cross the rushing waters, but instead they’d traveled another five miles out of their way to the next ford.

Thus, it was later than he would have liked as they neared the southern edge of Clunemore wood. From Clunemore they would turn east, leaving the road to steer well clear of the rebel-occupied Urquhart Castle.

For their last night, they planned to camp in the woods along the banks of Loch Meiklie. Tomorrow would be an even more grueling day, when the relatively flat road gave way to hills.

Though Arthur worked better alone, Alan MacDougall had insisted that two of his men accompany him in case he ran into trouble. He couldn’t tell Anna’s brother that the men would be more trouble than help without giving away his skills, so reluctantly he’d agreed.

At the first prickle of danger, he held up his hand for the men to stop. He jumped off his horse and knelt, placing his hand flat on the ground. The faint reverberation confirmed what he’d already sensed.

Richard, the larger of the two warriors and MacDougall’s usual scout, frowned. “What is it?”

Arthur lowered his voice. “Ride back. Tell your lord to get off the road immediately.”

Alex, who was training to be a scout, gave him an odd look from under the steel of his nasal helm. Unlike Arthur, Alan, and the handful of other knights who wore a fully visored helm, heavy mail, and surcoat, the MacDougall clansmen wore lighter armor and the padded leather cotun favored by Highlanders. The war coat made it easier to move around. Not for the first time, Arthur wished he could toss off his cumbersome knightly garb and do away with the pretense. The younger man looked around. “Why?”