The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(7)

But he didn’t sound hopeful. Anna knew as well as her father not to expect much help from Edward II. The new English king had too many troubles of his own to worry about Scotland. Though English soldiers were still garrisoned in many key castles around Scotland—especially along the borders—Edward had recalled many of his commanders, including Aymer de Valence, the new Earl of Pembroke.

She bit her lip. “And if help does not arrive?”

She knew better than to ask her father whether he would submit. He would see them all dead before he kneeled to a Bruce. “To Conquer or Die.” The MacDougall motto lived strong in her father.

Despite the warmth of the solar, she shivered.

“Then I shall defeat the bastard alone. I nearly had him at Dal Righ—coming damned near to killing him in the process. This time I intend to finish the job.” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “By the end of summer, Robert Bruce’s head will be on my gate with vultures plucking at his eyes.”

Anna ignored the twinge of discomfort. She hated when her father talked like that. It made him seem cruel and ruthless, not the father she adored.

She gazed up at him, seeing the firm resolve set on his grizzled features, and did not doubt him for a moment. Her father was one of the greatest warriors and military commanders in Scotland. Fate might be moving against them, but John of Lorn would stop it.

Maybe an end to the war was in sight after all. The uncertainty, the death, the destruction, the deceit—it would all be over. The poison that was killing her father would be gone. Her family would be safe. She would marry and have a home and children of her own. Everything would be blissfully normal.

She couldn’t let herself contemplate the alternative. But sometimes it felt as if she were trying to hold back a waterfall with a sieve or swimming against a whirlpool that was determined to drag them all under: her parents, her sisters and brothers, her little nephews and nieces.

She couldn’t let that happen. Whatever it took, she would protect her family. “What can I do?”

Her father smiled, giving her an indulgent pinch on the cheek. “You’re a good lass, Annie-love. What say you of a visit to my cousin the Bishop?”

She nodded and started to get to her feet.

“And Anna,” he paused, giving her an amused look as she picked up her basket. “Don’t forget the tarts.” He laughed. “You know how fond he is of them.”

Near Inverurie, Aberdeenshire

A full moon hung over the ancient stone monument, but gauzy plumes of smoke from the nearby fires filtered the light in a ghostly haze. Victory tasted acrid on Arthur’s tongue and burned the back of his throat. It was near midnight, but the distant sounds of revelry and rampant destruction still filled the smoky night air. Bruce had taken William Wallace’s lessons to heart, scorching the earth, leaving nothing in his wake that could be used by his enemies. Comyn had been chased from Scotland, but the harrying of Buchan would not be over for some time.

The single shard of granite in the clearing seemed to point to the heavens at an angle that could only be purposeful. To what purpose he could only guess. Too many years had passed and the intent of the mystical druid stones had been lost. But as the stones were often placed in isolated locations, they served as convenient meeting places.

Arthur watched the clearing from the shadows of the circle of trees that surrounded it, uncharacteristically impatient for the men to appear. He hoped this was finally the end of the deception. He was tired of living a lie. After years of pretending, sometimes it was hard to remember what side he was on.

Other than across the battlefield, this would be the first time he’d seen the man he’d been fighting for in nearly two and a half years—since the day he’d been forced to leave his training as a member of the Highland Guard to “join” the enemy. The fact that the king was risking meeting with him in person was what made him think his days as a spy might be at an end.

Arthur had done his job well, providing key information before the battle at Inverurie that had enabled Bruce and his men to defeat the Earl of Buchan and send him scurrying to England with his tail between his legs. With the Comyns defeated, Arthur hoped to take his place among the other members of the Highland Guard—they were the best of the best, an elite band of warriors handpicked by Bruce for their skills in each discipline of warfare.

He stilled, his gaze shooting to a break in the trees to the right. The faint scurry of a rabbit or squirrel was the first sound to signal their arrival. Being attuned to the smallest details, the slightest observations, were what set him apart. Soundlessly, he cut a diagonal path through the trees, coming up on them from behind.

Once he confirmed their identity, he identified himself by the hoot of an owl.

The three men spun around, swords drawn, obviously startled.

His brother Neil was the first to recover. “God’s bones, even better than I thought! We’re still at least fifty paces from the clearing.” He turned and grinned at the tall, fearsome-looking man beside him. “You owe me a shilling.”

Tor MacLeod, the captain of the Highland Guard, made a sharp sound of disgust, murmuring a few choice words.

Neil ignored him and strode forward to greet Arthur, not bothering to hide his pleasure. “You’ve gotten even better, brother.” At Arthur’s questioning glance toward MacLeod, Neil explained, “I bet that stubborn barbarian over there that you would find us before we reached the clearing—no matter how quiet we were. You’ve put a nick in that steely Highland pride of his.”