The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(78)

Arrow.

His senses exploded in a burst of sharp clarity. His gaze shot over MacDougall’s shoulder, seeing the iron tip spinning through the air. A split second away from impact into the back of MacDougall’s head.

Arthur didn’t think; he reacted. In one seamless movement, he used an upward jam of his forearm to break MacDougall’s grip around his throat and then twisted his leg around the other man’s ankle to knock him off balance. MacDougall fell to the ground right as the arrow hit the tree with a thud, followed swiftly by the piercing cries of an attack.

He heard Anna’s terrified gasp but couldn’t turn around to calm her. The first man had already plunged from the trees, sword raised. Again, Arthur’s reaction was instantaneous. He found the grip of his dirk, jerked it from its scabbard, and threw. The attacker grunted as the blade found the few inches of unprotected skin on his neck. He staggered, then fell.

By the time the next man was on them, MacDougall’s head had cleared for long enough to realize what was happening and had gotten to his feet. He pulled out his sword, whirled around, and got his blade up just in time to fend off a blow that would have taken off his head.

Anna. Arthur turned his gaze from the oncoming assault just long enough to make sure she was all right. He found her huddled behind the tree, eyes wide with fright. His heart rose in his chest when he saw how vulnerable she was, and then it froze when he realized how vulnerable that made him.

He couldn’t let anything happen to her. He had to protect her. He would kill them all if he had to.

Their eyes met for only a second. But the look that passed between them was fast and fierce in its intensity.

“Stay down,” he said, his voice calm despite the rush of blood pounding through his veins.

Positioning himself in front of Anna—and shoulder-to-shoulder with MacDougall, who was still battling his opponent—Arthur swung his sword around to meet the onslaught of attackers pouring through the trees. A score of men. Maybe more.

He didn’t have long to wait before the next attacker reached him. For the first time in over two years—since he’d been forced from the Highland Guard and inserted into the enemy’s camp—Arthur let himself go, fighting with all the skill and frenzy he’d kept so carefully hidden. He took down the first man with one vicious swing of his sword, spun, and using the momentum of the first, took down the next.

They came at him harder. But it didn’t matter. He was like a siege engine, cutting down all who came in his path. Three. Four.

The crash of steel on steel pierced the dusky night air, mingling with the grunts and battle cries. The sounds had alerted the camp—thankfully only a few steps away—and MacDougall’s men started to pour into the small clearing, now shrouded in almost complete darkness.

But the attackers had expected the men to race to their aid. Indeed, they’d planned for it and were lying in wait. More attackers dropped from the trees onto the unsuspecting MacDougall clansmen as they funneled through the trees.

“Look up,” Arthur shouted, trying to warn them. “Spread out.”

If they didn’t, they’d be cut down as easily as herring in a barrel.

But it was all the warning he could give before his next opponents diverted his attention. Two men were on him. Two men in nasal helms, darkened plaids, and the distinctive black ash smeared over their faces.

Dread sank like a stone in his gut.

The attackers were Bruce’s men. Of course they were. He saw the bodies littered on the ground before him—men he’d killed—and bile rose in his throat.

Jesus, what had he been thinking? He hadn’t been. The instinct to protect Anna had overridden everything else.

But it was worse than he’d realized.

While he attempted to incapacitate the two men attacking him without actually killing them, a third man joined the fray.

A third man who wielded two swords.

He moved like lightning, coming at Arthur with a fierceness unmatched by even those among their elite Highland Guard brethren.

Arthur swore under his breath, finding himself face-to-face in the darkness with Lachlan MacRuairi.

Seventeen

It all happened so fast. One minute Anna was trying to prevent her brother from killing the man she loved, and the next they were under attack.

To say the situation was dire was an understatement. From her place huddled in the darkness, she forced shallow breaths from her lungs between the hard pounding of her heart, watching in horror as the men descended on them like a plague of locusts. It seemed as if there were hundreds of them—against only two.

Arthur cut down the first man so easily, she thought it was an aberration. But then came the next. And the next.

She gazed in stunned amazement as he effortlessly dispatched all who came before him. His skill was so extraordinary—so dominating—it seemed she was watching another man. She’d spied him at practice enough times to recognize the difference. He made her brother, who was known as one of the most skilled knights in the Highlands, look like a squire.

He was quicker. More agile in movement and technique. And most significantly, stronger. She could feel the ground reverberate with the force of his blows. When one of his opponents managed to get in a swing of his blade, Arthur’s arm barely moved when he blocked it, absorbing the force as if it were nothing.

His arm ...

Her eyes widened. His right arm.