The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(79)

She didn’t understand. Arthur was left-handed. At least he was supposed to be, but watching him now, she knew he’d only pretended.

Why would he hide such a thing?

And why had she never seen him fight like this before? It didn’t make sense. She could understand his reasons for hiding his unusually keen senses, but there was nothing off-putting about swordsmanship. God, he could be one of the most revered knights in the kingdom if he wanted to be. So why didn’t he want to be?

But her questions fell by the wayside when she saw the next wave of attackers drop from the trees. No doubt seeing the fallen bodies of their compatriots, they identified the threat and were converging on Arthur.

She forced back the cry of warning, knowing it would only distract him. But her heart clenched in her throat. Two men. And a third not far behind them.

Suddenly, something seemed to change with Arthur. Instead of the cold, ruthless death strokes, he wielded his sword with less deliberateness. It was almost as if his purpose had changed from killing them to fending them off.

But that didn’t make any sense. She shook off the strange thought. These warriors were simply better trained, that was all.

And they were. It was hard to see in the near-darkness; they wore dark clothing and seemed to have blackened their skin with something ...

Her blood chilled. Recalling the attack of the year before. Those men had darkened their skin as well. Could these be the wraiths of Bruce’s phantom army of marauders? The men who’d struck fear in the heart of Scotland and England alike?

Her worst fears seemed confirmed when a third man descended on Arthur like a hound of hell. Rather than the long, two-handed broadsword used by the Highlanders, he wielded two shorter swords. One for each hand.

But it was his clothing that sent tremors of terror sliding through her bones. Like the other attackers he wore a darkened nasal helm and his skin had been blackened with mud or ash, but it was what else he wore that struck the chilling chord of memory. Dressed head-to-toe in black, instead of mail he wore a leather war coat studded with metal, leather chausses, and an oddly wrapped dark plaid. Just like the man—the ridiculously handsome rebel—who’d attacked her last year.

This man was one of them. She knew it. Fear turned to terror. They were reputed to have extraordinary abilities. To fight like demons possessed. Oh God, Arthur!

Her breath caught high in her chest as the attacker flew at him, swords raised on either side of his head. Time seemed to slow. Still engaged with one of the other attackers, Arthur wasn’t going to be able to defend himself.

Ice lodged in her chest. In her blood. He was going to die.

She opened her mouth to scream, but at the last minute, Arthur jammed the pommel of his sword in the nose of one of the men attacking him, enabling him to get his sword up to block the two blades before they crossed at his neck.

He and the hellish attacker met face-to-face, blades caught in a tangle above their heads. The attacker, coming down, had momentum on his side, but with both hands on his sword, Arthur managed to hold him off.

Arthur had his back to her, but she could just make out the attacker’s face in a beam of moonlight. He had the eeriest eyes she’d ever seen. She shivered. They seemed to glow in the darkness. Dark features twisted in rage, he looked like a demon from hell—or Lucifer himself.

She felt a prickle of recognition tease the edges of her memory. My God! Could it be ...

Her eyes widened. He looked like Lachlan MacRuairi—her deceased Aunt Juliana’s husband. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she heard he’d joined the rebels. Her Aunt Juliana, whom her sister was named after, had been much younger than her father—nearly twenty years. MacRuairi was probably of age with her brother Alan.

He drew closer to Arthur and suddenly his expression changed. If she hadn’t been watching so carefully she wouldn’t have seen it. Surprise. Recognition?

The man she thought to be her uncle dropped back. Or was she just imagining it? It was dark, and so hard to tell. The men exchanged a few more blows, but the fierceness and intensity seemed to be gone. Compared to what had come before, it seemed more practice than all-out battle.

She peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother stagger back, his sword dropped as both hands went to his head. He fell to his knees, swaying ...

She cried out, unable to stop herself. She would have rushed toward him, but Arthur moved back to block her. “Stay back, damn it. Stay back.”

Helplessly, she watched as the attacker her brother had been fighting lifted his sword to finish him off.

Her bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.

Arthur seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant. Somehow he managed to block a blow from the man who looked like her uncle, then spin around in time to block the swing intended for her brother. Not prepared for Arthur’s defense, her brother’s attacker’s arm collapsed and he fell forward onto Arthur’s sword. His eyes widened in surprise before freezing for all time.

Even in the midst of this horrible nightmare, the gruesome sight was too much. With a sob, she turned away.

The next instant a sharp whistle pierced the dark night air. She turned back to the melee, stunned to see the attackers falling back in retreat. MacRuairi—or a man who looked just like him—had apparently called them off.

Her brother’s men now filled the clearing. Before the last rebel had faded into the forest, she rushed forward to Alan’s side.