The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(8)

Arthur had to bite back a smile. Tor MacLeod was the greatest warrior in the Highlands and Western Isles; his pride didn’t get nicked. But clearly Arthur had impressed his captain—and his brother.

Neil, his eldest brother, was nearly twenty-four years Arthur’s senior, and in many ways like a father to him. Even though Arthur now towered over his older brother by nearly half a foot, he would always look up to him. If there was anyone responsible for who he was today, it was Neil. He’d picked Arthur up out of the mud as a boy more times than he could remember when his other brothers were trying to make a warrior of him. Neil was the one who’d encouraged Arthur to hone his skills, not to bury them. To be proud of the abilities that had made everyone else in his family uncomfortable.

He owed his brother more than he could ever repay. But he’d never stop trying.

MacLeod came forward to greet him, grasping his hand and forearm in the same manner that his brother had. “I’ve not had a chance to thank you for what you did,” he said, his expression strangely intense. “Without your intervention my wife—” He stopped. “I am in your debt.”

Arthur nodded. Two years before, right before Bruce had made his bid for the crown, Arthur had prevented MacLeod’s wife from being killed. He’d been in the right place at the right time, only recently “kicked out” of the guard.

“I hear congratulations are in order, Chief,” Arthur said using the war name given to him to protect his identity.

The stone-faced captain of the Highland Guard broke out into a rare smile. “Aye,” he said. “I have a daughter. Beatrix, named after her aunt.”

Neil laughed. “I don’t think he held her for a week—he was afraid of breaking her.”

Tor scowled at him, but didn’t argue.

The third man stepped forward. Shorter than the other two, he was still an impressive figure. Wide-shouldered, with the thick, heavy muscles of a warrior despite the recent illness that had taken its toll on his health, he wore a full suit of mail and a gold tabard emblazoned with the red rampant lion beneath his dark cloak. Even if the rough-cut features and dark pointed beard were not visible beneath his steel bascinet, Arthur would know him by the majestic aura that surrounded him.

He dropped to his knee and bowed his head before King Robert Bruce. “Sire,” he said.

The king acknowledged his fealty with a nod. “Rise, Sir Arthur.” He came forward to grasp his forearm with a shake. “So that I may thank you for the service you have done us at Inverurie. Without your information we wouldn’t have mounted an immediate counterattack. You were right. Buchan and his forces were ill-prepared and collapsed with barely a nudge.”

Arthur scanned the king’s face, seeing the gray pallor and lines of strain. MacLeod had surreptitiously come up beside the king, subtly giving him support, but Arthur was surprised to see the king walking at all. He suspected there were men waiting not far away to help carry him back to camp. “You are well, my lord?”

Bruce nodded. “Our victory against Comyn has been a far better cure than any tinctures the priests have cooked up. I am much improved.”

“The king insisted on thanking you himself,” MacLeod said, a note of censure in his tone.

But the king didn’t seem to mind. “Your brother and Chief are as protective as two old crones.”

MacLeod led the king to a low rock for him to sit on, and said unrepentantly, “It’s my job.”

The king looked as if he might argue, but realized the futility and turned to Arthur. “That is why we are here,” he said. “I have a new job for you.”

This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. “You wish for me to rejoin the Guard,” he finished.

There was an awkward pause.

The king frowned; obviously it wasn’t what he’d been about to say. “Nay, not yet. Your skills have proved too valuable working for the other side. But we’ve been made aware of a new opportunity.”

New opportunity. He wasn’t returning to the Guard. If Arthur felt any disappointment at the king’s news, he didn’t admit it.

It was better if he stayed on his own. He’d never been comfortable in groups anyway. He liked the freedom of making his own decisions. Not having to explain himself or account for himself to anyone. As a knight in his brother Dugald’s household, he could pretty much come and go as he pleased.

As was the case for many families in Scotland, the Campbells had been split apart by the war. Arthur’s brothers Neil, Donald, and Duncan were for Bruce, but his brothers Dugald and Gillespie were aligned with the Earl of Ross and England.

The division in his family had made placing him in the enemy camp that much easier.

“What kind of opportunity?” he asked.

“To infiltrate the very heart of the enemy.”

Infiltrate. That meant getting close. Something Arthur tried to avoid. It was why he’d never attached himself to a noble as most knights did. “I work better alone, my lord.” On the outside. Where he could blend in and stay in the background. Where he could go unnoticed.

Neil, who knew him well, smiled. “I don’t think you’ll mind this time.”

Arthur’s gaze snapped to his brother’s. The satisfaction he read there made him realize what this meant.

“Lorn?” The single word fell with the force of a smith’s hammer.