The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(81)

Her reaction was understandable. She was a woman, not used to the blood and gore of battlefields. Arthur, however, was used to it. Or he should be.

But something in his expression—the tightness of his jaw, the whiteness of his mouth, the starkness in his eyes—made her think the attack had affected him deeply.

As two of her brother’s men led her away, Anna suspected that she would not be the only one haunted by the night’s events.

The question was why.

Arthur didn’t sleep. He half-expected MacRuairi to slither through the darkness and slit his throat or stick a dirk in his back for what had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time. MacRuairi hadn’t earned his war name “Viper” for his venomous personality alone, but also for his deadly, silent strike.

Not that Arthur would blame him.

As he’d done most of the night, he stared at the pile of bodies moved off to one side of the clearing, left for the “attackers” to collect.

Nine of Bruce’s men killed. More than half at the end of Arthur’s sword.

He’d erred. Badly. On too many levels to count. It was bad enough that his senses had failed him—that he’d missed the signs of the attack—but he’d also seemed to have forgotten what side he was on. He’d been entrenched in the enemy camp for so long, he’d started to believe his own lies.

Christ. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. He’d been forced to kill his own men before, but not like this. He hadn’t been just defending himself. He’d been in a frenzy. So focused on protecting Anna and killing anyone that threatened her that he hadn’t thought about anything else.

Even when he had realized what was happening, he hadn’t stopped. He’d saved MacDougall’s life at the expense of one of his compatriots.

He couldn’t forget the look on MacRuairi’s face when Arthur stabbed the man trying to kill MacDougall. That he hadn’t meant to kill him didn’t matter. He shouldn’t have interfered. Anna’s heart-rending cry wasn’t an excuse—or at least one that would matter to his brethren.

When the first orange rays of dawn flickered through the forest, he stood from his solitary post leaning against a tree. They weren’t coming. MacRuairi—and unless he’d erred in identifying three other members of the Highland Guard as they retreated, Gordon, MacGregor, and MacKay. He hadn’t expected them to, even if he’d hoped for the chance to explain. They wouldn’t further risk his cover. He’d done that enough himself.

He knew how close he’d come to blowing his cover and putting his entire mission in jeopardy. As her questions had proved, Anna—even terrified—was too observant. And she wasn’t the only one. Alan, too, was suspicious of his suddenly improved fighting ability and of how quickly the attackers had fled. He’d put them off for now, but he knew she had more questions and didn’t dare think about what else she’d noticed.

Recognizing MacRuairi was bad enough, but to have connected him with the Highland Guard was a disaster. Keeping their identities secret not only added to the mystique and fear surrounding the “phantom” guard, but also helped to keep them safe. If their enemies learned their identities, not only would they have a price on their heads, but their families could be at risk. It was the reason they’d decided to use war names when they were on missions.

There would be hell to pay when Bruce learned MacRuairi had been unmasked.

It shouldn’t have happened, damn it. Anger and guilt coiled mercilessly inside him. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in Anna, so twisted with emotion, he would have sensed the attack. Those men wouldn’t have been killed, and Anna wouldn’t have been put in danger. Christ, she could have been killed. All because he’d failed to control his emotions and had gotten too close.

He walked back into camp just as the men not on guard were starting to stir. He glanced at Anna’s tent, seeing the coated linen flaps still closed. Good. Let her sleep. She’d earned it. He’d checked on her often during the night, assuring himself that she was all right. He knew how shaken she’d been by the attack, but he’d been battling his own demons and in no condition to comfort her—even if it had been his place to do so.

By the time he’d returned from seeing to the horses, however, he noticed the flap was opened. A quick scan around the camp made him frown. A moment later, however, he spied her speaking with her brother, who was engaged with some of her men. The exasperated look on her face was so normal, he heaved a sigh of relief, not wanting to acknowledge how worried he’d been.

Her gaze landed on him. She hesitated, but then started to march across the leaf- and moss-strewn ground toward him. He noticed she carried a bundle of cloth in her arms.

She stopped before him, tilting her pale face to his. His chest squeezed. Sleep, it seemed, had eluded her as well.

“Since it is your rule, and my brother is busy, I’m afraid you will have to accompany me.”

He gave her a quizzical look.

“Did you not make me promise not to leave camp without you or my brother?”

His mouth twitched, the first smile in what felt like years. “Aye.”

“I need to go to the burn to wash.”

The river was within easy sight of the camp, but he didn’t argue, realizing how much the attack must have unsettled her. He bowed with a mocking flourish of his hand. “After you.”