The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(85)

For a moment, Anna felt like a child again, and the urge to cry out her sorrow all over the front of his finely embroidered tunic took hold. Arthur was still set against her. The attack had changed nothing. If anything, it had made it worse. She’d hoped that after their talk he might have changed his mind. He cared for her, but something was holding him back.

Two days on the road had given her no new insights. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something about the attack wasn’t right. Nor could she shake the niggle of unease that he was hiding something.

Her father pulled back to look at her. “You’re tired. I will hear the rest in the morning.”

She nodded, relieved that the worst was over.

Or so she thought.

“And Alan,” he said to her brother. “Have Campbell and his brother join us.” He gave her a look that sent a shiver of trepidation slithering down her spine. “It seems Sir Arthur has much to answer for.”

Arthur was prepared for the summons when it came. He wasn’t, however, expecting it to include his brother.

“What the hell did you do?” Dugald asked suspiciously, as they made their way across the barmkin to the donjon tower. “Why is Lorn so anxious to see you?”

Arthur climbed up the stairs beside his brother, the steel of their mail and weaponry clanking as they walked. “I suspect he has questions about the men who attacked us.”

“And what would you know about them?”

“Nothing,” he said, pulling open the large wooden entry door to the tower.

“What do I have to do with any of this?”

Arthur glanced at Dugald. His brother’s expression showed the bitterness they both were feeling. Dugald didn’t like being called to Lorn’s presence any more than he did. Even if he and his brother were on opposite sides of the war, at least they could agree on their hatred of Lorn.

“Hell if I know,” Arthur said, the uncertainty giving him a prickle of unease. A guard knocked on the door to announce their arrival. When they were bid to enter, Arthur turned and said, “But we’re about to find out.”

He quickly scanned the occupants of the room: Lorn, sitting like a king in a big thronelike chair, his expression unreadable; Alan MacDougall standing to the side against the wall, looking mildly puzzled; and Anna sitting on a bench before the fire, looking extremely anxious. Except for the solitary guard who’d admitted them and then left at Lorn’s order, no other members of his meinie were present.

Whatever this was about, it was personal.

The prickle of unease turned to a full-fledged stab.

Lorn, the imperious bastard, didn’t invite them to sit, so they stood opposite him. The black hatred that gripped Arthur whenever he came face-to-face with the man who’d murdered his father had not lessened with repetition. He schooled his features into blank repose, but the fire burning in his chest and the urge to stick a dirk in Lorn’s black heart were far more difficult to control.

“You wished to see us, my lord,” Dugald said, his tone in no way deferential.

Lorn took his time lowering the quill in his hand, and then eased back in his chair to look at them. He drummed his fingertips together on the table. When he replied, it wasn’t to Dugald but to Arthur. “I hear you had an eventful journey.”

Something in his tone set off warning bells in the back of Arthur’s head. He had to fight the urge to look at Anna. What had she told him?

“Aye,” Arthur said. “We were fortunate to evade the first band of brigands, but not the second. We sent them scurrying soon enough.”

Lorn gave him a long stare that set every nerve ending on edge. “So I hear. My son has had nothing to say but praise for your fighting prowess. He said he’s never seen the like.” Dugald turned sharply to Arthur, a frown on his face. “I must admit,” Lorn added, “I was surprised to hear him describe it.” He smiled, but there was no amusement in his cold, assessing gaze. “I wonder that we’ve not seen this from you before.”

Lorn’s gaze flickered to Dugald, gauging his reaction. His brother’s frown, unfortunately, had only deepened.

“Sir Alan is most generous with his praise, my lord.”

Alan stepped forward, clearly objecting to his father’s line of questioning. “Sir Arthur was instrumental in defeating the rebels, Father, and in saving my life. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”

“Yes, of course,” Lorn said. “I am most grateful. But I wonder,” he paused, tapping one finger on the table. “I wonder if you could shed some light on the rest of the attack.”

“Of course,” Arthur said, not liking where this was going. Lorn was a devious bastard, a man who liked to keep those around him on edge. But was he suspicious? It was hard to tell.

“My daughter believes she identified my former brother-in-law, Lachlan MacRuairi, as one of the scourge, and that he might be one of these secret warriors that we’ve heard so much about.”

“I’ve crossed paths with the man once or twice, but don’t know him well enough to say one way or the other. If Lady Anna has doubts, I’m afraid I can’t help.”

Arthur was walking a fine line. Too adamant a denial would rouse suspicion, but he wanted to keep the seed of doubt planted in Lorn’s mind.

Lorn’s face hardened, his hatred of his former brother by marriage evident. “MacRuairi is a treacherous snake—a cold-blooded killer who’d sell his mother for a piece of silver, but there is one thing he doesn’t do, and that is give up. I’ve never seen him retreat from a battle.”