The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(97)

His brother Dugald stood nearby. Unlike Arthur, however, Sir Dugald wasn’t alone. He was tossing a short spear back and forth, spinning it in the air, with three pretty young serving maids looking at him as if he were a magician, hanging on his every word.

One of the girls was standing in front of him, and he was attempting to show her how to catch the spear, but her immense br**sts were getting in the way of his arms.

The two brothers couldn’t be more different. Dugald was a loud braggart, the kind of man who wasn’t happy unless he was the center of attention and surrounded by as many women as he could hold. Arthur was quieter. More solid. A man content to stay in the background.

Mary rolled her eyes at the display and turned away, climbing the stairs into the Hall. Anna raced up after her, glancing over her shoulder one more time.

Sir Dugald laughed at something one of the girls said. Anna couldn’t hear his reply, but she swore it looked as if he’d said, “Watch this.”

He lifted the spear in his hand as if to throw it, shouting to Arthur at the same time. “Arthur, catch!”

Before Anna realized what he was going to do—before the scream could rise from her throat—the spear was spinning in the air, hurled right at Arthur.

They were standing so close together, Arthur barely had time to turn at the sound of Dugald’s voice before the spear was on him. At the last second, he snatched it out of the air with one hand. In one fluid motion, he brought it down across his knee, snapped it, and tossed the pieces back at his brother, his face dark with rage.

A memory pricked.

An icy breeze washed over her skin. She’d seen something like that only once before.

The blood drained from her face. Anna covered her gasp with her hand and sank back against the wall of the entry, her heart pounding in her throat.

It was just like that night in Ayr. The night she’d been sent to fetch the silver for her father and walked into a trap. The knight who’d rescued her had done the same thing.

The spy.

Nay, she told herself, horror creeping up her spine. It couldn’t be. It had to be a coincidence.

But the memories twisted in her mind, confusing her.

It had been dark.

She’d never seen his face.

He’d spoken in low tones to disguise his voice.

But the size—the height, the build—was right.

Nay, nay, it couldn’t be. She covered her ears and closed her eyes, not wanting to see. Not wanting to think about all the reasons it could be. His cryptic warnings. The feeling that he was hiding something. His initial attempts to avoid her. Her uncle Lachlan MacRuairi’s look of recognition.

Her stomach knifed.

The scar. God, not the scar. But the star-shaped arrow mark on his arm fit with the injury to the knight who’d rescued her.

Bile rose in her throat.

Mary must have realized she wasn’t behind her and had come running back to the entry, where Anna stood like a poppet of rags, sagging against the wall.

“What is it, Annie? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

She had. Dear God, she had. Anna shook her head, refusing to believe it. The room started to spin. “I-I don’t feel well.”

Without another word, she raced up the stairs to her chamber, barely pulling out the basin from under her bed before she emptied the meager contents of her stomach, purging her heart along with it.

Arthur glanced around the Great Hall as he made his way into Lorn’s solar for the night’s war council. He frowned, not seeing her. Where the hell was she? The vague feeling of concern that he’d felt on not seeing Anna this morning had grown worse as the day went on.

Alan said she wasn’t feeling well. A stomachache. But given what had happened last night, Arthur didn’t know whether to believe it.

Was she upset?

Did she regret what had happened?

Guilt ate at him. What had he done?

He forced his mind away from Anna and concentrated on the task at hand. Time was running out. King Robert and his men were planning to attack in less than four days, and he still hadn’t discovered anything useful.

He entered the room behind Dugald—who was in as foul a mood as he’d ever seen him—and gathered around the table with the rest of the high-ranking knights and the members of Lorn’s meinie.

A few minutes after the men had gathered, Lorn made his entrance. But this time he wasn’t alone. His father, the ailing Alexander MacDougall, was with him.

Arthur’s pulse spiked. If MacDougall was here, perhaps this was important.

The Lord of Argyll took the thronelike wooden chair usually occupied by his son, leaving Lorn to pull up a smaller chair beside him.

When the room had quieted, Lorn drew out a folded piece of parchment from his sporran and spread it out on the table.

Arthur stilled, recognizing it immediately. He bit back a foul curse. The map. Or more accurately, his map. The one he’d drawn for the king and passed to the messenger. It must have been intercepted before it reached Bruce. Damn, he wished he’d thought to mention it when he’d met with them last.

The men drew closer, trying to get a better look. “What is it?” someone asked.

Lorn’s mouth fell in a hard line. “A map of the area around Dunstaffnage.” He flipped it over. “And the numbers of men and supplies we have readied.”

There were a few angry mumblings as some of the men realized what that meant.