The design and architecture of the castle reflected the power of the man who’d built it. Still part of Norway at the time it of its construction, its builder, Duncan, son of Dugald, son of the mighty Somerled, had been invested with the title of ri Innse Gall, King of the Isles. A title the MacDougalls still took to heart.
The castle did indeed befit a king. The Great Hall took up the entire first floor of the eastern range, spanning about one hundred feet by thirty feet. The wood-beamed ceilings had to be at least fifty feet at the highest point. Intricately carved wooden paneling fit for the nave of a church adorned the eastern entrance wall, while the others were plastered and decorated with colorful banners and fine tapestries.
A massive fireplace on the inner long wall of the castle provided heat, and two double lancet windows on the opposite outer wall allowed for an unusual amount of natural light. Trestle tables and benches lined the main floor of the room, and a dais had been erected at the end of the room opposite the entrance. In the middle of the massive wooden table that spanned its length was a large wooden throne.
Though Alexander MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, the chief and head of Clan MacDougall, still occupied that chair, it was the cold-hearted bastard seated to his right who wielded its power. Alexander MacDougall was an old man—at least seventy by Arthur’s reckoning; years ago, he’d delegated his authority to his eldest son and heir, John, Lord of Lorn.
This was the closest Arthur had been to the man who’d killed his father in years, and the intense hatred that gripped him surprised him. He wasn’t used to such fierce emotion, but his chest burned with it.
He’d been waiting so many years for this moment, he thought it might be anticlimactic. It wasn’t. If anything, he was surprised by how anxious he was to see it done. It would be easy—and damned tempting—to surprise him with a dirk in his back. But unlike his enemy, he would kill him face-to-face. On a battlefield.
And killing Lorn wasn’t part of his mission. Yet.
His enemy had aged, he realized. Gray now streaked his dark hair and the lines that marked his face had started to sag. Arthur had heard rumors of an illness and wondered if there might be some truth to them. But the eyes were the same. Cold and calculating. The eyes of a despot who would stop at nothing to win.
Afraid of what he might unconsciously reveal, or that MacDougall would somehow be able to sense the threat, Arthur forced his gaze away from the dais.
He had to be careful. Damned careful to give nothing away. If he was discovered, Arthur knew the best he could hope for was a quick death. The worst was a long one.
But he wasn’t overly concerned. There were at least a score of knights and five times that many men-at-arms who’d answered Lorn’s call. He wouldn’t be noticed. Neil was right; he was good at fading into the background and not drawing attention to himself.
Though he wished he could say the same for his brother. He winced as Dugald let out a loud bellow of laughter, cuffing his squire in the jaw with the back of his hand. Blood dripped from his lip.
Arthur felt a twinge of sympathy for the lad, having been on the bad side of his brother’s fist more times than he could count when he was a youth. But sympathy wouldn’t do the lad any good. Not if he wanted to be a warrior. It was part of the lad’s training, intended to toughen him up. Eventually he would learn to stop reacting. Not feeling would take longer.
“What lass is going to notice a whelp like you with me around?” Dugald laughed.
The squire blushed hotly, and Arthur felt even sorrier for him. The lad was going to be miserable until he learned to control his emotions. Dugald would hone in on that weakness until it was pounded out of him. Like their father, being a warrior—a fierce warrior—was all that was important to him. Except for the lasses.
Dugald might be an overbearing braggart at times, but it was not without cause. Though not quite as tall as Arthur, his brother was powerfully built and undeniably a formidable warrior. He was also reputed to be the most handsome of the six brothers and took to his role with relish.
“I didn’t think they’d look at me,” the squire said, his deep red face matching the color of his hair. “I just wondered if they’d be as fair as they are reputed to be.”
“Who?” Arthur said.
“St. Columba’s bones, little brother.” For a moment, Dugald looked as if he wanted to cuff Arthur, too. But Arthur wasn’t a lad anymore. He would fight back. Though he’d been careful to keep his skills hidden—initially as a means of self-preservation, and now to not have those skills used against his compatriots—he wondered if Dugald sensed that the balance of power had shifted between them. He pushed him, but only so far. “Where have you been living? In a cave with King Hood?” Dugald laughed even louder, drawing a few eyes in their direction. “Lorn’s daughters are reputed to be rare beauties—particularly the middle one, the fair Lady Mary.”
Arthur wasn’t the least bit intrigued. Reports of noblewomen’s beauty were often exaggerated. Besides, he doubted any of them could hold a candle to MacLeod’s wife. He’d seen Christina Fraser only once, but he’d thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
Another face flashed before his eyes—this one more sweet than classically beautiful—before he pushed it away with a frown. Strange that he still thought of the lass from the church though more than a year had passed. The king had been furious to lose the silver—especially when they learned it was double the amount they’d originally thought—but had understood why Arthur interfered.
“They have one fatal flaw,” he pointed out.
The squire looked confused, but Dugald understood. His brother’s expression fell, his mouth tightening in a hard line. His ambitious brother might have seen the advantage of siding with Ross and King Edward—and by necessity the MacDougalls—but Dugald didn’t like Lorn any better than Arthur did. “Aye, you’re right about that, little brother.”
“What flaw?” the squire ventured to ask. The lad had courage, Arthur thought, knowing what was to come.
Dugald clopped the boy again. “You’d better hope it’s blindness, if you want any of the lasses to notice you.”
Another hour of his brother’s loud conversation passed before it was their turn. At last, Arthur followed his brother forward to pledge his sword to MacDougall. As the head of the family, at least as far as England and the Earl of Ross were concerned (his three older brothers having been declared rebels), Dugald spoke for them all. Alexander MacDougall handled the formalities, but Arthur sensed Lorn’s immediate interest.
“Sir Dugald of Torsa.…” Lorn left off contemplatively. “One of Colin Mor’s sons,” he said, giving him a long, steady look. “Not the eldest, though.”
His quick-tempered, hotheaded brother replied with surprising equanimity. “Nay, my lord. My eldest three brothers fight with the rebels.” As Lorn well knew. “And your uncle,” Dugald added with just the right tinge of sarcasm.
Lorn’s mouth thinned; he obviously didn’t appreciate the reminder of his traitorous kinsman. “I remember your brother Neil,” he said, looking his brother straight in the eye. “He fought well at the battle of Red Ford.”
Red Ford. The battle between the MacDougalls and Campbells over their lands in Loch Awe. The battle where their father had been cut down in cold blood. By Lorn.
Lorn—the bastard—was baiting them. Dugald knew it. Arthur knew it. But only Arthur wanted to kill him for it. Dugald hadn’t seen what he had. The great Colin Mor Campbell had died like a warrior on the battlefield, but only Arthur had witnessed the treacherous manner in which he had been killed. It would have been his word against Lorn’s. Neil was right to have protected him. He would never have been believed.
“I suppose you would have been too young,” Lorn said offhandedly.
Dugald nodded. “I was a squire at the time with the MacNabs.”
His point was taken. The reminder of Dugald’s bond with the MacDougalls’ closest allies and neighboring clan was enough. Lorn seemed satisfie
d, and Arthur felt himself relax.
The hardest part was over. They’d passed initial scrutiny and had been accepted into the fold. With any luck, this would be the last time Lorn noticed him.
They were about to move away, when the door flew open and the sound of laughter floated across the room.
A girl’s laughter. Light and full of uncomplicated joy. It was a laugh unlike any he’d heard in a long time, and it filled him with a strange sense of longing.
He glanced over his shoulder, but with the crowd of soldiers filling the hall, he couldn’t see the source.
Suddenly the crowd parted like the Red Sea, creating an aisle down the middle of the room. The loud, boisterous din of men’s voices evaporated into stunned silence.
A moment later, two girls came rushing forward toward the dais. The first was one of the most beautiful creatures he’d ever seen—a blond-haired rival to MacLeod’s wife. The circlet of gold and pale blue veil that she wore did not fully hide the riotous mass of white-blond curls that tumbled down her back. With her pale skin, perfectly formed features, and bright blue eyes, she looked like an angel.
He heard his brother suck in his breath and mutter something between a prayer and an oath. A sentiment Arthur understood completely.
But it was the second lass who drew his eye. There was something about her …
She laughed again, tossing back her head and revealing long locks of golden-brown hair beneath a pale pink veil. His gaze fell on her face. Her cheeks were pink with cold and her big, deep-blue eyes bright with laughter. Had he ever been that happy about anything? That free?
It took him only an instant for recognition to hit.
His heart dropped like a stone. Dear God, it couldn’t be!
But it was she. The lass from the church.
He heard Lorn say, “Mary, Anna, you’ve returned.”
Arthur swore there was actual delight in the hardhearted bastard’s voice.
Both lasses ran forward, but Arthur had eyes for only one. She threw her arms around Lorn’s neck, planting a big kiss on his cheek.
“Father!” she said excitedly.
Father. Arthur felt as though a dirk had just lodged in his gut.
He’d saved Lorn’s daughter. If it weren’t such an unmitigated disaster, he might laugh at the bitter irony.
If she recognized him, his head would be hanging above the castle gate by nightfall. Dying didn’t bother him. But failure did.
He tried to motion to his brother to leave, wanting to get the hell out of there. But Dugald seemed in a trance, staring at Lady Mary MacDougall as if she’d just descended from the clouds.
Arthur had shifted his gaze from the women, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the second lass startle. For the first time, she seemed to look around the room and realize the number of eyes on them.
She bit her lip. It was an innocently erotic gesture that might have affected him before he realized she was Lorn’s daughter. Nonetheless, he adjusted his sword—the steel one.
“We’ve interrupted something.” She turned to the other lass, presumably her sister. “Come, Mary, we shall tell Father of our journey later.”
Lorn shook his head. “Nay, there’s no need. We’re almost finished here.”
Arthur stilled, his heart pounding in his chest as he felt the lass’s gaze sweep over the crowd of soldiers, and then—bloody hell—return to him.
Instinctively, his hand tightened around the handle of his sword. A cold sweat slid down his spine.
This time there was no helm to shield his face, and he felt the intensity of her scrutiny full force. He stilled when a small furrow appeared between her brows.
For one long heartbeat he waited for her to unmask him. For her voice to ring out with the words that would condemn him to death … and to failure.
But the furrow only deepened.
And then in one reckless moment he knew what he had to do. He had to be sure.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze to hers.
He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink as their eyes collided unhindered for the first time. Gazing into her eyes, as dark and deep a blue as the sea, he felt himself drowning. Lost, if only for an instant.
When she gasped, he knew it was all over.
But she quickly dropped her gaze, and a soft pink blush spread over her cheeks.
Arthur nearly sighed with relief. The lass hadn’t recognized him. She was simply embarrassed to be caught staring.
His relief, however, was short-lived. The girl might not have denounced him as a spy, but she’d unwittingly done exactly what he’d hoped to avoid: brought him to her father’s attention.
“Which brother are you?” Lorn asked, his dark, beady eyes having missed none of the exchange.
Dugald answered for him. “My youngest. Sir Arthur, my lord. Beside him is my brother Sir Gillespie.”
Both men nodded, but Lorn was focused on him—like a cur with a meaty bone. “Sir Arthur …” he murmured, as if trying to recall the name. “You were knighted by the king himself.”
Arthur met his enemy’s gaze for the first time, giving no hint of the hatred seething inside him. “Aye, my lord, King Edward knighted me after Methven.”
“De Valence—Pembroke—thinks much of you.”
Arthur bowed as if the praise pleased him, though it did anything but. Knowing, as he did, that the English commander’s praise had come at the expense of his friends. He did what he could to avoid battling Bruce’s men, but at times it was inevitable. To stay alive and to maintain his cover, he had no choice but to defend himself—sometimes to the death. It was the part of his mission he didn’t think about but that stayed with him nonetheless.
Lorn gave him a long look, before finally turning his gaze.
The next group of men stepped forward and Dugald led them away. But Arthur could feel the weight of eyes on his back the entire way. The girl’s, he thought, not Lorn’s. But neither was good for his mission.
One thing was certain: He needed to stay far away from the lass.
Anna MacDougall. His mouth hardened with distaste. Nothing killed a bit of unwanted lust like learning that the woman who’d fired his blood was the daughter of the man who’d killed his father.
Three
Anna wasn’t watching where she was going. She’d returned to the castle with barely time to bathe and change her gown for the feast. A feast that had been her idea as a way to welcome the baron, knights, and men-at-arms who’d answered her father’s call to Dunstaffnage.
With war hovering on their doorstep, a celebration might seem strange to some—such as her brother Alan, for example—but Anna knew how important it was to put aside the doom and gloom if only for one night. To remember what they were fighting for. To feel normal, if just for a little while—or what passed for normal in the midst of war.
Fortunately, her father agreed and thought the feast a fine idea. She suspected he was also anxious to show his men that he’d recovered fully from his illness. But whatever the reason, Anna couldn’t have been more excited. There would be decadent amounts of food and drink, music, a seannachie to regale the crowd with a history of the clan, and dancing. Dancing! It had been so long since she’d danced.
She and her sisters had spent hours deciding what to wear, planning every last detail.
And now she was late.
Not that she regretted it. Beth’s new baby was adorable, and Anna knew how much her recently widowed friend needed help. She felt a pang of sympathy for the child who would never know her father. There were so heartbreakingly many of them. Yet one more reason why she couldn’t wait for this blasted war to be over.
She heard the first chords of the harp and muttered one of her father’s favorite oaths under her breath. Darting out of the sunlight into the darkened entrance of the Hall, she ran headlong into a wall.
Or at least she thought it was a wall until it reached out and caught her from falling backward. Saving her, she suspected, from a hard landi
ng on her bottom.
She gasped with surprise. First at the impact, and then at the heady sensation of being held in a rather strong and muscular—extremely muscular—pair of arms.
“Are you all right?”
Lord, what a voice! It wrapped around her as firmly as his embrace. Deep and rich, with just the right amount of huskiness. It was a voice to resonate from halls and hilltops. She might have listened more intently to this morning’s sermon if Father Gilbert had a voice like that.
“I’m fine,” she said dazedly. Actually she felt a little lightheaded. She looked up, blinking to clear the stars from her eyes, and gasped again.
It was the young knight she’d noticed a few days ago. The one who’d caught her staring at him. Sir Arthur Campbell.
Her cheeks fired. She didn’t know what had caught her attention that day, but she felt it all over again. The strange little spike in her pulse. The flash of warmth that spread over her skin. The nervous flutter in her stomach.
There was something different about him. A feeling she couldn’t quite describe. It was as if there were an undercurrent of intensity emanating from him.
He was undeniably handsome, although she hadn’t noticed it right away. Sir Arthur’s quiet, unassuming good looks were not as immediately apparent as his brother’s. His brother had the kind of bold good looks that were impossible not to notice.
Like that gorgeous man from the night at the church a year ago—the one who’d called off the attack when he’d recognized her “rescuer.” Even with the black smudges on his face, she didn’t think she’d ever seen a man so exceptionally well formed. But he was a rebel, so his appeal had tarnished quickly.
The Ranger Page 4
