But everyone needed someone. No one could actually want to be alone.
Maybe he just didn’t know any better.
Anna felt a flicker of possibility break through the hurt. She hugged the puppy curled up in her lap to her chest, kissing the soft fur on his head. Maybe, like Squire, he only needed someone to give him a chance. Someone to give him a little affection.
By the next morning, Anna was feeling more like herself. She returned to her seat beside her brother Alan on the dais to break her fast.
Her pulse spiked each time someone walked in the room. She was ready to see him. She wanted to see whether she was right. When their eyes met for the first time, she was certain she would know whether he cared for her, whether cruelty was merely his way of keeping her at a distance—just like he did everyone else.
As the meal drew on and Arthur didn’t appear, Anna grew increasingly uneasy. When his brothers and the rest of the Campbells appeared, the fierce pounding in her chest took a sudden dive.
Unfortunately, her odd behavior had not gone unnoticed.
“He’s not here,” Alan said, putting his hand on hers.
She startled, jerking her gaze away from the entry. “Who’s not here?” But the hot flush that rose to her cheeks gave her away.
He squeezed her hand under his, gently. “Campbell.”
Obviously, he’d figured out the correct one.
She managed a wan smile, not bothering to feign ignorance. Her interest in the knight had not gone unnoticed by her overprotective brother. “I merely wished to ask him a favor. Squire has been moping around all morning, and I wondered if Sir Arthur might take him with him when he goes out riding this morning.”
Her brother gave her a look that suggested he was not fooled by her feeble excuse.
“You’ll have to find someone else to exercise your hound for a while.”
A sick feeling dropped in her chest, settling uneasily in her stomach. Her voice quivered. “What do you mean?”
She braced herself, but part of her already knew what Alan was going to say.
“Campbell left with Ewen to patrol the southern borders between the castles at Glassery and Duntrune—father suspects the MacDonalds are up to something again. He’ll be gone for days, probably weeks.”
Gone. He’s gone.
How could he have left her without a word, after what they’d shared? Her chest constricted, tighter and tighter until she thought she would burst from the pressure.
“I see,” she whispered.
She was a fool. Because it felt special to her, she’d convinced herself it must be special to him. She’d known what he was, and still she’d convinced herself that maybe he was different.
Alan’s gaze narrowed. “Did something happen? Did he do something—”
She shook her head furiously. “Nothing. Nothing happened.”
Nothing significant. She drew her hand from under her brother’s and folded her arms over her belly. She wanted to curl up in a ball and fall apart, but she wouldn’t. He wasn’t worth it.
“What is he to you, Annie-love? Do you care for him? I thought you were doing a favor for Father.”
She hadn’t been aware that Alan knew of her unusual activities, but perhaps she shouldn’t have been surprised. With their grandfather’s age and their father’s illness, Alan had assumed more and more responsibilities. She wondered how much he knew. She suspected not all, or he wouldn’t be so calm.
“I was,” she assured him. Taking a deep breath, she forced the air back into her lungs. “He’s nothing to me,” she said, and meant it.
Her first impression had been correct: Arthur Campbell was a man with one foot out the door. He would never give her the stability that she craved. If she let him, he would only break her heart.
Ten
“You look like shite, Ranger. What the hell’s the matter with you?”
Arthur tried not to let his annoyance show, but the brash seafarer had an uncanny ability to hone in on a sore spot. There was nothing wrong with him, damn it. Nothing that a restful night of sleep wouldn’t cure.
But in the ten days since he’d left Dunstaffnage, he hadn’t had one night of peace. His dreams had been invaded by a lass with big blue eyes and honey-gold hair. A lass whose expression when she’d fled the barracks still haunted him.
She was always so damned happy. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her from the first. But he’d made her sad. Actually, she’d looked as if he’d crushed her. He hoped to hell she wasn’t harboring tender feelings for him. That would be foolish. Very foolish, he reminded himself.
His jaw hardened. Obviously, it wasn’t just his dreams she’d invaded but his thoughts as well. Anna MacDougall had gotten under his skin.
He didn’t understand why he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He’d left—what he always did when a woman started to think about more than the bedchamber—but this time it wasn’t working. If anything, it had made him more on edge. He was sure this irritating inability to focus would stop, if only he could see her and assure himself she was all right.
He should be able to push her out of his head. Focus on his task. And it infuriated him that he couldn’t.
But he sure as hell wasn’t going to explain any of this to MacSorley. He’d never hear the end of it.
“Good to see you too, Hawk.” He studied the big Islander in the moonlight, noticing the lines of strain etched on his face beneath the smudges of ash. In addition to blackened armor and dark plaids, the warriors of the Highland Guard darkened their skin, enabling them to blend in to the night and move stealthily through the shadows. “Perhaps I should be asking you the same question?”
The man standing beside Erik “Hawk” MacSorley made a sharp sound—reminiscent of a laugh, but with scorn rather than amusement. “Hawk’s wife has him by the bollocks. She’d due to have a child any day now, and he jumps at every sound, thinking it’s the damned messenger.” Lachlan MacRuairi, known by the war name of Viper among the Highland Guard, shook his head with disgust. “It’s bloody pathetic.”
Hawk grinned. “My wife can hold my bollocks anytime she wants. And we’ll see how calm you are when your time comes.”
A dark look came over MacRuairi’s face, his slitted, piercing gaze glowing like a wildcat’s in the moonlight. And people thought Arthur was eerie.
“It’ll be a cold day in Hades before that time comes. I’ve had a wife. I’d rather have my bollocks cut off and stuffed through my nose than have another.”
Of all the members of the Highland Guard, MacRuairi was the only one whom Arthur didn’t like—or trust. The West Highland descendant of the mighty Somerled, King of the Isles, had a black heart, a vicious temper, and a biting tongue. Like the cold-hearted snake from which his war name had derived, MacRuairi also had a deadly, silent strike.
From the first Arthur’s senses had flared, cautioning wariness. But while it didn’t take any unusual abilities to sense the anger emanating from MacRuairi—nay, rage—what bothered Arthur was the darkness that went with it. Darkness that had only grown deeper since the king’s wife, daughter, sister, and Bella MacDuff had been captured by the English on MacRuairi’s watch. Getting them back was all he cared about. He’d tried a few months back to free Bella from her cage hung high above Berwick Castle, but it proved an impossible task, even for the elite warriors of the Highland Guard. She’d been freed from her cruel prison recently, but no one knew where she was.
But MacRuairi had his uses. Aside from expertly wielding the two swords he wore crossed over his back, he could get in and out of anywhere. A lack of conscience also came in handy for unpleasant tasks. To win this war, they would all need to get their hands dirty. MacRuairi’s were just dirtier than most.
Only MacRuairi was more of an outsider in the Highland Guard than Arthur. Most of the men were wary of the hostile Islander—and rightly so. The leader of the Guard, Tor MacLeod, tolerated him, having come to some kind of understanding with his former blood ene
my, but only William Gordon and MacSorley genuinely seemed to like him.
“Never say never, cousin,” MacSorley said. “Your problem was marrying the wrong woman. One of these days the right one will come along.” He paused and gave him a sly look. “If she hasn’t already.”
Arthur suspected MacSorley was referring to Bella MacDuff, Countess of Buchan. She’d taken an immediate dislike to the infamous cateran pirate. Arthur thought the dislike was mutual, but he hadn’t been around enough to know whether MacSorley spoke true.
But if he were MacSorley, he’d watch his back for the next few days. MacRuairi looked as if he wanted to kill him. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
MacSorley only grinned. “Such crude language. Could I possibly have hit a nerve, cousin?”
Not a few days. Arthur would watch his back for a week. MacRuairi looked ready to strike. “I’m just damned sick and tired of hearing about it. You’re like a priest trying to convert the pagans. Spread your poison about the joys of marriage somewhere else; I’m not interested.”
MacSorley’s wide grin only seemed to make his kinsman angrier.
Arthur couldn’t believe he was hearing the swaggering seafarer exalt the virtues of marriage and “the right woman.” MacSorley’s bigger-than-life personality and bold charm drew almost as many women as MacGregor’s pretty face. Hawk loved women and they loved him. Hard to think of him settling down with one. She had to be a stunner. The big Viking always had a bevy of bold beauties with lush figures at his command.
Knowing MacSorley wouldn’t stop needling his kinsman until they came to blows, Arthur changed the subject. “Why did you need to see me? I assume it must be important to risk meeting like this.”
To preserve Arthur’s cover, the king had taken great precautions. Meetings were arranged only on an as needed basis, by leaving coded messages at one of the numerous stone monuments that littered the countryside, such as the stone circle where they’d gathered tonight. King Robert relished the connection with Scotland’s ancient past, and the mystical stones seemed a fitting allusion for his secret guard of the greatest warriors in Scotland.
Most communications were by messenger—only rarely did Arthur risk meeting with his fellow guardsmen. After infiltrating the MacDougalls, it had become even more difficult. He’d lost much of the freedom of movement he’d enjoyed working on his own. Tonight, he’d had to sneak out of Duntrune Castle in the middle of the night and hope to hell no one discovered he’d gone.
MacSorley sobered. “Aye, we received word last week that you’d come south. I’m glad you saw our message.”
Arthur tried to check the monuments as often as he could. When he’d seen the three smaller stones arranged in a triangle in the center, he’d known: it was the code to come as soon as possible. It was the same message he’d left at the cave north of Dunollie Castle before he’d gone south. With its access to the sea, the cave was the safest place for Bruce’s men to venture and only a few miles south of Dunstaffnage. “I assume since you knew where to leave it that you received mine?”
MacSorley nodded. “We were surprised to hear you’d left Dunstaffnage.”
Arthur schooled his features, not betraying the hint of guilt that crept up his consciousness. He hadn’t forgotten his mission, damn it. He’d just needed to get away.
“It couldn’t be avoided,” he said, offering no further explanation. “Lorn fears that Angus Og is up to something. I’ve accompanied his son Ewen to see what we can find out.”
“My cousin is always up to something,” MacSorley said about the powerful MacDonald chief. “He’s mobilizing his fleet for the battle against the MacDougalls.”
“I thought as much.” The attack against the MacDougalls from the sea would be every bit as important as the attack from land. Bruce would press Lorn from both directions. It was one of the reasons that MacSorley’s skills were so valued. He would be the one to lead the attack by sea.
“Lorn is well informed,” MacRuairi said.
Arthur grimaced. “Aye, he is. But I’ve been unable to find out how he’s doing it. There have been no strange churchmen about, nor have I seen any messengers.”
MacSorley smiled. “That’s why we sent for you. I intercepted one of Edward’s messengers on his way north with a message for Lorn. It’s one Lorn has been waiting for, though not the news he hoped for.” He grinned. “King Edward has declined Lorn’s request to send additional men north. And thanks to my cousin here, we know where the messenger was heading.”
Arthur didn’t need to ask how MacRuairi had got him to talk. MacRuairi always got them to talk.
“Ardchattan Priory,” MacRuairi said.
Arthur felt a tingle of excitement. The priory was close to Dunstaffnage, right in the heart of Lorn. This was it: the chance they’d been waiting for.
“So they are using churchmen,” Arthur said. It was as he’d suspected.
“So it seems,” MacSorley agreed. “All you need to do is keep an eye on the church and see who comes to pick it up. As one of Lorn’s knights, your presence, should you be discovered, won’t be remarked upon. How soon will you be able to get away?”
“I’ll leave in the morning.”
“You will be able to explain your sudden need to return to the castle?” MacRuairi asked.
“Someone needs to report back to Lorn. I’ll volunteer to go.”
With his mission clear, Arthur was anxious to be on his way, but he took a few minutes to catch up on the other guardsmen.
MacSorley and MacRuairi were the only two members of the Highland Guard in the west, watching the seas. MacKay, Gordon, and MacGregor were in the north, keeping the roads clear of messengers and wreaking havoc on Ross for what he’d done to the women, and the rest of the team were in the east with the king.
Robert “Raider” Boyd and his partner, Alex “Dragon” Seton, had returned recently from a successful mission in the southwest, with Sir James Douglas and Sir Edward Bruce, the king’s sole remaining brother. King Robert had lost three brothers in one year—two at the hands of MacDowell, the man they’d sent scurrying from Galloway. Seton, too, had lost a brother.
“Have Raider and Dragon finally figured out they are fighting on the same side?” Arthur asked. The ill-fated pairing between Seton, an English knight, and Boyd, the man who hated all things English, had been one of the biggest hurdles in the early days of the Guard.
“It’s gotten worse.” MacSorley frowned, so Arthur knew it had to be serious. “Dragon has changed since the death of his brother. He’s angrier, and most of that anger is directed at Raider.” The smile returned to his face. “But there is some good news. Guess who they brought back with them, captured near Caerlaverock Castle in Galloway?”
“Who?” Arthur asked.
“My old companion, Sir Thomas Randolph.”
Arthur swore, not hiding his surprise. “What did the king do?”
The news that his young nephew had gone over to the English the year before had been a bitter blow to the king who was attempting to regain his kingdom. Switching sides was regrettably all too common—King Robert had done it himself many times in the early years of the war—but Randolph’s defection had come at a particularly difficult time for the king. At the very lowest point in his struggle.
MacSorley shook his head in disgust. “He forgave him. Too easily, in my opinion. Especially after the pup had the nerve to criticize his uncle for not fighting like a knight but like a pirate.”
“Apparently Hawk failed to make an impression on him,” MacRuairi said dryly.
“Perhaps so,” MacSorley said. “But I’ll get another chance. The king has vowed to send him to me again for training.”
Arthur lifted a brow. “Why do I have a feeling the young knight will have his punishment after all?”
MacSorley shrugged not so innocently. “I’ll make a Highlander out of the lad yet.” He gave Arthur an amused look. “I hope you haven’t forgotten, Sir Arthur. You’re looking
very fine in your knight’s garb.”
The jest hit a little too close to the truth. “Sod off, Hawk. Care for a demonstration?”
MacSorley chuckled. “Perhaps another time. My wife would have my bollocks if the messenger comes and I am not there. And you should get back to Duntrune Castle before they discover you’re gone.”
They’d already said their farewells when Arthur remembered. “Here,” he said, taking out the map that he’d finished a few days ago. “It’s for the king.”
MacSorley held it up to get a better look at it in the moonlight. “Damn, this is good. The king will be pleased. He’ll need it for the march west. I’ll send a messenger right away.”
Arthur nodded. “And I’ll send word as soon as I have something.”
“Airson an Leòmhann,” MacSorley said.
For the Lion. The symbol of Scotland’s kingship and the battle cry of the Highland Guard.
Arthur repeated the words and slid into the shadows, not knowing when or if he would see them again. In war, nothing was certain.
Arthur was in place less than twenty-four hours later. From his position behind a grassy knoll to the east of the priory, he had a clear vantage of the approaches to both the cross-shaped stone church and the square cloister that housed the monks to the south.
Established by Duncan MacDougall, Lord of Argyll, about seventy-five years earlier, Ardchattan Priory was one of only three Valliscaulian monasteries in Scotland. He didn’t know much about the rare order of monks, except that they reputedly followed a strict code.
Just six miles to the east of Dunstaffnage on the north side of Loch Etive, Ardchattan was the perfect place from which to route messages—especially since the prior was a MacDougall. It was one of the first places he’d focused on upon arriving a month earlier. But although he’d kept it under surveillance for a few days, except for a couple of women from the village, the monks had very few visitors.
Now, with the trap set, all he had to do was wait and he would finally have some answers. Answers that would put him that much closer to fulfilling his mission for King Robert and seeing John of Lorn pay for what he’d done to his father.
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