The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  “It’s no use, Anna. Trust me when I say it won’t work. I could never give you what you want. I can never make you happy.”

  Frustration and anger rose inside her. “How dare you presume to know my mind better than I do! I know exactly what I want. After what happened, how can you not know that you are the only man who can make me happy? Don’t you realize that I love you?”

  Her declaration was as unexpected to her as apparently it was to him. She snapped her mouth shut, but it was too late. Her words seemed to echo in the sudden blast of silence.

  He went utterly still, his expression not unlike that of someone who’d taken an arrow to the chest. Hardly the reaction she’d hoped for. She hadn’t expected a return declaration. Really, she hadn’t. Not yet at least. But neither had she expected the silence. Silence that slowly—cruelly—broke her heart.

  I love you. The words reverberated in his ears. Pounding. Ringing. Tempting, damn it, tempting.

  Arthur stood stone still, not daring to allow himself to believe her. He couldn’t believe her. Because if he did, it might make him happy. Happier than he’d ever been in his life.

  She didn’t mean it. She was confused. Anna MacDougall gave her heart to everyone. It was part of what made her so damned irresistible.

  He shook his head, as if trying to convince himself. “You don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t love me. You don’t even know me.”

  “How can you say that? Of course I know you.”

  “There are things about me, if you knew …” He couldn’t say any more. He’d said too much already. She was too damned perceptive.

  Her mouth pursed, and he recognized the stubborn glint in her eye. “I thought we’d been over that. Your abilities are a gift—one that has proved extraordinarily useful more than once.”

  He hadn’t been talking about his skills, but about the fact that he was with Bruce and a spy. About the fact that there was no one he hated more in the world than her father, and that he’d been waiting fourteen years to destroy him. But he could hardly tell her the truth.

  “I know all about you that matters,” she continued. “I know you like to watch and listen rather than speak. I know that you don’t like drawing attention to yourself and try to blend into the background. I know you have valuable skills that you try to hide because you think they make you different. I know you’ve convinced yourself that you are different and that therefore you don’t need anyone, and so you try to push people away before they get too close because of it. I know that you’ve spent most of your life on the battlefield, but that you can wield a quill as effectively as you can a blade.”

  She stopped long enough to take a breath. He should have cut her off, but he was too unsettled to speak.

  “I know that you are smart, and as strong of character as you are of body. I know that when I’m with you I feel safe. I know that you pretend not to care about anything but would protect me to your dying breath. I know that a man who can hold a child in his arms with gentleness, and show patience to a puppy who’s given him nothing but trouble, has a kind heart.” Her voice lowered to almost a whisper, the anger drained out of her. “I know that since the first time you kissed me there would never be another man for me. I know that when I look up into your face, it’s the one I want to see for the rest of my life.” Her eyes, bright with unshed tears, met his. “I know you are loyal and honorable and care for me but something is holding you back.”

  Jesus. He felt as if he’d been poleaxed. No one had ever said anything like that to him before.

  It humbled him.

  It moved him.

  It scared the hell out of him.

  She’d seen too much. She wasn’t just a threat to his mission but to him in ways he’d never imagined.

  He hardened his jaw, and his heart. “You see what you want to see, Anna—not reality.” The war. Her father. Him. She was blind to the faults of those she professed to love. “But little girls who believe in faerie tales only grow up disappointed.”

  “Don’t do this,” she whispered. “Don’t try to push me away.”

  It’s what he did. What he always did. Even if for the first time he didn’t want to, it was what he needed to do. For her own good.

  He grabbed her arm, intending to shake some damned sense into her, but it was a mistake. Touching her only made the emotions firing inside him hotter. Louder. More twisted and out of control.

  “Then don’t act like a naive postulate. We’re in the middle of a damned war. Bruce is about to bring the full force of his army down on top of you, but you want to plan for the future. There is no future, Anna. Only today. Hell, you might not have a home next month.”

  She flinched as if he’d struck her. “Do you think I don’t know that?” A sob strangled in her throat. Her beautiful blue eyes blurred with tears, stoking the fires burning in his chest. “Why do you think I went to Ross? I know what’s at stake. But I couldn’t do it. Because of you.”

  “Your father should never have asked it of you,” he snapped.

  Her stricken expression made him wish to call his words back. She had a girl’s vision of her father—the perfect knight who could do no wrong. One more illusion he would help destroy.

  “He didn’t ask it of me. It was my idea. You talk of war and uncertainty, but I can tell you one thing that’s certain. If you never take a risk, if you always push people away, you’ll be guaranteed to be alone. Is that what you want?”

  His jaw was clenched so tight his teeth hurt. “Yes.” Damn her.

  “Good, because that’s exactly what you’ll be.” The tears fell on her cheeks. “I don’t know why you’re doing this, but you’re a coward, Arthur Campbell.”

  Anger rushed through him in a fiery blast. He wasn’t a coward. He was trying to do the right thing. But she wouldn’t let him. She kept pushing and pulling him, making him crazy with feelings that didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t think straight. All he wanted to do was drag her into his arms and kiss her until the hammering in his head—in his chest—stopped.

  He might have done just that, but he didn’t have the chance.

  “What the hell is going on here?”

  Arthur jerked around, his head still spinning, as Alan MacDougall strode into the clearing.

  Arthur swore. He’d been too wrapped up in Anna and hadn’t heard a damned thing.

  What the hell was the matter with him? He was out of control. He needed to get a rein on his emotions. His senses were dull and fuzzy. He was too distracted. Too twisted up in knots. He’d felt like this only once before—the day his father died. He was losing his edge.

  So much so that he wasn’t ready for what came next.

  “Let go of her,” Alan boomed, tearing Anna out of his arms at the same time his fist came slamming toward his jaw.

  Arthur’s head snapped back as he took the full force of the blow. His head exploded in pain. A white flash blinded him.

  Anna cried out in horror. “Alan, please, it’s not what you think!”

  But her brother wasn’t listening. Proving his efficiency with both fists, another blow caught Arthur from the other side. Then the stomach. Then his ribs.

  “I told you to fix it, damn it. Not make her cry. What the hell did you do to her?”

  Arthur didn’t try to defend himself. Not because he couldn’t—MacDougall might have a smith’s hammer for an arm, but Arthur had learned enough tricks from the best hand-to-hand warrior in the Highlands to have him on his back in a few seconds. He didn’t fight back because he deserved it. Hell, he deserved far worse for what he would do.

  “Stop! Stop!” Anna sobbed, her voice teetering on hysteria. “You’re hurting him.”

  Alan dragged him up by the collar, shoving him hard against a tree. “What did you do?” His gaze shot to his sister’s. “One of you had better tell me what the hell is going on.”

  Neither of them responded.

  Alan looked back and forth between them, his face fired hot with anger. “
Don’t take me for a bloody fool! Don’t think I believe for one minute that Ross suddenly decided to cry off!” He looked at Anna, his hand still grasped tight around Arthur’s throat. “What happened at Auldearn? Did this bastard touch you, Anna?” His hand squeezed. “Did he touch you?” He jammed Arthur harder. “Did he?”

  Arthur felt the noose tightening around his throat, and it wasn’t MacDougall’s hand. Nay, he knew that he was going to be called to answer for what had happened—or nearly happened—at Auldearn.

  “Let go of him!” He heard the panic in Anna’s voice. She tried to pull on her brother’s arm to no avail. “Yes, but it’s not what you think.”

  Actually, it was probably exactly what he thought.

  “You bloody bastard,” MacDougall said, jamming his head farther into the tree. “I’ll kill you for this.”

  Arthur did not doubt his intent—or his ability. But he couldn’t let him do that. He was just about to free himself, when he heard a small pop followed by a soft whirling sound.

  Arrow.

  His senses exploded in a burst of sharp clarity. His gaze shot over MacDougall’s shoulder, seeing the iron tip spinning through the air. A split second away from impact into the back of MacDougall’s head.

  Arthur didn’t think; he reacted. In one seamless movement, he used an upward jam of his forearm to break MacDougall’s grip around his throat and then twisted his leg around the other man’s ankle to knock him off balance. MacDougall fell to the ground right as the arrow hit the tree with a thud, followed swiftly by the piercing cries of an attack.

  He heard Anna’s terrified gasp but couldn’t turn around to calm her. The first man had already plunged from the trees, sword raised. Again, Arthur’s reaction was instantaneous. He found the grip of his dirk, jerked it from its scabbard, and threw. The attacker grunted as the blade found the few inches of unprotected skin on his neck. He staggered, then fell.

  By the time the next man was on them, MacDougall’s head had cleared for long enough to realize what was happening and had gotten to his feet. He pulled out his sword, whirled around, and got his blade up just in time to fend off a blow that would have taken off his head.

  Anna. Arthur turned his gaze from the oncoming assault just long enough to make sure she was all right. He found her huddled behind the tree, eyes wide with fright. His heart rose in his chest when he saw how vulnerable she was, and then it froze when he realized how vulnerable that made him.

  He couldn’t let anything happen to her. He had to protect her. He would kill them all if he had to.

  Their eyes met for only a second. But the look that passed between them was fast and fierce in its intensity.

  “Stay down,” he said, his voice calm despite the rush of blood pounding through his veins.

  Positioning himself in front of Anna—and shoulder-to-shoulder with MacDougall, who was still battling his opponent—Arthur swung his sword around to meet the onslaught of attackers pouring through the trees. A score of men. Maybe more.

  He didn’t have long to wait before the next attacker reached him. For the first time in over two years—since he’d been forced from the Highland Guard and inserted into the enemy’s camp—Arthur let himself go, fighting with all the skill and frenzy he’d kept so carefully hidden. He took down the first man with one vicious swing of his sword, spun, and using the momentum of the first, took down the next.

  They came at him harder. But it didn’t matter. He was like a siege engine, cutting down all who came in his path. Three. Four.

  The crash of steel on steel pierced the dusky night air, mingling with the grunts and battle cries. The sounds had alerted the camp—thankfully only a few steps away—and MacDougall’s men started to pour into the small clearing, now shrouded in almost complete darkness.

  But the attackers had expected the men to race to their aid. Indeed, they’d planned for it and were lying in wait. More attackers dropped from the trees onto the unsuspecting MacDougall clansmen as they funneled through the trees.

  “Look up,” Arthur shouted, trying to warn them. “Spread out.”

  If they didn’t, they’d be cut down as easily as herring in a barrel.

  But it was all the warning he could give before his next opponents diverted his attention. Two men were on him. Two men in nasal helms, darkened plaids, and the distinctive black ash smeared over their faces.

  Dread sank like a stone in his gut.

  The attackers were Bruce’s men. Of course they were. He saw the bodies littered on the ground before him—men he’d killed—and bile rose in his throat.

  Jesus, what had he been thinking? He hadn’t been. The instinct to protect Anna had overridden everything else.

  But it was worse than he’d realized.

  While he attempted to incapacitate the two men attacking him without actually killing them, a third man joined the fray.

  A third man who wielded two swords.

  He moved like lightning, coming at Arthur with a fierceness unmatched by even those among their elite Highland Guard brethren.

  Arthur swore under his breath, finding himself face-to-face in the darkness with Lachlan MacRuairi.

  Seventeen

  It all happened so fast. One minute Anna was trying to prevent her brother from killing the man she loved, and the next they were under attack.

  To say the situation was dire was an understatement. From her place huddled in the darkness, she forced shallow breaths from her lungs between the hard pounding of her heart, watching in horror as the men descended on them like a plague of locusts. It seemed as if there were hundreds of them—against only two.

  Arthur cut down the first man so easily, she thought it was an aberration. But then came the next. And the next.

  She gazed in stunned amazement as he effortlessly dispatched all who came before him. His skill was so extraordinary—so dominating—it seemed she was watching another man. She’d spied him at practice enough times to recognize the difference. He made her brother, who was known as one of the most skilled knights in the Highlands, look like a squire.

  He was quicker. More agile in movement and technique. And most significantly, stronger. She could feel the ground reverberate with the force of his blows. When one of his opponents managed to get in a swing of his blade, Arthur’s arm barely moved when he blocked it, absorbing the force as if it were nothing.

  His arm …

  Her eyes widened. His right arm.

  She didn’t understand. Arthur was left-handed. At least he was supposed to be, but watching him now, she knew he’d only pretended.

  Why would he hide such a thing?

  And why had she never seen him fight like this before? It didn’t make sense. She could understand his reasons for hiding his unusually keen senses, but there was nothing off-putting about swordsmanship. God, he could be one of the most revered knights in the kingdom if he wanted to be. So why didn’t he want to be?

  But her questions fell by the wayside when she saw the next wave of attackers drop from the trees. No doubt seeing the fallen bodies of their compatriots, they identified the threat and were converging on Arthur.

  She forced back the cry of warning, knowing it would only distract him. But her heart clenched in her throat. Two men. And a third not far behind them.

  Suddenly, something seemed to change with Arthur. Instead of the cold, ruthless death strokes, he wielded his sword with less deliberateness. It was almost as if his purpose had changed from killing them to fending them off.

  But that didn’t make any sense. She shook off the strange thought. These warriors were simply better trained, that was all.

  And they were. It was hard to see in the near-darkness; they wore dark clothing and seemed to have blackened their skin with something …

  Her blood chilled. Recalling the attack of the year before. Those men had darkened their skin as well. Could these be the wraiths of Bruce’s phantom army of marauders? The men who’d struck fear in the heart of Scotland and England alike?r />
  Her worst fears seemed confirmed when a third man descended on Arthur like a hound of hell. Rather than the long, two-handed broadsword used by the Highlanders, he wielded two shorter swords. One for each hand.

  But it was his clothing that sent tremors of terror sliding through her bones. Like the other attackers he wore a darkened nasal helm and his skin had been blackened with mud or ash, but it was what else he wore that struck the chilling chord of memory. Dressed head-to-toe in black, instead of mail he wore a leather war coat studded with metal, leather chausses, and an oddly wrapped dark plaid. Just like the man—the ridiculously handsome rebel—who’d attacked her last year.

  This man was one of them. She knew it. Fear turned to terror. They were reputed to have extraordinary abilities. To fight like demons possessed. Oh God, Arthur!

  Her breath caught high in her chest as the attacker flew at him, swords raised on either side of his head. Time seemed to slow. Still engaged with one of the other attackers, Arthur wasn’t going to be able to defend himself.

  Ice lodged in her chest. In her blood. He was going to die.

  She opened her mouth to scream, but at the last minute, Arthur jammed the pommel of his sword in the nose of one of the men attacking him, enabling him to get his sword up to block the two blades before they crossed at his neck.

  He and the hellish attacker met face-to-face, blades caught in a tangle above their heads. The attacker, coming down, had momentum on his side, but with both hands on his sword, Arthur managed to hold him off.

  Arthur had his back to her, but she could just make out the attacker’s face in a beam of moonlight. He had the eeriest eyes she’d ever seen. She shivered. They seemed to glow in the darkness. Dark features twisted in rage, he looked like a demon from hell—or Lucifer himself.

  She felt a prickle of recognition tease the edges of her memory. My God! Could it be …

  Her eyes widened. He looked like Lachlan MacRuairi—her deceased Aunt Juliana’s husband. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she heard he’d joined the rebels. Her Aunt Juliana, whom her sister was named after, had been much younger than her father—nearly twenty years. MacRuairi was probably of age with her brother Alan.