The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  He drew closer to Arthur and suddenly his expression changed. If she hadn’t been watching so carefully she wouldn’t have seen it. Surprise. Recognition?

  The man she thought to be her uncle dropped back. Or was she just imagining it? It was dark, and so hard to tell. The men exchanged a few more blows, but the fierceness and intensity seemed to be gone. Compared to what had come before, it seemed more practice than all-out battle.

  She peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother stagger back, his sword dropped as both hands went to his head. He fell to his knees, swaying …

  She cried out, unable to stop herself. She would have rushed toward him, but Arthur moved back to block her. “Stay back, damn it. Stay back.”

  Helplessly, she watched as the attacker her brother had been fighting lifted his sword to finish him off.

  Her bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.

  Arthur seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant. Somehow he managed to block a blow from the man who looked like her uncle, then spin around in time to block the swing intended for her brother. Not prepared for Arthur’s defense, her brother’s attacker’s arm collapsed and he fell forward onto Arthur’s sword. His eyes widened in surprise before freezing for all time.

  Even in the midst of this horrible nightmare, the gruesome sight was too much. With a sob, she turned away.

  The next instant a sharp whistle pierced the dark night air. She turned back to the melee, stunned to see the attackers falling back in retreat. MacRuairi—or a man who looked just like him—had apparently called them off.

  Her brother’s men now filled the clearing. Before the last rebel had faded into the forest, she rushed forward to Alan’s side.

  He’d managed to get to his feet, but he still appeared unsteady.

  “Oh God, Alan. Are you all right?”

  Even in the darkness, she could see from the way he was looking at her that it was hard for him to focus. He shook his head as if trying to clear the haze.

  “A knock on the pate,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He cupped her cheek and gave her a fond smile. “No need for tears.”

  Anna nodded and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, not even realizing she’d been crying.

  She turned, instinctively seeking him out. Arthur stood a few feet away, watching her. She wanted to run to him. To throw herself into his arms, bury her face into his chest, and fall apart. He would take away the horror. But her brother was standing there.

  And Arthur’s face was too grim. “You are unhurt?” he asked.

  She nodded. Her eyes scanned him, lingering on his jaw and cheek—bruised from where her brother had struck him. “And you?”

  He returned the nod.

  Alan stiffened beside her. He strode toward Arthur and Anna froze, fearing what he would do. He stopped a few feet in front of him. The two men faced off silently in the darkness.

  Finally, her brother said, “It seems I am in your debt—not once, but twice.”

  Arthur stilled, and then gave a short shrug.

  “I don’t like to see my sister upset,” Alan added.

  Anna assumed that was meant to be an apology.

  “Neither do I,” Arthur said.

  Alan studied him for a moment and then nodded, as if he’d come to some sort of decision. “You fought well,” he said, changing the subject, but not the intensity of his scrutiny.

  Apparently, she had not been the only one to notice his improved skills. “The rush of battle,” Arthur explained.

  Anna almost mentioned the change of hand, but something stopped her. If her brother had noticed too, he didn’t let on.

  Alan was still watching him. “Aye, for some men it is like that.” From his tone, Anna couldn’t tell whether he believed Arthur’s explanation. When Arthur didn’t respond, Alan added, “The rebels are better trained than I expected.”

  Anna stepped forward. “Not just any rebels, brother.”

  Both men looked at her, but it was Alan who asked the question. “What do you mean?”

  “I think one of them—maybe more—was one of Bruce’s phantom guard.” She explained the similar clothing to the man who’d led that attack at the church the year before.

  Alan stroked his chin. “It makes sense. I think you might be right.”

  “There’s more. I can’t be sure, but I think I recognized him. The man with two swords.”

  “What?” Both men reacted. Her brother with excitement and Arthur with … something else.

  “Our uncle—former uncle.”

  Alan swore. “MacRuairi?”

  She nodded.

  Alan’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Father will not be pleased.”

  Anna did not know the source of the enmity between her father and his former brother by marriage, but she knew the hatred ran fiercely on both sides.

  Alan let out a bark of laughter. “Though perhaps he should be. Let Bruce have that traitorous, opportunistic bastard in his camp. The only thing that Lachlan MacRuairi is loyal to is himself. If he is the kind of man recruited for this band of phantoms, we have nothing to worry about.”

  Arthur had fallen strangely silent. She wanted to ask him about what she’d seen between him and the man she thought was her uncle, but like before, something held her back. Instead she asked, “What made them leave?”

  Her brother frowned. “I’m not sure. My head was ringing; I didn’t see much of anything.”

  “Your men had broken through,” Arthur explained. “They were outnumbered.”

  It hadn’t seemed that way to her, but she’d been too focused on her brother to pay attention to the rest of the battle. “You should return to camp,” he said.

  “Aye,” Alan said. “One of my men will take you. We must see to—”

  He stopped.

  She filled in the rest. The dead.

  The horror of the attack—of what they’d barely escaped—hit her full force. The dam had given way, and all the emotion kept carefully at bay rose inside her, threatening to flood in a sea of tears.

  She turned, realizing that Arthur had come to stand beside her. Heedless of her brother’s presence, he reached down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers swept the side of her cheek, lingering.

  The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. She gazed up at him. Beneath his grim expression, she read his concern. His solid presence, his strength, nearly shattered her. If he took her in his arms, she would fall apart.

  Guessing as much, he didn’t. “It will be all right,” he said gently. “Do as your brother says.”

  “But—”

  He cut her off with a shake of his head, his expression firm. He had to have guessed that she had questions. “Not now,” he said, his gaze shifting to the fallen men at their feet. “Later.”

  Anna kept her eyes on his face, careful not to follow the direction of his gaze. She’d seen enough bloodshed tonight to last a lifetime. The memories of this night would haunt her.

  Her reaction was understandable. She was a woman, not used to the blood and gore of battlefields. Arthur, however, was used to it. Or he should be.

  But something in his expression—the tightness of his jaw, the whiteness of his mouth, the starkness in his eyes—made her think the attack had affected him deeply.

  As two of her brother’s men led her away, Anna suspected that she would not be the only one haunted by the night’s events.

  The question was why.

  Arthur didn’t sleep. He half-expected MacRuairi to slither through the darkness and slit his throat or stick a dirk in his back for what had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time. MacRuairi hadn’t earned his war name “Viper” for his venomous personality alone, but also for his deadly, silent strike.

  Not that Arthur would blame him.

  As he’d done most of the night, he stared at the pile of bodies moved off to one side of the clearing, left for the “attacker
s” to collect.

  Nine of Bruce’s men killed. More than half at the end of Arthur’s sword.

  He’d erred. Badly. On too many levels to count. It was bad enough that his senses had failed him—that he’d missed the signs of the attack—but he’d also seemed to have forgotten what side he was on. He’d been entrenched in the enemy camp for so long, he’d started to believe his own lies.

  Christ. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. He’d been forced to kill his own men before, but not like this. He hadn’t been just defending himself. He’d been in a frenzy. So focused on protecting Anna and killing anyone that threatened her that he hadn’t thought about anything else.

  Even when he had realized what was happening, he hadn’t stopped. He’d saved MacDougall’s life at the expense of one of his compatriots.

  He couldn’t forget the look on MacRuairi’s face when Arthur stabbed the man trying to kill MacDougall. That he hadn’t meant to kill him didn’t matter. He shouldn’t have interfered. Anna’s heart-rending cry wasn’t an excuse—or at least one that would matter to his brethren.

  When the first orange rays of dawn flickered through the forest, he stood from his solitary post leaning against a tree. They weren’t coming. MacRuairi—and unless he’d erred in identifying three other members of the Highland Guard as they retreated, Gordon, MacGregor, and MacKay. He hadn’t expected them to, even if he’d hoped for the chance to explain. They wouldn’t further risk his cover. He’d done that enough himself.

  He knew how close he’d come to blowing his cover and putting his entire mission in jeopardy. As her questions had proved, Anna—even terrified—was too observant. And she wasn’t the only one. Alan, too, was suspicious of his suddenly improved fighting ability and of how quickly the attackers had fled. He’d put them off for now, but he knew she had more questions and didn’t dare think about what else she’d noticed.

  Recognizing MacRuairi was bad enough, but to have connected him with the Highland Guard was a disaster. Keeping their identities secret not only added to the mystique and fear surrounding the “phantom” guard, but also helped to keep them safe. If their enemies learned their identities, not only would they have a price on their heads, but their families could be at risk. It was the reason they’d decided to use war names when they were on missions.

  There would be hell to pay when Bruce learned MacRuairi had been unmasked.

  It shouldn’t have happened, damn it. Anger and guilt coiled mercilessly inside him. If he hadn’t been so wrapped up in Anna, so twisted with emotion, he would have sensed the attack. Those men wouldn’t have been killed, and Anna wouldn’t have been put in danger. Christ, she could have been killed. All because he’d failed to control his emotions and had gotten too close.

  He walked back into camp just as the men not on guard were starting to stir. He glanced at Anna’s tent, seeing the coated linen flaps still closed. Good. Let her sleep. She’d earned it. He’d checked on her often during the night, assuring himself that she was all right. He knew how shaken she’d been by the attack, but he’d been battling his own demons and in no condition to comfort her—even if it had been his place to do so.

  By the time he’d returned from seeing to the horses, however, he noticed the flap was opened. A quick scan around the camp made him frown. A moment later, however, he spied her speaking with her brother, who was engaged with some of her men. The exasperated look on her face was so normal, he heaved a sigh of relief, not wanting to acknowledge how worried he’d been.

  Her gaze landed on him. She hesitated, but then started to march across the leaf- and moss-strewn ground toward him. He noticed she carried a bundle of cloth in her arms.

  She stopped before him, tilting her pale face to his. His chest squeezed. Sleep, it seemed, had eluded her as well.

  “Since it is your rule, and my brother is busy, I’m afraid you will have to accompany me.”

  He gave her a quizzical look.

  “Did you not make me promise not to leave camp without you or my brother?”

  His mouth twitched, the first smile in what felt like years. “Aye.”

  “I need to go to the burn to wash.”

  The river was within easy sight of the camp, but he didn’t argue, realizing how much the attack must have unsettled her. He bowed with a mocking flourish of his hand. “After you.”

  She didn’t appear anxious to talk, which was fine by him. He waited by a tree, pretending not to watch, while she went through her morning ablutions.

  After tidying her hair with a damp comb and cleaning her teeth with powder from a vial that she rubbed on a small square of linen, she dipped a fresh linen cloth in the river. She’d brought a sliver of soap, which she rubbed on the cloth, and then proceeded to wash her face, chest, hands, and arms.

  It was one of the most erotic sights he’d ever beheld.

  When she dipped the cloth between her breasts, it was too much. He turned away, furious that something so mundane could arouse him. But with the sun streaming through the trees, catching the golden strands of hair, and the rivulets of water cascading down her face and chest, she looked beautiful, sweet, and utterly entrancing. A ray of light in the darkness. And all he could think about was how close he’d come to heaven—and how badly he wanted to touch her again.

  God, had he learned nothing from what happened last night?

  He focused on their surroundings with almost exaggerated intensity, keening his senses toward anything out of the ordinary.

  But his gaze drifted back. She’d finished and walked toward him, the sun illuminating her from behind. He sucked in his breath. But that didn’t prevent him from getting a mind-numbing whiff of her sweet feminine fragrance: freshly washed skin tinged with rose petals.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” he said tightly.

  “You look as if you are in pain.” Her eyes flew to his. “Is it your face?” She reached up to cup his bruised chin. Every muscle in his body jumped at the contact. “Did my foolish brother break something?” Jesus, her hands were soft. Velvety fingers caressed the hard line of his flexed jaw. “Look at all those bruises. It must hurt.” Her thumb slid toward his mouth. “Your lip is split.”

  It did hurt. The innocently erotic gesture sent a rush of blood low in his groin and fired his blood with heat. He had to force himself not to take her finger in his mouth and suck.

  She had no idea what she was doing to him. Or how hard it was for him to keep his hands off her.

  She gazed up at him with wide-eyed concern. A little kitten in the jaws of a wolf. “Does it hurt very badly?”

  “It’s not my face.” He gave her a hot look that told her exactly the source of his pain. He was as hard as a spike.

  A soft pink stained her cheeks. If that wasn’t bad enough, she proceeded to nibble on her soft bottom lip. “Oh. I didn’t realize—”

  “We should get back. Your brother will wish to leave soon.”

  She nodded, and he thought he saw her shiver. “I shall not be sad to leave this place.”

  He couldn’t stop himself. He tipped her chin, looking deep into her big, blue eyes. “You are all right?”

  She tried to smile, but her mouth wobbled. “Nay, but I will manage.”

  He dropped his hand; his mouth fell in a straight line. “What happened last night will not be repeated.”

  Her delicately arched brows furrowed. “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I won’t let it.”

  Her eyes searched his face, and then widened with understanding. “Good God, that’s why you are upset. You blame yourself for what happened. But that’s ridiculous. You couldn’t have known—”

  “Yes, I should have. Had I not been so distracted, I would have.”

  “So I’m to blame?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You aren’t perfect, Arthur. You’re human; you make mistakes.”

  He didn’t respond, his jaw clenching so tightly his teeth hurt.r />
  “Is that what you think?” she asked softly. “Have your senses never failed you before?”

  Once. He pushed aside the memory. “We should get back.”

  He started to turn away, but she grabbed his arm to stop him. “Won’t you tell me?”

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Does it have something to do with your father?”

  He glanced at her sharply. How in Hades had she figured that out?

  She read his surprise. “When you spoke of his death before, I sensed there was something you were leaving out.”

  There was a hell of a lot he’d left out. Namely her father’s part in the foul deed.

  She was waiting for him to respond. He wasn’t much for discussing the past, but if the look on her face was any indication, it meant a lot to her. “There isn’t much to tell. It was my first battle. My father had brought me alone to prove myself. I was so worried about impressing him that I missed the signs of the attack.” But that wasn’t the worst part. “I watched him die.”

  Her face filled with sympathy. “God, I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible. But you were only a lad; you couldn’t have done anything to help him.”

  “I should have warned him.” Had he not been so upset, so scared, he would have seen the signs. Then, just as last night, emotion had gotten in the way. “I was distracted.”

  Her frown barely had time to form before her eyes lit with sudden comprehension. “You loved him.”

  He shrugged, the subject making him uneasy. “It didn’t do him any good.”

  “Even Achilles had a weak spot, Arthur.”

  His brows gathered together in a frown. What was she talking about?

  “It’s hard to remain detached and observant with people you care about.” She gave him an understanding smile. “You can’t blame yourself for caring.”

  But he did. What use were his vaunted skills if he couldn’t protect the people he cared about?

  “Thank you for telling me,” she said.

  Why again did he feel as if she’d seen too much? “I didn’t want you to worry about another surprise attack.”