The Ranger

by Monica McCarty

  “Nay,” he said. “Not the first, but under the circumstances we should have waited.” He drew her against him, his voice as fierce as his hold. He was a selfish bastard, but he swore when this damned battle was over he’d give her a choice. He would fight for her—for them—if she would let him. “I will come back to you, Anna. If you want me, I will come back.”

  She smiled up at him, so guileless and innocent. So trusting. “Of course I want you. Nothing will ever change that.”

  He wanted to believe her. More than anything in the world, he wanted to believe her. But her words would soon be put to the test.

  Twenty-one

  “What’s wrong with you, Anna? You seem unusually quiet this morning. Did you not sleep well?”

  Anna gave her sister a sharp glance, wondering if Mary suspected something. It was hard to tell. Her sister wore a serene expression on her face, one befitting the morning’s sermon that they’d just heard.

  Anna had no idea what it had been about. She’d been too busy playing back every second of what had happened last night. She was sure there was something horribly sinful about thinking of such things in a chapel, but Anna had so much to do penance for already, she figured the added damage to her soul was incremental.

  She smiled as the memories returned. No doubt it was even more of a sin to be so happy about sinning, but she was happy. She loved Arthur, and he loved her. Last night had proved it.

  She hadn’t returned to the chamber she shared with her sisters until very late. Or early, depending on how you looked at it. She’d stayed curled up in his arms for as long as she’d dared, but eventually she’d been forced to return to her room.

  The hours she’d spent in his arms had been some of the most contented of her life. In the protective bower of his embrace, the war, the chaos and the uncertainty of the world right now, didn’t exist.

  In the cold light of day, however, it all came back.

  Today was the twelfth day of August. Three days before the truce ended.

  It was the war that was troubling her, she told herself. If Arthur had seemed unusually pensive or if his words had held the edge of warning, she told herself it must be the war. With what was to come in the next few days, the loss of her virginity before the wedding should be the least of her worries.

  But why had he talked about not coming back?

  She had to stop this. “There’s nothing wrong,” Anna said firmly. “I slept well.” Like the dead actually, for the four hours or so of sleep that she’d gotten.

  “It must have been quite a book.”

  This time there was no mistaking the dry tone in Mary’s voice.

  “It was,” Anna assured her, unable to hide her blush. Though she often read late in one of the mural chambers to avoid disturbing her sisters, Mary obviously had guessed the truth.

  They were following a little behind the rest of her family as they crossed the courtyard from the chapel to the Great Hall, where they would break their fast. Most of the men, however, were already out in the yard practicing. The clang of swords and cacophony of voices grew louder as they drew near. Reflexively, she scanned the mail-clad forms looking for …

  There. Her heart lurched just to see him. Arthur stood on the other side of the stables with his back toward her. It was near the place where they had the straw buttes set up, so she figured he must be practicing with his spear.

  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 breasts 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.

  Dugald leaned closer, studying the map with enough intensity to make the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck stand up.

  There was nothing identifying about the document. The handwriting was minimal, and as for the drawing … Dugald had never paid much attention to Arthur’s “scribblings,” except to make fun of them. He had nothing to fear. But still his brother’s interest made him uneasy.

  “Where did you get it?” Dugald asked.

  “It was taken off an enemy messenger my men intercepted a few weeks ago,” Lorn replied. “But from the accuracy of the numbers, I suspect there is a traitor in our midst.”

  Murmurs of outrage and anger buzzed across the room, which Arthur joined.

  “Unfortunately,” Lorn added, “the messenger was unable to identify him.”

  “How can you be sure, my lord?” Arthur asked.

  A knowing smile curved Lorn’s mouth. “I’m sure.”

  Meaning the messenger had been tortured.

  Lorn scanned the faces of the men around him—the inner circle of his command. “Keep your eyes out for anything unusual. I want this man found.” He flattened the map with the palm of his hand. “But his map has proved useful. I have a plan to beat the usurper at his own game.”

  Arthur stilled, trying not to show his excitement. Perhaps he was finally going to have something to report to the king.

  “What do you mean?” Alan asked.

  “I mean we are going to turn his tactics against him. Bruce has achieved victories against much larger forces by fighting battles on his terms—choosing the right place and terrain to attack, striking hard and fast from places of concealment, using the same kind of tactics used by our ancestors for generations. Highland warfare. I’ll be damned if I let a Lowlander beat me at my own kind of war.” He paused to a chorus of agreement. “We aren’t going to sit here and wait for him to lay siege to the castle as he expects; we’re going to attack him first.”

  Everyone started talking at once. Arthur forced himself not to jump into the fray, waiting to hear the rest. But he knew this was big—monumental, in fact. Lorn was right: the king wouldn’t be expecting an attack. Not with a fortress like Dunstaffnage to hole up in.

  Lorn quieted the room with a movement of his hand. “Hold your questions until I tell you the rest.” He edged the map forward on the table, enabling the men gathered in front of him to see it better. “Bruce and his men are coming from the east, following the road from Tyndrum.” He pointed to the far edge of the map. Arthur’s skin prickled, sensing something important. Lorn moved his finger along the road, stopping at the Pass of Brander. Arthur’s stomach sank with dread.

  “To reach Dunstaffnage they will have to cross through the mountains here. At the long narrow pass of Brander. This is where we will attack. We will position men here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to three high ridges above that would be nearly impossible to see due to curves in the road.

  Arthur bit back a curse as the room exploded in excitement. It was the perfect place from which to wage a surprise attack. The MacDougalls would surprise Bruce from above, descending on the marching army in a narrow gap where the king wouldn’t be able to take advantage of his superior numbers.

  “When?” Dugald asked the loudest.

  “Our reports put Bruce at Brander early on the fourteenth.”

  Treacherous bastard.

  The room fell quiet. “But the truce doesn’t expire until the fifteenth,” Alan said carefully.

  Lorn’s eyes narrowed. “It is the usurper who has chosen to ignore the code of warfare, not I. Bruce is marching on our lands. He is the one to break the truce.”

  A self-serving rationale if ever Arthur had heard one. But no one attempted to argue with him.

  “Alan,” Lorn continued, “you will leave with the main force of the army tomorrow and be in position by nightfall, just to be sure.”

  Arthur wasn’t surprised to hear that Alan would be in command. The steep gullies and demanding terrain would be difficult for even the younger warriors to navigate.

  “You will hold the castle, my lord?” he asked.

  Lorn shot him an angry glare. “My father will hold the castle,” he corrected. “I will take a fleet of galleys with the rest of the army and command from here.” He pointed to the place where the River Awe flowed into Loch Awe. “Thus, after we surprise them from above, we’ll attack from ahead as well.”

  Striking Bruce from two directions.

  It was a brilliant plan. Not only was it the perfect location from which to launch an attack, but by striking first—and before the truce expired—Lorn would have surprise on his side.

  A barrage of questions followed, but Arthur was already focused on the task ahead of him. He needed to warn the king as soon as possible, without alerting Lorn that his plan had been compromised.

  He would have to risk trying to get a message out tonight. Then, in the excitement and chaos preceding the attack, he would be able to slip away.

  For good.

  A knot fisted in his gut. The moment he’d dreaded, but knew was inevitable, had come. The time to say goodbye. The time when he was supposed to slip back into the shadows and disappear without a word. It was what he did. What he’d always known he would have to do. He just hadn’t expected it to be so damned hard.

  It felt cowardly to leave without explanation. To let her discover the truth on her own. He wanted to prepare her. To tell her he loved her and hadn’t meant to hurt her.

  To tell her he was sorry. To tell her he was hers if she still wanted him.

  But he couldn’t. He would ride out tomorrow, letting her think he was one man, and when he returned, it would be as another. She would hate him.

  Though he doubted there was a chance in hell for them, when it was all over he vowed to find her and try to explain. If she would listen.

  It can’t be true. It can’t be true. Anna refused to believe it. But she couldn’t shake the doubt that had wormed its way into her gut and wouldn’t let go. Her plea of illness had not been feigned. Doubt was twisting—festering—inside her, making her weak with it.

  All day long she’d sought the quiet refuge of her bedchamber, trying to convince herself that it wasn’t possible. That he couldn’t deceive her like that. But there were too many questions. Questions that couldn’t wait until morning. Tomorrow could be too late. Mary and Juliana had returned to their chamber a short while ago to inform her that the men were readying for war.

  War. Fear twisted in her chest, the need to find him taking on a desperate edge.

  Her gown was dusted with Squire’s hair and wrinkled from a day of lying on her bed, but she didn’t waste the time to change it. After splashing water on her face, rinsing her teeth, yanking a comb through her tangled hair, and asking her sisters to keep an eye on the puppy, she made her way to her father’s solar.

  Expecting to find the men locked up in their war council, she was disappointed to see the open door. The sound of voices, however, drew her inside.

  Her father stood beside Alan, leaning over a piece of parchment spread out on the table. He glanced up as she entered the roo
m. “Ah, Anna, you are feeling better?”

  “Aye, Father, much better.” She tried to hide her disappointment at finding them alone. Arthur must have already retired to the barracks for the night. What was she going to do? What excuse could she find for seeking him out this late?

  “Is there something you needed?” Alan asked, watching her with a concerned look on his face. His gaze dropped to her hands, which she realized were twisting in her skirts. “You seem upset about something.”

  If only he knew.

  Oh God, he should know. Her stomach sank, realizing she should tell them both her suspicions.

  But she couldn’t. Not until she was sure. Her father …

  It hurt her to admit that her father’s anger wasn’t always rational. She couldn’t be sure what he would do.

  But she had to tell them something. “It’s the war. Mary told me the men are readying to leave tomorrow.”

  “There’s no reason for you to worry, Anna. You, your mother, and sisters will be safe here.”

  “I don’t think that’s what she’s worried about, Father,” Alan said with a wry smile.

  He was right. Anxious to find Arthur, Anna started to back away. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” She glanced down at the parchment on the table. “You are obviously busy, I’ll leave you—”

  She stopped with a startled gasp. Her eyes landed on the piece of parchment. A piece of parchment she recognized. Although now that it was finished, it looked different. It no longer resembled a sketch. Now it looked like a map.

  A map. What did this mean? If Arthur had been drawing a map for her father, why wouldn’t he have said something?

  He’d been trying to hide it.

  Heart drumming with inexplicable dread, she took a few steps closer. Trying to control the quivering in her voice, she said, “That’s an interesting map.” Her throat was too dry, her words coming out in a rasp. “Where did you get it?”

  “Some of our men intercepted it off an enemy messenger,” Alan answered. He traced his finger over the finely etched lines. “It really is quite good. The detail is magnificent.”