The Ranger Read online

  Anna said goodbye to the children, promising to return soon. Robby had brought the horses, and it wasn’t long before they were on their way.

  She knew she should try to use the opportunity to learn more about him, but she was tired from her long day at the village, and, if she were truthful, not in the mood to be rejected.

  That strange moment at Beth’s had made her feel … vulnerable. She didn’t want to think of him that way. She didn’t want her heart to wander. She was merely keeping an eye on him for her father, not pursuing him in truth.

  They rode single-file for the first few miles, but when the road widened, Sir Arthur dropped back from his position in the lead and pulled alongside her.

  She was surprised when he spoke. Initiating conversation? This was a first.

  “Why do you do it?” She looked at him uncertainly, and he explained, “Surround yourself with such …” He struggled to find the word. “Things.”

  “You mean the fruits of war?” she challenged.

  She wasn’t surprised that he didn’t know how to speak of what he’d seen. Warriors focused on the glory, on the honor of the battlefield, not on what happened when it went wrong. Missing limbs and fatherless children weren’t something a man wanted to go into battle thinking about. She understood blocking out such thoughts was necessary, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t the reality.

  “I thought you didn’t like it, yet …” He shrugged.

  “I hate war,” she said harshly. “And I can’t wait for it to be over, but it doesn’t mean I don’t want to do my part. This is what I can do. If a few songs and stories, or holding a child for a while so her mother can have a moment of peace, bring a few moments of cheer, then that’s what I’ll do.”

  He gave her a hard, assessing look. “You have a soft heart.” It didn’t sound as if he thought that was a good thing. “The soldier was not deserving of your time. He’s killing himself with drink.”

  She heard the disgust in his voice. She suspected he thought the man weak. “Perhaps,” she admitted. “But Malcolm fought for my father with honor and loyalty for years. Does he not deserve a few moments of my time for his sacrifice?”

  “It’s his duty.”

  “As this is mine.”

  “You make it your duty.”

  This time it was she who shrugged.

  He frowned at her again. “You’re exhausted.”

  She realized she must be getting used to those forbidding looks, because she merely laughed. “I am.”

  “What were you and your friend whispering about?”

  The sudden change of topic caught her off guard. She startled but composed herself quickly. “Women’s things.”

  “What kind of women’s things?”

  Her eyes twinkled as she gave him a pointed look. “Do you really want to know?” she dared.

  He turned away quickly. “Perhaps not.”

  My God, he’s blushing! She hadn’t thought it possible. But the tiny chip in his steely facade only added to his appeal. It was charming. He was charming. Not in the gallant, sweep-her-off-her-feet manner of a courtier, but in a far more subtle way. It was as if he’d just lifted the curtain a little and shown her a part of himself that he did not often reveal. The hint of boyishness was so unexpected, and that charmed her.

  The knot in her chest clenched a little tighter.

  Anna knew she was in trouble. Sir Arthur intrigued her, and that was dangerous. It was better to think of him as just a simple warrior, the type of man she could understand—and dismiss. She didn’t want to learn things about him. She didn’t want to see a different side of him. She didn’t want to be curious. And she didn’t want to be so blasted attracted to him.

  She had her life all planned out. When the war was over, her father would find her a good man to marry. They would have a house full of children, hopefully in the Highlands close to her family, and they would live a life of peace and happy quiet. She wouldn’t need to worry about everything she knew, everything she loved, being destroyed. Stability. That was what she wanted.

  He might have surprised her, but it didn’t change one fundamental problem: Sir Arthur was a warrior. A man who looked like he’d been born with a sword in his hand—and would die the same way. He could never give her what she wanted.

  For Anna knew that a man who was always looking at the door as though he wanted to leave would inevitably walk through it.

  Arthur didn’t like what he was learning about Anna MacDougall. It was far easier to dismiss her as a naive, pampered princess, living in a fantasy world, with little understanding of what was going on around her.

  But that wasn’t the case at all. She knew what was happening around her, maybe even better than he did. Like most warriors, Arthur distanced himself from the repercussions of war. He didn’t want to think about what happened afterward. Seeing war through her eyes …

  The death. The devastation. Men without limbs dulling the pain with drink. Women left to fend for themselves. Children without fathers. The reality.

  He frowned. How many times had he passed by these things and not seen them? Ridden by a burned-out castle or farm and never thought about the people who lived there?

  He’d been fighting almost his entire life, but all of a sudden he felt exhausted.

  “Why don’t you like me?”

  The directness of the question disarmed him—though perhaps it shouldn’t have. Anna didn’t shy away from anything. Open and outgoing, she spoke her mind with the confidence that came only from a lifetime of being loved, cherished, and encouraged. It was one of the things that was so unusual—and so entrancing—about her.

  He hesitated, not sure how to respond. “I don’t dislike you.” From her expression he could tell that she didn’t believe him. “It’s as I told you before, I’m here to do a job. I don’t have time for anything else.”

  “Is it because of the feud?”

  He tensed, not liking where this was going. This wasn’t a conversation he wanted to have with anybody—especially not her. “The feud has been over for many years.”

  “So it’s all in the past? You aren’t angry about your land or the castle on Loch Awe.”

  He checked the reflexive surge in his pulse. He was angry. But not at her. “That land would have belonged to my brother Neil—not me. It would have been forfeit after Methven. King Edward recompensed us for the loss and has rewarded my brothers and myself for our loyalty.”

  “Then is it because of your father?”

  He stilled. Christ. It must be a MacDougall trait to instinctively aim for the gullet. Though intended kindly, her words eviscerated. “My father died in battle.”

  “At my father’s hand,” she said quietly. “It would be understandable if you hated me for it.”

  He wished he could. But Anna was not to blame for the sins of her father. “I don’t hate you.” Far from it. He wanted her. More than he’d ever wanted a woman in his life. “What happened is in the past.”

  He could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his face straight ahead. “Why are you really here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do you want?”

  Justice. Revenge. In this case, they were the same thing. “What most knights fight for: land and reward.”

  In his case, Bruce had promised to restore Innis Chonnel to his brother and had dangled the promise of a rich bride for Arthur—the richest in the Highlands, Christina MacRuairi, Lady of the Isles.

  “And nothing else?”

  “An end to the war.”

  “Then we want the same thing.”

  She didn’t know how wrong she was. An end to the war for him would see Bruce on the throne and the MacDougalls destroyed.

  He gave her a sidelong glance. She was so beautiful she made his chest hurt. But that beauty had deceived him. He’d seen the innocent freshness of her face and sweetness of her smile, but not the strength. For a man who prided himself on perception and observation, it was disconcerting to have b