The Ranger Read online

  “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.