The Ranger Read online

  “No one to dance with, brat?” he teased. “Should I order one of my men to partner you?”

  She laughed with delight, knowing exactly who it was. Though it had been a long time since she’d heard the teasing lilt in his voice. “Don’t you dare. I can find my own partners.” She pushed at his thick arm, trying to wriggle out of his bearlike hold. “Let go of me, you big oaf.”

  He set her feet back on the floor and spun her around to face him, a stern look on his face. “Big oaf? You need to show proper respect to your elders, little one.”

  “Did I say big oaf?” She batted her eyes innocently. “I meant Sir big oaf.”

  He chuckled, the same blue eyes as hers crinkling at the edges.

  Her heart swelled to see the smile on his face. It was the happiest she’d seen her brother since his wife had died giving birth to their third child, nearly a year ago.

  Though Alan was only ten years her senior, the recent months had aged him. The affection he’d borne for his wife was etched deeply in the lines on his face. His dark-blond hair had receded at the temples, and perhaps thinned a little on top, but he was still a handsome man. Especially when he smiled—which wasn’t often for the serious heir of Lorn and Argyll.

  He reached down and wriggled her nose between his thumb and forefinger the way he used to do when she was a child. “You were right, you know.”

  “What was that?” She put her hand to her ear. “It’s so loud I can’t hear you.”

  He shook his head. “Brat. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The feast. This is exactly what we needed.”

  She beamed. She couldn’t help it. Her brother’s opinion meant much to her. It always had. “You really think so?”

  He nodded. “I do.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Though not as tall as a certain young knight, Alan was a formidable man. Nearly six feet in height, he had the thick, bulky build of their father and grandfather. Ewen and Alastair, her two other brothers, were slimmer in stature.

  A shadow of sadness passed over her. Somhairle had been somewhere in between. Tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with lean muscle, he’d cut an impressive figure. The quintessential warrior. Not unlike Sir Arthur (why did she keep thinking of him?). But Somhairle, her second-eldest brother, had died fighting alongside Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk almost exactly ten years ago. He’d been twenty years old.

  Not wanting to spoil Alan’s rare good humor, she pushed aside the sad thoughts.

  “Where are all those men who’ve been flocking around you all night?” her brother asked with an overprotective gleam in his eye.

  She rolled her eyes. “If there were any, I’m sure they scattered when they saw you coming.”

  His mouth curved in a satisfied grin. “As well they should.”

  She harrumphed. “Thomas MacNab went to fetch me some wine; I’m sure he’ll return when you leave.”

  Alan folded his thick arms across his chest and frowned. “That pretty—” He stopped himself. “Any man who lacks courage to face one harmless brother …”

  She snorted. “Three overbearing brutes, you mean. I saw all of you glaring at him earlier.”

  He gave her a chastising look and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “… isn’t worthy of you. You want a man who will stand down dragons and crawl on his knees through the fires of hell to protect you.”

  Anna wrapped her arms around his broad chest and gave him a big squeeze. Alan didn’t understand her preference for a quiet, scholarly man like Thomas MacNab—who wouldn’t know what to do with a sword even if he could carry one—when an impressive knight like Sir Hugh Ross had wanted to marry her. “I thought that’s what I have you, Father, Alastair, and Ewen for.”

  He squeezed her back. “Aye, Annie-love, that you do.” He held her back to look at her. “Is there no one else but the tutor who interests you?”

  Without thinking, her gaze flickered to the back corner of the room, landing momentarily on Sir Arthur Campbell. It was long enough. Her observant brother took note. “Who were you looking at?”

  “No one,” she said quickly.

  Too quickly. Her brother’s eyes narrowed as he glanced in the direction where she’d looked. “Campbell?”

  Drat her fair skin! She could feel the flush creep up her cheeks.

  He looked surprised. “Sir Dugald? He’s a fine warrior.” He frowned. “A bit too popular with the lasses, though.”

  She wasn’t about to correct him. It didn’t matter. She was a bit attracted to Sir Arthur, that was all. His indifference had only tweaked her womanly vanity.

  “Careful, love. If he tries anything—”

  Anna scooted him away. “I know just who to call. Now, why don’t you go over there and ask Morag to dance. She’s been casting glances at you all night.”

  She expected an immediate refusal and was surprised to see instead a speculative glint in his eye.

  “She has?” His gaze settled on the pretty young widow. He didn’t say anything more, but the flicker of interest gave Anna hope that her brother’s coma-like existence might be at an end. He’d mourned his wife deeply. Though his sadness was a testament to his love for her, he had not died with her.

  She looked over the crowd for Thomas and held out at least another thirty seconds before glancing back toward the corner. She was just in time to see three young clanswomen—who happened to be pretty, buxom, and the most notorious flirts in the castle—approach the Campbells’ table.

  Anna’s fingers clenched the soft velvet of her skirts. She felt a spike of something vaguely resembling irritation. Extreme irritation. It didn’t help that she knew it was irrational. Of course the girls were interested in them. Why shouldn’t they be? The newcomers were knights, handsome, and as far as Anna knew, unmarried. An irresistible combination to any young unmarried lass.

  Nor was she surprised when the girls were quickly welcomed to join them. But when one of the women—Christian, the lovely raven-haired, blue-eyed daughter of her father’s henchman—sat beside Sir Arthur, Anna’s spine stiffened. The room seemed to grow even warmer. A hot flush rose to her cheeks, and her heartbeat took a sudden erratic jump. She told herself it was none of her business, but she couldn’t force herself to look away.

  She needn’t have worried. After a few flirtatious advances went unappreciated—including coquettish smiles and a not-so-subtle dip forward to give Sir Arthur a good view of her ample bosom—Christian gave up and turned her attention to one of his companions.

  Though Anna was more relieved than she wanted to admit, something about the interaction made her frown. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe Sir Arthur hadn’t meant to be rude, but was simply gruff like her father. Or shy around women, like her brother Ewen?

  As much as she wanted to convince herself that was it—so she could forget about him—she couldn’t. Earlier he hadn’t acted shy at all. Actually he’d acted annoyed. A little angry, even. As if she were bothering him. Like a midge in summer or a recalcitrant pup under his heels.

  She had slammed into him, of course, but it was an accident. And he certainly looked strong enough to weather a little jostling from a woman. Lord, he looked as if he could weather a blow from a sledgehammer!

  She might not have noticed his size at first, but she was noticing now. Despite the loose, bulky fit of his wool tunic and relaxed posture, the man was built like a rock. All tight, steely hard muscle. Why, he’d barely even moved when she’d come barreling into him.

  And when he’d held her in his arms, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of safety and security. As if nothing could possibly harm her with this big, powerful man holding her.

  Before he dropped her, that is.

  He pushed back from the table and bent over to say something to his brother Sir Dugald.

  Her heart took a strange jump when Sir Arthur started to walk toward the door. He was leaving. Leaving! But it wasn’t even dark yet. The feast would go on for hours.