“I’m not,” she said. “I trust you.”
Arthur’s chest tightened to a burn. He wanted to warn her not to—that he didn’t deserve it, that he would only hurt her, that she gave her heart too easily, too blindly—but instead he nodded, and they started back toward camp.
He led her up the path from the burn. When they reached the edge of camp, she gave him a sidelong look out of the corner of her eye. “My uncle looked as if he recognized you.”
The observation caught him completely off guard. Something for which she seemed to have a particular talent. His step faltered. Not much, but he feared she’d noticed.
“Are you sure it was your uncle? It was dark. I couldn’t see him clearly behind the nasal helm, and he was much closer to me.”
Her nose wrinkled, the adorableness of the movement at odds with the threat she posed.
“I haven’t seen him in a number of years, but I’m fairly certain it was him. His eyes are”—she shivered—“unforgettable.” If he’d hoped to distract her from her original question, it didn’t work. “But he seemed to recognize you.”
“Did he?” he shrugged. “We may have crossed paths once before.”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. But unfortunately, she did not allow the subject to drop. “So you don’t know him?”
He fought the instinctive flare of alarm. “Not personally.”
“He seemed upset to see you.”
The rapid fire of his heartbeat belied his outward calm. She was dangerously perceptive and treading too damned close to the truth.
“Upset? From what I know of Lachlan MacRuairi he’s an evil, foul-tempered bast—” He stopped himself, remembering his audience. “He was probably angry that I’d killed so many of his men.”
She seemed to accept his explanation, but her next question told him she was not satisfied. “Why did they retreat?”
He swore to himself, the flare of alarm growing louder. “As I said, your brother’s men had broken through. They were outnumbered.”
She frowned. “It didn’t seem that way. It seemed like they were winning.”
He forced a wry smile to his mouth. “Your brother was in danger,” he reminded her. “I think you were distracted.”
She looked up at him and gave him a half-smile. “Perhaps you are right. I was focused on my brother. I’ve yet to thank you for what you did.” A shadow crossed her face. “If you hadn’t stopped that man—”
“Don’t think about it, Anna; it’s over.”
She nodded and gave him another sidelong glance. “Nevertheless I am grateful. Alan is, too, even if he has an odd way of showing it.”
MacDougall was making no secret of his interest. Arthur had felt his eyes on them the entire time. He met his gaze and knew the “discussion” of the day before was not finished. “He has a right to his anger, Anna. What I did was wrong. All I can do is promise that it will never happen again.”
Her sharp intake of breath was like a stab to his chest. She looked shocked. Bewildered. As if she’d been expecting something else. “But—”
“They’re waiting for us,” he said to cut her off, indicating the men readying the horses. He couldn’t take another conversation like yesterday’s. “It’s time to go.”
He spoke the words to himself as much as to her.
Blind spot. Weak spot. No matter what he called it, his feelings where Anna was concerned had become a liability.
He’d let her get too close, and now his cover and his mission were hanging by a thread. Time was running out.
Eighteen
Two uneventful days later Anna rode through the gate of Dunstaffnage Castle. One of the guardsmen had ridden ahead, so they were expected. She could tell by the barely concealed anger on her father’s face that he knew their journey had ended in failure.
She’d hoped for a good night of sleep before having to face her father’s questions, but the lateness of the hour did not forestall their report. She and Alan barely had time to wash the dirt from their hands and eat a small meal before they were ushered into the lord’s solar.
He stood in the middle of the room with his hands clasped behind his back, the important members of his meinie flanked behind him. From their universally grim expressions, Anna felt as if she’d just walked into a burial cairn. As no one was seated, she and Alan came to an awkward stop before him. She felt not unlike a child called to answer for some egregious prank gone wrong.
The door had barely closed behind them before her father spoke. Attacked, really. “Ross refused.”
It wasn’t a question. Hearing the accusation in his voice, she wanted to explain, but it was not her place.
Alan answered for them. “Aye. Ross’s response to our request for an alliance was the same as before. He said Bruce would be marching toward him as well, and he couldn’t spare any more men.”
“But what about the betrothal? Did that not change his mind?”
Anna felt the men’s eyes on her, sending a flood of heat to her cheeks. She kept her eyes downcast, not wanting her father to see her shame. Whether it would have made a difference or not, she’d failed in the task he’d set before her. She couldn’t bear to see his disappointment.
“There is no betrothal,” Alan explained. “It was agreed they did not suit.”
She hoped she was the only one to detect Alan’s carefully worded response.
“You mean he did not forgive you for refusing him the first time,” her father snapped at her.
She ventured a glance in his direction, seeing the fury on his face. Her heart lurched. It wasn’t good for him to be so upset. She wanted to say something but knew he’d be even more furious to be treated like an invalid before his men.
Anna didn’t know what to say. She didn’t want to lie to him, but neither could she tell him the truth.
“I …” she stumbled.
“Well,” her father said impatiently. “I thought you were going to persuade him.”
Her cheeks burned with shame. “I tried, but I’m afraid he, um, sensed that my feelings might have been engaged elsewhere.”
“What do you mean, ‘engaged elsewhere’?” Her father’s eyes narrowed, piercing like arrows. He knew there was something she wasn’t telling him. “Campbell,” he said flatly, answering his own question. He swore, his gaze unrelenting. “And how would he sense this? What did you do?”
She’d never seen her father so angry with her. For the first time, Anna was frightened by his rage. That she deserved it made it no less devastating.
What could she say?
Thankfully, Alan took pity on her. “The betrothal would not have mattered. Ross had already made up his mind. I’m afraid you have not heard the worst of it.”
Anna braced herself for her father’s reaction. She feared it could throw him into another fit of apoplexy.
Alan apparently decided that the truth was better not measured, but given in one unpleasant dose. “Ross is considering submission.”
Her father didn’t say a word. But like a slow-moving wave on the horizon careening toward shore, she watched the anger build to a frightening crescendo ready to crash. His fists clenched at his side, his face turned beet red, veins bulging at his brow, and his eyes blazed like the pits of hellfire.
She took a step toward him, but Alan put his hand out to stop her. He shook his head in warning.
When her father finally spoke, it was to utter a string of curses that would have put her mother on her knees doing penance for his blasphemous soul for weeks. He stormed around the small solar like a lion in a cage—even his men stood back and gave him plenty of room to rampage.
“Ross is a bloody fool,” he blasted angrily. “Bruce will never forgive him for what he’s done to the women. His sister and the countess were hung in a cage, for God’s sake. If he submits, he is signing his own writ of execution.” He paused long enough to bang the side of his fist on the table. “How can he think of bowing to that traitorous murderer? He cut down my kins
man before an altar.”
Anna didn’t dare point out that the sanctity of the church hardly seemed to matter to Ross. After all, he’d violated sanctuary to capture Bruce’s womenfolk.
Alan tried to calm him down. “The people are behind Bruce. He’s incited a patriotic fervor in the countryside not seen since Wallace. They think he is the savior, the second coming of King Arthur, who has freed them from the yoke of English tyranny. Ross is thinking of his people and the future of his clan. He is thinking of what’s best for Scotland.”
Anna tried to hide her shock. Fortunately her father was too angry to hear what he’d really said. But she’d heard the admonition in her brother’s voice, even if her father had not.
Did Alan agree with Ross? Did he believe Bruce was the best choice for Scotland? Dear Lord, what if her father was wrong?
Anna couldn’t believe she’d allowed the disloyal thought to take form. But the MacDougalls, once fervent patriots, had turned to the English rather than see Bruce take the throne. Was that what was best for Scotland?
“I will die before I see that murderer on the throne,” her father said, the rage in his eyes no longer burning, but cold as ice.
Anna felt much relief when she heard the unanimous murmurs of hearty agreement by his men. Her father knew what he was doing. He was one of the greatest men in Scotland. He had his faults, of course—what great man did not? But he would see them through.
Having reported on the most important part of their journey, Alan began to tell her father the rest, giving a short account of the trouble that had befallen them on the road.
He listened with growing concern, visibly paling when he heard of his heir’s near escape from death—twice. His eyes narrowed when Alan reported Anna’s suspicion of MacRuairi’s involvement, and then gleamed with excitement when he realized the connection with Bruce’s mysterious phantom guard.
“Good work,” he said to Anna, who beamed under the praise.
Alan gave Arthur’s version of the retreat, but it seemed to cause her father some trouble as well.
Finally, he came forward and took her hand. “You were not harmed, daughter?”
She shook her head, and he folded her in his big, bearish embrace, his anger seemingly forgotten.
For a moment, Anna felt like a child again, and the urge to cry out her sorrow all over the front of his finely embroidered tunic took hold. Arthur was still set against her. The attack had changed nothing. If anything, it had made it worse. She’d hoped that after their talk he might have changed his mind. He cared for her, but something was holding him back.
Two days on the road had given her no new insights. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something about the attack wasn’t right. Nor could she shake the niggle of unease that he was hiding something.
Her father pulled back to look at her. “You’re tired. I will hear the rest in the morning.”
She nodded, relieved that the worst was over.
Or so she thought.
“And Alan,” he said to her brother. “Have Campbell and his brother join us.” He gave her a look that sent a shiver of trepidation slithering down her spine. “It seems Sir Arthur has much to answer for.”
Arthur was prepared for the summons when it came. He wasn’t, however, expecting it to include his brother.
“What the hell did you do?” Dugald asked suspiciously, as they made their way across the barmkin to the donjon tower. “Why is Lorn so anxious to see you?”
Arthur climbed up the stairs beside his brother, the steel of their mail and weaponry clanking as they walked. “I suspect he has questions about the men who attacked us.”
“And what would you know about them?”
“Nothing,” he said, pulling open the large wooden entry door to the tower.
“What do I have to do with any of this?”
Arthur glanced at Dugald. His brother’s expression showed the bitterness they both were feeling. Dugald didn’t like being called to Lorn’s presence any more than he did. Even if he and his brother were on opposite sides of the war, at least they could agree on their hatred of Lorn.
“Hell if I know,” Arthur said, the uncertainty giving him a prickle of unease. A guard knocked on the door to announce their arrival. When they were bid to enter, Arthur turned and said, “But we’re about to find out.”
He quickly scanned the occupants of the room: Lorn, sitting like a king in a big thronelike chair, his expression unreadable; Alan MacDougall standing to the side against the wall, looking mildly puzzled; and Anna sitting on a bench before the fire, looking extremely anxious. Except for the solitary guard who’d admitted them and then left at Lorn’s order, no other members of his meinie were present.
Whatever this was about, it was personal.
The prickle of unease turned to a full-fledged stab.
Lorn, the imperious bastard, didn’t invite them to sit, so they stood opposite him. The black hatred that gripped Arthur whenever he came face-to-face with the man who’d murdered his father had not lessened with repetition. He schooled his features into blank repose, but the fire burning in his chest and the urge to stick a dirk in Lorn’s black heart were far more difficult to control.
“You wished to see us, my lord,” Dugald said, his tone in no way deferential.
Lorn took his time lowering the quill in his hand, and then eased back in his chair to look at them. He drummed his fingertips together on the table. When he replied, it wasn’t to Dugald but to Arthur. “I hear you had an eventful journey.”
Something in his tone set off warning bells in the back of Arthur’s head. He had to fight the urge to look at Anna. What had she told him?
“Aye,” Arthur said. “We were fortunate to evade the first band of brigands, but not the second. We sent them scurrying soon enough.”
Lorn gave him a long stare that set every nerve ending on edge. “So I hear. My son has had nothing to say but praise for your fighting prowess. He said he’s never seen the like.” Dugald turned sharply to Arthur, a frown on his face. “I must admit,” Lorn added, “I was surprised to hear him describe it.” He smiled, but there was no amusement in his cold, assessing gaze. “I wonder that we’ve not seen this from you before.”
Lorn’s gaze flickered to Dugald, gauging his reaction. His brother’s frown, unfortunately, had only deepened.
“Sir Alan is most generous with his praise, my lord.”
Alan stepped forward, clearly objecting to his father’s line of questioning. “Sir Arthur was instrumental in defeating the rebels, Father, and in saving my life. We owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“Yes, of course,” Lorn said. “I am most grateful. But I wonder,” he paused, tapping one finger on the table. “I wonder if you could shed some light on the rest of the attack.”
“Of course,” Arthur said, not liking where this was going. Lorn was a devious bastard, a man who liked to keep those around him on edge. But was he suspicious? It was hard to tell.
“My daughter believes she identified my former brother-in-law, Lachlan MacRuairi, as one of the scourge, and that he might be one of these secret warriors that we’ve heard so much about.”
“I’ve crossed paths with the man once or twice, but don’t know him well enough to say one way or the other. If Lady Anna has doubts, I’m afraid I can’t help.”
Arthur was walking a fine line. Too adamant a denial would rouse suspicion, but he wanted to keep the seed of doubt planted in Lorn’s mind.
Lorn’s face hardened, his hatred of his former brother by marriage evident. “MacRuairi is a treacherous snake—a cold-blooded killer who’d sell his mother for a piece of silver, but there is one thing he doesn’t do, and that is give up. I’ve never seen him retreat from a battle.”
Bàs roimh Gèill. Death before Surrender. Part of the Highland Guard creed. But it was damned unfortunate that it had given Lorn something to sink his teeth into.
That thin line Arthur was treading had just become narrower.
He shrugged noncommittally. “Then perhaps it was not him?”
Lorn’s gaze landed back on his daughter. Anna’s eyes darted to him before she answered. “I can’t be sure, Father. It was very dark. I only saw his face clearly for an instant, and I haven’t seen him in years.”
Arthur felt his chest tighten. She was trying to protect him. Had Lorn realized it as well?
Dugald had grown impatient. “Was there something you needed from me, my lord?”
In other words, why the hell was he here? A question Arthur was interested in as well.
“I’m getting to that.”
Lorn was tapping his fingers again, and Arthur had visions of taking his war hammer and putting an end to the annoyance.
“I’m not sure whether you were aware of the purpose of the journey north to Ross,” he said to Dugald. “It was to renew discussions of a betrothal between my daughter and Sir Hugh Ross, in the hopes that an alliance between us would encourage the earl to send troops to aid in the war against Bruce. Unfortunately, it didn’t quite go as planned.”
Dugald shot Arthur a sideways glare. “It didn’t?”
“Nay.” Lorn’s gaze fell back on him. “It seems Sir Hugh became aware that my daughter’s affections lay elsewhere. Do you have any knowledge of this, Sir Arthur?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Anna pale, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
What the hell had she told him?
He gritted his teeth together, feeling backed into a corner with little room to maneuver. “Aye.”
“I thought you might,” Lorn said.
The flash of anger in his gaze told Arthur that he’d probably guessed some of what had happened. He waited tensely, bracing himself for what was to come. The noose drew tighter.
Lorn turned back to Dugald. His brother’s reason for being here had become clear. “With all that has happened, I would like to propose a different alliance. One that would solidify the bond between our families and show my gratitude to Sir Arthur for the service he has done my son, as well as see to my daughter’s happiness.”