She lowered her gaze and took a step back.
He felt it again. That strange compulsion that he'd experienced at the church. The inability to let her walk away.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, trying to fight the urge, to calm the sudden restlessness teeming inside him. It didn't work.
Ah, hell. He reached out. "Wait," he said, grabbing her arm.
She stiffened at his touch, not looking at him, color still high on her cheeks.
He dropped his hand.
When he didn't say anything, she finally lifted her chin and tilted her face slightly toward him. He wished the soft candlelight had hid the quiver in her chin.
"Yes?" she asked.
Their eyes met, and Arthur cursed himself for a bloody fool. What the hell had he thought to say?I'm flattered, but it would never work; I'm here to destroy your father. Or how about,I can't dance with you because I'm afraid you might realize I'm the spy for Bruce who saved you at the church.
She eyed him expectantly.
"I have a job to do," he blurted, feeling like an idiot. He didn't blurt anything. And why the hell was he explaining himself?
He sensed her scrutiny, felt the penetration of her gaze, and had the uncomfortable suspicion that she was seeing far more than he wanted her to.
"And nothing more," she filled in.
He shrugged. "I've little time for anything else."
A wry smile turned her mouth. "Are knights not permitted one day of entertainment and fun?"
Her response was lighthearted; his was not. "Nay. Not me, at least. Not with war on the horizon."
He almost regretted his honesty when he saw the flash of alarm in her too-expressive big, blue eyes. It was clear the harsh reality of her father's situation was not something she wanted to think about. Could she really be that naive, or was she living in some kind of fantasy world? A world of feasts and celebrations, happily ensconced in the bosom of her family, while war reigned in chaos beyond their gates.
His words had succeeded in doing what he'd wanted to do from the first. When she looked at him again, he didn't detect even a hint of feminine interest in her gaze. She was looking at him as if he were any other warrior who'd come to serve her father. He hadn't realized how differently she'd been looking at him until the look was gone.
"Your devotion to your duty is to be commended. I'm sure my father is fortunate to have a knight like you in his service."
Arthur felt like laughing. If she only knew. Fortune was the last thing he would bring John of Lorn.
He wasn't a knight, he was only playing one. He was a Highlander. The only code he lived by was win. Kill or be killed.
Suddenly, an older, plumper version of her sister Lady Mary appeared at her side.
"There you are, darling. I've been looking for you everywhere."
"What is it, Mother?"
The note of worry in Anna's voice bothered him. She shouldn't be upset.
"The men are talking about that horrible Robert Bruce again." The still-beautiful older woman twisted her hands anxiously. "Your father is getting angry." Fear crept into her voice. "You need to do something."
Anna muttered something under her breath that sounded like "St. Columba's bones." When a frown gathered between her mother's eyes, in an expression distinctly like her daughter's, Arthur realized he'd heard her right. "Don't worry," Anna said, giving her mother's hands a pat. "I'll take care of it."
He suspected she took care of quite a lot.
Her mother glanced over at him, seeming to realize she'd interrupted. She flashed him an apologetic grin. "I'm sorry, sir, you'll have to wait for the next dance."
There wasn't a hint of embarrassed color in Anna's cheeks when her gaze slid over him. "There is no dance," she said firmly. "Sir Arthur was just leaving."
