"Nay, because I think it's just the opposite, and I wonder why he's going to such an effort to pretend otherwise."
Anna thought her father seriously misread the situation, but she didn't bother arguing. Like most fathers, he thought it inconceivable that any man would reject one of his beloved daughters. "Perhaps it's the old feud," she suggested. "His father died in battle with our clan, didn't he?"
A strange look crossed his face, before he gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Aye, many years ago. That could be some of it, but I don't think all of it. Something about the lad bothers me. I can't put my finger on it, but I want you to keep an eye on him. Just for a while. It's probably nothing, but with the truce coming to an end, I don't want to take any chances. But neither can I afford to give offense. The Campbells are formidable warriors and I need all the men I can get."
Her stomach dropped. It was as she'd feared. After their conversation earlier, the last thing she wanted to do was keep an eye on Sir Arthur Campbell. "Father, he has made it clear--"
"He's made nothing clear," he snapped. "You are wrong about Campbell's interest in you." Then in a milder voice, he added, "I'm not asking you to seduce the man, just watch him." He gave her a hard look. "I do not understand this reluctance. I thought you wished to help. I thought I could count on you."
Chastened, she said hurriedly, "You can."
His eyes narrowed. "Did something happen you are not telling me about? Did he touch you--"
"Nay," she insisted. "I told you everything. Of course I will do as you bid. I was just suggesting it might not be easy."
Whatever qualms she had paled in comparison to her vow to do whatever she could to see an end to the war and a victory for the MacDougalls. Even if it meant pursuing a man who did not want to be pursued. Even if it meant her pride was about to take a severe lashing.
Her father smiled. "I think it will be much easier than you imagine."
She hoped he was right, but she suspected there wasn't anything simple about Sir Arthur Campbell.
Five
Arthur had almost made it. The gate wasn't fifty feet away. Another minute and he would have been riding out on his way to gathering more information for Bruce.
"Sir Arthur!"
The soft, sweet feminine voice made every muscle in his body tense.Not again. He eyed the distance to the gate. He wondered if he could run for it.
Already he could hear the men around him start to snicker as the achingly--and he meant achingly, even his teeth had begun to hurt--familiar face appeared at his side.
She was smiling. She wasalwayssmiling. Why the hell did she have to smile so much? And why did it have to light up her entire face, from the soft curve of her too-pink lips to the bright twinkle in her deep-blue eyes? If he were prone to ruminating like a lovesick bard about poetic allusions to eye color, he would say they were like dark sapphires. But he had a hell of a lot more important things to do, so they were dark blue.
Sapphires ...
He jerked his gaze away. He should have kept his eyes on her face, but he made the mistake of dropping his gaze and had to smother a grunt of pain. The persistent throb between his legs jerked hard. A state to which he was growing painfully accustomed.
One look at her gown and he felt like dropping to his knees and begging God for mercy.
Was she trying to kill him?
Probably. Her flirting and increasingly bold overtures were getting harder to ignore. Seeking him out at meals, insisting on helping the healer when he'd taken a blow on the arm from a sword a few days ago (he'd been distracted, damn it, by her flouncing around the garden, laughing with her sisters), showing up at the stable at the same time he was due to ride out in the morning, and now this. Her sunny yellow satin surcote was fitted tight in all the wrong places. He didn't know how she could breathe; it clung to her chest and slim waist as if she'd dampened it in the loch.
But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was how low the square neckline dipped on her chest. Her ample--mouthwateringly, prodigiously ample--chest.
Christ's bones, he couldn't take his eyes off the soft, pale flesh swelling--nay, spilling--over the bodice.Ripeandlushwere two words that came to mind. But that didn't even begin to describe the perfection of her magnificent breasts.
He'd just about chop off his left arm to see them naked. And he was having a damned hard time doing anything but imagining how they would look. How they would taste. How they would bounce when ...
Ah, hell. He jerked his gaze away. His body was on fire under his armor. From lust, aye, but also from an irrational flare of anger. If she were his, he'd keep her locked up in his room for a week for wearing that gown in public.Afterhe ripped it off her and burned it.
He couldn't remember the last time a woman had gotten him so ... bothered.
Unaware of his violent thoughts, she gazed up at him eagerly. "I'm so glad I caught you," she said, her breath coming in short gasps. Gasps that made him think of swiving. Hell, just about everything she did made him think of swiving.
She must have sprinted from the tower when she saw him ride out from the stable. It wasn't the first time. He'd been wrong about discouraging her the night of the feast. Dead wrong. If anything, she'd only redoubled her efforts since then.
He'd been living on edge all week, never knowing when she would show up. It seemed wherever he went, she was there. His brothers and the other men thought it was hilarious.
