He gave her a hard shove, pushing her behind the nearest tree moments before the soft whiz of arrows pierced the night air. The arrow meant for the lass landed with a thud in the tree that now shielded her, but another had found its mark. Her guardsman groaned as a perfectly shot arrow pierced through his mail shirt to settle in his gut.
Arthur barely had time to react. He turned his shoulder at the last moment as the arrow meant for his heart pinned his shoulder instead. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed the shaft and snapped it off. He didn't think the arrowhead had penetrated deeply, but he didn't want to risk trying to pull it out right now.
Bruce's men thought he was one of the couriers. An understandable mistake, but one that put him in the horrible predicament of battling his compatriots to defend himself or betray his cover.
He could still get away.
Maybe they would realize it was a lass? But he couldn't make himself believe it. If he left, she would die.
Arthur barely had time to process the thought, for in the next moment all hell broke loose. Bruce's men were on them, bursting out of the darkness like demons from hell. The lady's guardsman, still staggering from the arrow, took a spear in the side and a battle-axe in the head. He toppled to the ground like a big oak tree, landing with a heavy thud.
Arthur heard a startled cry behind him and, anticipating the impulse, blocked the lass's path before she could rush forward to help the fallen soldier. He was past help.
But one of Bruce's men must have caught the movement.
Arthur's next move was nothing but instinct. It was too fast to be anything else. A spear hurtled through the air, heading straight for her. He didn't think, he reacted. Reaching up, he snatched the spear in his hand midair, catching it only a few feet from her head. In one swift movement he brought it down across his knee and snapped it in two, tossing the splintered pieces to the ground.
He heard her startled gasp but didn't dare take his eyes from the score of men rushing toward him. "Get behind the damned tree," he shouted angrily, before turning to block a blow of a sword from the right. The man left him an opening, which Arthur didn't take.
He swore, fending off another. What the hell should he do? Reveal himself? Would they believe him? He could fight his way out, but there was the lass to consider ...
A moment later the decision was taken from him.
A man's voice rang out from the trees, "Hold!" The warriors seemed confused but immediately did as the newcomer bid, stopping in their tracks. Seconds later, a familiar figure stepped out of the shadows. "Ranger, what in the hell are you doing here?"
Shaking his head with disbelief, Arthur stepped forward to greet the black-clad warrior who'd emerged from the trees. Gregor MacGregor. That certainly explained the perfect arrow shot he'd noticed earlier. MacGregor was the best archer in the Highlands, giving proof to thenom de guerreof "Arrow" chosen by Bruce to protect his identity as a member of the Highland Guard.
Arthur wasn't sure whether or not he should be grateful to see his former enemy turned Highland Guard partner, and at one time, the closest thing he had to a friend. That had changed when Arthur had been forced to leave the Highland Guard over a year and a half ago. At the time, none of his fellow guardsmen--including MacGregor--had known the truth. When they'd heard he'd joined with the enemy they'd thought him a traitor. Though they'd eventually learned the truth, his role had kept him apart.
They clasped forearms, and despite his initial hesitation, Arthur found himself grinning beneath his helm. Damn, itwasgood to see him. "I see that no one's messed up that pretty face of yours yet," he said, knowing how much MacGregor's renowned good looks bothered him.
MacGregor laughed. "They're working on it. It's damned good to see you. But what are you doing here? You're lucky I saw you catch that spear."
Arthur had once saved MacGregor's life doing the same thing. It wasn't as difficult as it looked--if you could get past the fear. Most couldn't.
"Sorry about the arrow," MacGregor said, pointing toward Arthur's left shoulder where blood was oozing from around the splintered staff, an inch of which was still protruding from his arm.
Arthur shrugged. "It's nothing." He'd had worse.
"You know this traitor, Captain?" one of the men asked.
"Aye," MacGregor said, before Arthur could caution him. "And he's no traitor. He's one of ours."
Damn. The lass. He'd forgotten about the lass. Any hope that she might not have heard MacGregor or grasped the significance was dashed when he heard her sharp intake of breath.
MacGregor heard it, too. He reached for his bow, but Arthur shook him off.
"It's safe," he said. "You can come out now, lass."
"Lass?" MacGregor swore under his breath. "So that's what this is about."
The woman moved out from behind the tree. When Arthur reached to take her elbow, she stiffened as if his touch offended. Aye, she'd heard all right.
Her hood had slid back in the chaos, revealing long, shimmering locks of golden-brown hair falling in thick, heavy waves down her back. The sheer beauty of it seemed so out of place, it temporarily startled him. And when a sliver of moonlight fell upon her face, Arthur's breath caught in a hard, fierce jolt.
Christ, she was lovely. Her tiny heart-shaped face was dominated by large, heavily lashed eyes. Her nose was small and slightly turned, her chin pointed, and her brows softly arched. Her lips were a perfectly shaped pink bow and her skin ... her skin was as smooth and velvety as cream. She had that sweet, vulnerable look of a small, fluffy animal--a kitten or a rabbit, perhaps.
The innocent breath of femininity was not what he was expecting and seemed utterly incongruous in the midst of war.
