He could only stare in stunned silence as MacGregor--the whoreson--stepped forward, peeled off his nasal helm, and gallantly bowed over her hand.
"My apologies, my lady," he said with a smile that had felled half the female hearts in the Highlands--the other half he'd yet to meet. "We were expecting someone else."
Arthur heard the lass's predictable gasp when she beheld the face of the man reputed to be the most handsome in the Highlands. But she quickly composed herself and, to his surprise, seemed remarkably lucid. Most women were babbling by now. "Obviously. Does King Hood make war on women now?" she asked, using the English slur for the outlawed king. She eyed the church up ahead. "Or merely priests."
For someone surrounded by enemies, she showed a surprising lack of fear. If the fine ermine-lined cloak hadn't given her away, he would have known she was a noblewoman from the pride in her manner alone.
MacGregor winced. "As I said, it was a mistake. King Robert makes war only on those who deny him what is rightfully his."
She made a sharp sound of disagreement. "If we are done here, I've come to fetch the priest." Her eyes fell on her fallen guardsman. "It is too late for my man, but perhaps he can still give release to those who await him at the castle."
Last rites, Arthur realized. Probably for those wounded in the battle of Glen Trool a week's past.
Though the helm covered his face, he kept his voice low, to further mask his identity. His cover had been jeopardized enough--he didn't want there to be any chance that she would be able to identify him.
She had to be related to one of the nobles who'd been called to Ayr to hunt Bruce. He'd make sure to stay away from the castle--far away. "What is your name, my lady? And why do you travel with such a paltry guard?"
She stiffened, looking down her tiny nose at him. With the adorable little upturn, it should have been ridiculous, but she managed a surprisingly effective amount of disdain. "Fetching a priest is usually not a dangerous task--as I'm sure even a spy can attest."
Arthur's mouth fell in a hard line. So much for gratitude. Perhaps he should have left her to her fate.
MacGregor stepped forward. "You owe this man your life, my lady. If he hadn't interfered," he nodded toward her fallen guardsman, "you both would have been dead."
Her eyes widened, and tiny white teeth bit down on the soft pillow of her lower lip. Arthur felt another unwelcome tug beneath his belt.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, turning to him. "Thank you."
Gratitude from a beautiful woman was not without effect. The tug in his groin pulled a little harder, the lilting huskiness of her voice making him think of beds, naked flesh, and whispered moans of pleasure.
"Your shoulder ..." She gazed up at him uncertainly. "Is it hurt badly?"
Before he could form a response, he heard a noise. His gaze shot through the trees to the church, noticing the signs of movement.
Damn. The sound of the attack must have alerted the occupants of the church.
"You need to go," he said to MacGregor. "They're coming."
MacGregor had seen firsthand Arthur's skills too many times to hesitate. He motioned his men to go. As quickly as they'd arrived, Bruce's warriors slipped back into the darkness of the trees.
"Next time," MacGregor said, before following them.
Arthur met his gaze in shared understanding. There would be no silver tonight. In a few moments the church would be swarming with men and lit up like a beacon, warning anyone who approached of the danger.
Because of one lass, Bruce would not have the silver to provision his men. They would have to rely on what they could hunt and scavenge from the countryside until another opportunity came.
"You had best go, too," the lass said stiffly. He hesitated, and she seemed to soften. "I'll be fine. Go." She paused. "And thank you."
Their eyes met in the darkness. Though he knew it was ridiculous, for a moment he felt exposed.
But she couldn't see him. With his helm down, the only openings in the steel were the two narrow slits for him to see and the small pinpricks for him to breathe.
Still, he felt something strange. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was a connection. But he didn't have connections with strange women. Hell, he didn't have connections with anyone. It kept things simpler that way.
He wanted to say something--though hell if he knew what--but he didn't have the chance. Torches appeared outside the church. A priest and a few of the wounded English soldiers were heading this way.
"You're welcome," he said, and slipped back into the shadows where he belonged. A wraith. A man who didn't exist. Just the way he liked it.
Her sob of relief as she threw herself into the arms of the priest followed him into the darkness.
