"Campbell left with Ewen to patrol the southern borders between the castles at Glassery and Duntrune--father suspects the MacDonalds are up to something again. He'll be gone for days, probably weeks."
Gone. He's gone.
How could he have left her without a word, after what they'd shared? Her chest constricted, tighter and tighter until she thought she would burst from the pressure.
"I see," she whispered.
She was a fool. Because it felt special to her, she'd convinced herself it must be special to him. She'd known what he was, and still she'd convinced herself that maybe he was different.
Alan's gaze narrowed. "Did something happen? Did he do something--"
She shook her head furiously. "Nothing. Nothing happened."
Nothing significant. She drew her hand from under her brother's and folded her arms over her belly. She wanted to curl up in a ball and fall apart, but she wouldn't. He wasn't worth it.
"What is he to you, Annie-love? Do you care for him? I thought you were doing a favor for Father."
She hadn't been aware that Alan knew of her unusual activities, but perhaps she shouldn't have been surprised. With their grandfather's age and their father's illness, Alan had assumed more and more responsibilities. She wondered how much he knew. She suspected not all, or he wouldn't be so calm.
"I was," she assured him. Taking a deep breath, she forced the air back into her lungs. "He's nothing to me," she said, and meant it.
Her first impression had been correct: Arthur Campbell was a man with one foot out the door. He would never give her the stability that she craved. If she let him, he would only break her heart.
Ten
"You look like shite, Ranger. What the hell's the matter with you?"
Arthur tried not to let his annoyance show, but the brash seafarer had an uncanny ability to hone in on a sore spot. There was nothing wrong with him, damn it. Nothing that a restful night of sleep wouldn't cure.
But in the ten days since he'd left Dunstaffnage, he hadn't had one night of peace. His dreams had been invaded by a lass with big blue eyes and honey-gold hair. A lass whose expression when she'd fled the barracks still haunted him.
She was always so damned happy. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her from the first. But he'd made her sad. Actually, she'd looked as if he'd crushed her. He hoped to hell she wasn't harboring tender feelings for him. That would be foolish.Veryfoolish, he reminded himself.
His jaw hardened. Obviously, it wasn't just his dreams she'd invaded but his thoughts as well. Anna MacDougall had gotten under his skin.
He didn't understand why he couldn't stop thinking about her. He'd left--what he always did when a woman started to think about more than the bedchamber--but this time it wasn't working. If anything, it had made him more on edge. He was sure this irritating inability to focus would stop, if only he could see her and assure himself she was all right.
He should be able to push her out of his head. Focus on his task. And it infuriated him that he couldn't.
But he sure as hell wasn't going to explain any of this to MacSorley. He'd never hear the end of it.
"Good to see you too, Hawk." He studied the big Islander in the moonlight, noticing the lines of strain etched on his face beneath the smudges of ash. In addition to blackened armor and dark plaids, the warriors of the Highland Guard darkened their skin, enabling them to blend in to the night and move stealthily through the shadows. "Perhaps I should be asking you the same question?"
The man standing beside Erik "Hawk" MacSorley made a sharp sound--reminiscent of a laugh, but with scorn rather than amusement. "Hawk's wife has him by the bollocks. She'd due to have a child any day now, and he jumps at every sound, thinking it's the damned messenger." Lachlan MacRuairi, known by the war name of Viper among the Highland Guard, shook his head with disgust. "It's bloody pathetic."
Hawk grinned. "My wife can hold my bollocks anytime she wants. And we'll see how calm you are when your time comes."
A dark look came over MacRuairi's face, his slitted, piercing gaze glowing like a wildcat's in the moonlight. And people thought Arthur was eerie.
"It'll be a cold day in Hades before that time comes. I've had a wife. I'd rather have my bollocks cut off and stuffed through my nose than have another."
Of all the members of the Highland Guard, MacRuairi was the only one whom Arthur didn't like--or trust. The West Highland descendant of the mighty Somerled, King of the Isles, had a black heart, a vicious temper, and a biting tongue. Like the cold-hearted snake from which his war name had derived, MacRuairi also had a deadly, silent strike.
From the first Arthur's senses had flared, cautioning wariness. But while it didn't take any unusual abilities to sense the anger emanating from MacRuairi--nay, rage--what bothered Arthur was the darkness that went with it. Darkness that had only grown deeper since the king's wife, daughter, sister, and Bella MacDuff had been captured by the English on MacRuairi's watch. Getting them back was all he cared about. He'd tried a few months back to free Bella from her cage hung high above Berwick Castle, but it proved an impossible task, even for the elite warriors of the Highland Guard. She'd been freed from her cruel prison recently, but no one knew where she was.
But MacRuairi had his uses. Aside from expertly wielding the two swords he wore crossed over his back, he could get in and out of anywhere. A lack of conscience also came in handy for unpleasant tasks. To win this war, they would all need to get their hands dirty. MacRuairi's were just dirtier than most.
Only MacRuairi was more of an outsider in the Highland Guard than Arthur. Most of the men were wary of the hostile Islander--and rightly so. The leader of the Guard, Tor MacLeod, tolerated him, having come to some kind of understanding with his former blood enemy, but only William Gordon and MacSorley genuinely seemed to like him.
