Lorn shouted, and a few of his men came around the bend to answer his call. Seeing the mighty Campbell chief fallen at their leader's feet, they let out a fierce battle cry of victory. Lorn pointed to the hillside in Arthur's direction. Arthur knew he couldn't see him, but Lorn must have heard the cry that had alerted his father. When they started to come toward him, Arthur turned and ran.
He didn't remember much of what happened afterward. He'd hid in the trees and rocks for nearly a week, too terrified to move. When he'd finally made his way back to the castle, Neil said he was half-dead. Arthur told his brother immediately what had happened, but by then it was too late to counter the MacDougalls' version of events. Even if it could be explained how he'd heard the men from so far away, Neil knew that Arthur would not be believed. The MacDougalls had won the day, with Lorn taking credit for defeating the powerful Campbell chief.
Not long afterward, Lorn laid siege to Innis Chonnel and the Campbells had been forced to surrender.
From that day, Arthur had vowed justice for his father. Vowed to destroy MacDougall for the treacherous murder. Vowed to never let emotion get the better of him.
For fourteen years he'd bided his time, working to become one of the greatest warriors in the Highlands--a warrior his father would have been proud of--and now he had his chance. He couldn't let anything interfere. He had to stay focused.
He'd failed his father once--his senses had let him down--and he would not do so again.
But he wished ...
Hell, it didn't matter what he wished. There were some things that even he could not change. The lass was Lorn's daughter. No matter how much she made him wish differently.
He leaned back against a nearby tree. As there was still an hour or so until nightfall, he figured he had some time to relax. After the breakneck pace of his journey north, it felt good to sit down. Though his instructions were simply to identify the messenger and not interfere--thereby not alerting MacDougall and allowing Bruce to intercept future messages--he needed to be prepared for anything.
But he was wound as tightly as a spring and relaxing proved impossible. It wasn't only the trap for the messenger tying him up in knots, he knew, but the prospect of returning to the castle.
He would see her again.
The surge in his chest betrayed him. He told himself that it was merely because he wanted to assure himself that she was all right--not because hewantedto see her. Not because he couldn't stop thinking about her. And sure as hell not because he missed her.
He couldn't be that much of a fool.
Another month, he told himself.Stay away from her for a few more weeks and this will all be over. Once he had the identity of the messenger, he would see what he could discover of the MacDougall battle plan. But when the battle started, his mission would be done. He would leave and never look back.
Realizing he hadn't eaten since morning, he took out a piece of dried beef and oatcake, ate it, and washed it down with the water from the stream where he'd filled his skin. Absently, he scanned the grassy landscape.
His heart jerked to a violent stop. For a moment he stood transfixed. Hunger rose hard inside him, a yearning so intense it claimed his breath. Like a starving man, he watched as the lass he'd been thinking about for the past week seemed to materialize out of his dreams. Though she was still a good distance away and wore a hooded cloak over her golden hair, he knew it was her. He felt her nearness in his bones. In his blood.
Every nerve ending stood on edge as he watched her alight from a small skiff and begin to make her way up the grassy pathway from the small jetty to the cloister.
He struggled to catch a glimpse of her face in the fading daylight. The need to see her, to assure himself she was well, almost made him forget where he was. He took a step forward before realizing what he'd done.
Swearing, he slipped behind the tree before anyone noticed him standing there like a love-struck fool.
What the hell was she doing here?
She had that basket with her, and once again, only a solitary guardsman accompanied her. The lass had a singular ability to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just like at the church in Ayr--
He went utterly still. The truth struck him right between the eyes.
Nay, it wasn't possible.
But he didn't believe in coincidence. Either Anna MacDougall had an uncanny knack for showing up exactly where she shouldn't, or she was the messenger.
She's the messenger.
The messages were in her basket, buried in the tarts or whatever else she carried with her. He recalled how jumpy she'd been at the village. How she'd handed him the baby and taken the basket with her to the kitchen. How she'd paled when he mentioned that the smell of the rolls was making him hungry.
And she'd been the one to pick up the silver in Ayr.
The truth had been right under his nose the entire time. How could he have been so blind?
His mouth hardened. He knew how: he'd underestimated her. Twice. Because she was pretty and young and innocent, because she seemed so vulnerable and sweet, because she was a lass, he'd never questioned her presence that night--even after he'd learned that she was spying on him.
Damn, it was brilliant. Using women as couriers. He thought of the women he'd seen coming and going from the churches. He'd never given them a second thought. They'd slipped right through his net.
