He might have admired it, had he not been consumed by a far greater realization. His blood chilled to a trickle sliding down the back of his neck.
God's wounds, how could her father use her like this? If Arthur wasn't already planning it, he could kill MacDougall for putting her in such danger. Didn't they realize what would have happened to her that night had he not been there to save her from MacGregor and his men? She could have been killed.
His heart pounded fiercely as she approached the door. He clenched his fists, struggling not to rush over there, toss her over his shoulder, and get her the hell out of here. He felt a primal urge to take her someplace safe, where he could lock her up and protect her.
Not your job. Not your responsibility.
Not yours.
A cold sweat had gathered on his brow. When he thought of the risk she was taking, it nearly drove him mad with ...
He flinched at the realization. Jesus, it was fear.
He hadn't felt like this since Dugald tried to cure him of his aversion to rats by locking him in a dark storage shed crawling with them--without a weapon.
She knocked on the door. A moment later a priest answered. Though Arthur kept his ears pinned, they spoke in low tones and he couldn't hear what they said. But from the monk's apologetic expression and the shake of his head, Arthur knew he was telling her there was nothing. Her shoulders seemed to droop. They exchanged a few more words, and then she quickly returned to the skiff.
Arthur watched her go and knew that his mission had just gotten a whole hell of a lot more complicated.
Bloody hell, why did it have to be her?
He fought against what he had to do. But staying away from Anna MacDougall was no longer an option. No matter what his instincts warned him against, his mission demanded that he stay as close to her as possible. He needed to keep apprised of the MacDougalls' plans.
A battle was about to begin. But for once, Arthur questioned his ability to escape unscathed.
Eleven
Anna pushed back her hood as she entered her father's solar. After setting down her basket on the table, she joined him and her mother beside the smoldering peat fire. Even in summer, the stone walls of the castle kept it cool and drafty inside.
Her mother glanced up from the new silk banner she was working on and frowned. "Where have you been, Annie-love? It's late."
Anna leaned down and gave her a kiss. "I took some tarts to the monks at the priory."
She met her father's gaze. His expression darkened. A small shake of her head had answered his unspoken question.
Before her mother could voice further objection, her father coughed. Though Anna knew it had been done purposefully, the raspy, wet sound concerned her.
"Didn't you mention something about a new herb brew Father Gilbert recommended to help clear the bogginess from my lungs?"
Her mother gasped and jumped to her feet, tossing aside her embroidery. "I'd forgotten. I shall ask Cook to prepare it right now."
As soon as the door closed behind her, her father said, "King Edward has not responded?"
Anna shook her head. "We should have heard from him by now."
Her father stood up and started pacing before the hearth, his anger growing with each step. "Bruce's damned brigands must have intercepted it. It seems like over half our messages are not reaching their destination--even with the help of the women." His mouth fell in a hard line. "But as we've heard no word of soldiers on the march, I think we can assume that none will be forthcoming. Young Edward is too busy trying to save his own hide to worry about ours."
After all her father had done for the first King Edward, Anna couldn't believe the new king would abandon him like this.
Lay down with dogs ...
The old adage slipped to mind but she pushed it away; it seemed somehow disloyal. Her father hadn't had a choice. The first King Edward had been too powerful. After Wallace's defeat at Falkirk, it was either ally with the English king or see their lands forfeited. When Bruce had stolen the crown, the alliance had become even more necessary. With Bruce and the MacDonalds on one side, the MacDougalls could stand only on the other--with England.
"Should we try to send another message?"
"There isn't time," her father snapped, clearly annoyed by what he perceived as a foolish question. "The English move slowly. With all their household plate and furniture, it would take them weeks to march this far north. Even were Edward to change his mind, he would need time to gather the men. King Hood and his murderous band of marauding cateran will be here before the English have time to load the carts with all their finery."
Anna tried not to take her father's anger personally. He had every right to be short-tempered. Their enemy was bearing down on them and no one was coming to their aid. Like King Edward, the Earl of Ross had yet to respond to their pleas to join forces.
