The Ranger by Monica McCarty Page A

nothing else. Even the devil’s spawn Lorn had thought to honor him by insisting that Arthur sit beside him at the lord’s table that night. He might as well have been eating nails—that was all he’d tasted. It had taken every ounce of his skill at deception to mask his hatred throughout the long meal.
    Apparently, the cold-hearted bastard had a weakness: his daughters. It seemed even the devil could care about something. Arthur had detected the fear in Lorn’s eye when the story of Anna’s tumble off the hillside was relayed to him, and his gratitude toward Arthur had been real enough.
    Though Lorn accepted his account of the day’s events, Anna MacDougall wasn’t as easy to fool. He knew she didn’t believe his “I was just lucky enough to be in the right place when she fell” explanation. The lass was entirely too perceptive, and that meant dangerous. The last thing he needed was for Dugald—or worse, Lorn—to start asking questions.
    What a mess! Bad luck heaped upon bad. First, the lass he rescued—the one woman who could unmask him—happens to be the daughter of the man he intends to destroy. Then, for some God-knows-why reason, she sets her fancy on him. And worse, she takes a tumble off a cliff, forcing him to betray the abilities that could draw even more unwanted attention his way and making him the MacDougalls’ latest hero—not to mention giving the men another source of amusement. He didn’t know how many times over the course of the journey one of the men had climbed up on a rock and pretended to jump off while yelling dramatically, “Catch me, Sir Arthur!” in a high voice.
    Hilarious. Almost made him miss MacSorley.
    The “Games” themselves hadn’t been as much of a waste of time as he’d thought. She’d been right: The competition had been good for the men’s spirit. Moreover, he’d learned much about the caliber of the enemy soldiers and would be able to pass on the information to Bruce.
    But knowing he needed to tread carefully around the lass—or better yet, tread far away from the lass—he’d jumped at the first opportunity to leave. That it also provided an opportunity to scout Lorn’s lands for Bruce was even better.
    He needed to focus on his mission. He was one of the most elite, highly trained warriors in the country, in the middle of the most important mission of his life, but at times he felt as though he were playacting in some schoolgirl’s farce.
    He’d never had this kind of trouble before. It was why he liked to work alone. On the outside. Infiltration was too personal. Too close.
    His spot of good fortune continued when on the way back to the castle with his brothers and the other men who’d gone on the patrol—mostly MacNabs and MacNaughtons—they’d come upon Friar John near Tyndrum. The good friar had come from St. Andrews and was walking across Scotland through Lorn on his way to the Isle of Lismore. Lismore, the small, narrow island just off the coast, was the traditional seat of the Bishop of Argyll—who just happened to be a MacDougall and a kinsman of Lorn.
    Having long suspected that the MacDougalls were passing messages through the churches, Arthur volunteered to escort the friar as far as Oban—just south of the castle—where he would catch the ferry. It was the direction he was headed anyway, Arthur insisted. The friar could ride behind him. Though they would travel at a much slower pace than the others, he was in no hurry to return. He got a few snickers at that.
    When the friar tried to refuse, it made Arthur even more hopeful that he was on to something. Perhaps he’d found the source of the MacDougalls’ messages?
    He frowned. The only misfortune was that at the last minute, Dugald had decided to go as well. Probably to torment him to death with the constant talk of the spear contest.
    “If you’d aimed a bit higher and let your wrist snap down like I’ve told you, you might have won.”
    Arthur gritted his teeth and kept his gaze