He was quicker. More agile in movement and technique. And most significantly, stronger. She could feel the ground reverberate with the force of his blows. When one of his opponents managed to get in a swing of his blade, Arthur’s arm barely moved when he blocked it, absorbing the force as if it were nothing.
His arm ...
Her eyes widened. His
right
arm.
She didn’t understand. Arthur was left-handed. At least he was supposed to be, but watching him now, she knew he’d only pretended.
Why would he hide such a thing?
And why had she never seen him fight like this before? It didn’t make sense. She could understand his reasons for hiding his unusually keen senses, but there was nothing off-putting about swordsmanship. God, he could be one of the most revered knights in the kingdom if he wanted to be. So why didn’t he want to be?
But her questions fell by the wayside when she saw the next wave of attackers drop from the trees. No doubt seeing the fallen bodies of their compatriots, they identified the threat and were converging on Arthur.
She forced back the cry of warning, knowing it would only distract him. But her heart clenched in her throat. Two men. And a third not far behind them.
Suddenly, something seemed to change with Arthur. Instead of the cold, ruthless death strokes, he wielded his sword with less deliberateness. It was almost as if his purpose had changed from killing them to fending them off.
But that didn’t make any sense. She shook off the strange thought. These warriors were simply better trained, that was all.
And they were. It was hard to see in the near-darkness; they wore dark clothing and seemed to have blackened their skin with something ...
Her blood chilled. Recalling the attack of the year before. Those men had darkened their skin as well. Could these be the wraiths of Bruce’s phantom army of marauders? The men who’d struck fear in the heart of Scotland and England alike?
Her worst fears seemed confirmed when a third man descended on Arthur like a hound of hell. Rather than the long, two-handed broadsword used by the Highlanders, he wielded two shorter swords. One for each hand.
But it was his clothing that sent tremors of terror sliding through her bones. Like the other attackers he wore a darkened nasal helm and his skin had been blackened with mud or ash, but it was what else he wore that struck the chilling chord of memory. Dressed head-to-toe in black, instead of mail he wore a leather war coat studded with metal, leather chausses, and an oddly wrapped dark plaid. Just like the man—the ridiculously handsome rebel—who’d attacked her last year.
This man was one of them. She knew it. Fear turned to terror. They were reputed to have extraordinary abilities. To fight like demons possessed.
Oh God, Arthur!
Her breath caught high in her chest as the attacker flew at him, swords raised on either side of his head. Time seemed to slow. Still engaged with one of the other attackers, Arthur wasn’t going to be able to defend himself.
Ice lodged in her chest. In her blood. He was going to die.
She opened her mouth to scream, but at the last minute, Arthur jammed the pommel of his sword in the nose of one of the men attacking him, enabling him to get his sword up to block the two blades before they crossed at his neck.
He and the hellish attacker met face-to-face, blades caught in a tangle above their heads. The attacker, coming down, had momentum on his side, but with both hands on his sword, Arthur managed to hold him off.
Arthur had his back to her, but she could just make out the attacker’s face in a beam of moonlight. He had the eeriest eyes she’d ever seen. She shivered. They seemed to glow in the darkness. Dark features twisted in rage, he looked like a demon from hell—or Lucifer himself.
She felt a prickle of recognition tease the edges of her memory. My God! Could it be ...
Her eyes widened. He looked like Lachlan MacRuairi—her deceased Aunt Juliana’s husband. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she heard he’d joined the rebels. Her Aunt Juliana, whom her sister was named after, had been much younger than her father—nearly twenty years. MacRuairi was probably of age with her brother Alan.
He drew closer to Arthur and suddenly his expression changed. If she hadn’t been watching so carefully she wouldn’t have seen it. Surprise. Recognition?
The man she thought to be her uncle dropped back. Or was she just imagining it? It was dark, and so hard to tell. The men exchanged a few more blows, but the fierceness and intensity seemed to be gone. Compared to what had come before, it seemed more practice than all-out battle.
She peered into the darkness, trying to make sense of it. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw her brother stagger back, his sword dropped as both hands went to his head. He fell to his knees, swaying ...
She cried out, unable to stop herself. She would have rushed toward him, but Arthur moved back to block her. “Stay back, damn it. Stay back.”
Helplessly, she watched as the attacker her brother had been fighting lifted his sword to finish him off.
Her bloodcurdling scream tore through the night.
Arthur seemed to hesitate, but only for an instant. Somehow he managed to block a blow from the man who looked like her uncle, then spin around in time to block the swing intended for her brother. Not prepared for Arthur’s defense, her brother’s attacker’s arm collapsed and he fell forward onto Arthur’s sword. His eyes widened in surprise before freezing for all time.
Even in the midst of this horrible nightmare, the gruesome sight was too much. With a sob, she turned away.
The next instant a sharp whistle pierced the dark night air. She turned back to the melee, stunned to see the attackers falling back in retreat. MacRuairi—or a man who looked just like him—had apparently called them off.
Her brother’s men now filled the clearing. Before the last rebel had faded into the forest, she rushed forward to Alan’s side.
He’d managed to get to his feet, but he still appeared unsteady.
“Oh God, Alan. Are you all right?”
Even in the darkness, she could see from the way he was looking at her that it was hard for him to focus. He shook his head as if trying to clear the haze.
“A knock on the pate,” he said. “I’ll be fine.” He cupped her cheek and gave her a fond smile. “No need for tears.”
Anna nodded and wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand, not even realizing she’d been crying.
She turned, instinctively seeking him out. Arthur stood a few feet away, watching her. She wanted to run to him. To throw herself into his arms, bury her face into his chest, and fall apart. He would take away the horror. But her brother was standing there.
And Arthur’s face was too grim. “You are unhurt?” he asked.
She nodded. Her eyes scanned him, lingering on his jaw and cheek—bruised from where her brother had struck him. “And you?”
He returned the nod.
Alan stiffened beside her. He strode toward Arthur and Anna froze, fearing what he would do. He stopped a few feet in front of him. The two men faced off silently in the darkness.
Finally, her brother said, “It seems I am in your debt—not once, but twice.”
Arthur stilled, and then gave a short shrug.
“I don’t like to see my sister upset,” Alan added.
Anna assumed that was meant to be an apology.
“Neither do I,” Arthur said.
Alan studied him for a moment and then nodded, as if he’d come to some sort of decision. “You fought well,” he said, changing the subject, but not the intensity of his scrutiny.
Apparently, she had not been the only one to notice his improved skills. “The rush of battle,” Arthur explained.
Anna almost mentioned the change of hand, but something stopped her. If her brother had noticed too, he didn’t let on.
Alan was still watching him. “Aye, for some men it is like that.” From his tone, Anna couldn’t tell whether he believed Arthur’s explanation. When Arthur didn’t respond, Alan added, “The rebels are better trained than I expected.”
Anna stepped forward. “Not just any rebels, brother.”
Both men looked at her, but it was Alan who asked the question. “What do you mean?”
“I think one of them—maybe more—was one of Bruce’s phantom guard.” She explained the similar clothing to the man who’d led that attack at the church the year before.
Alan stroked his chin. “It makes sense. I think you might be right.”
“There’s more. I can’t be sure, but I think I recognized him. The man with two swords.”
“What?” Both men reacted. Her brother with excitement and Arthur with ... something else.
“Our uncle—former uncle.”
Alan swore. “MacRuairi?”
She nodded.
Alan’s mouth fell in a grim line. “Father will not be pleased.”
Anna did not know the source of the enmity between her father and his former brother by marriage, but she knew the hatred ran fiercely on both sides.
Alan let out a bark of laughter. “Though perhaps he should be. Let Bruce have that traitorous, opportunistic bastard in his camp. The only thing that Lachlan MacRuairi is loyal to is himself. If he is the kind of man recruited for this band of phantoms, we have nothing to worry about.”
Arthur had fallen strangely silent. She wanted to ask him about what she’d seen between him and the man she thought was her uncle, but like before, something held her back. Instead she asked, “What made them leave?”
Her brother frowned. “I’m not sure. My head was ringing; I didn’t see much of anything.”
“Your men had broken through,” Arthur explained. “They were outnumbered.”
It hadn’t seemed that way to her, but she’d been too focused on her brother to pay attention to the rest of the battle. “You should return to camp,” he said.
“Aye,” Alan said. “One of my men will take you. We must see to—”
He stopped.
She filled in the rest.
The dead
.
The horror of the attack—of what they’d barely escaped—hit her full force. The dam had given way, and all the emotion kept carefully at bay rose inside her, threatening to flood in a sea of tears.
She turned, realizing that Arthur had come to stand beside her. Heedless of her brother’s presence, he reached down to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers swept the side of her cheek, lingering.
The tenderness of the gesture brought tears to her eyes. She gazed up at him. Beneath his grim expression, she read his concern. His solid presence, his strength, nearly shattered her. If he took her in his arms, she would fall apart.
Guessing as much, he didn’t. “It will be all right,” he said gently. “Do as your brother says.”
“But—”
He cut her off with a shake of his head, his expression firm. He had to have guessed that she had questions. “Not now,” he said, his gaze shifting to the fallen men at their feet. “Later.”
Anna kept her eyes on his face, careful not to follow the direction of his gaze. She’d seen enough bloodshed tonight to last a lifetime. The memories of this night would haunt her.
Her reaction was understandable. She was a woman, not used to the blood and gore of battlefields. Arthur, however, was used to it. Or he should be.
But something in his expression—the tightness of his jaw, the whiteness of his mouth, the starkness in his eyes—made her think the attack had affected him deeply.
As two of her brother’s men led her away, Anna suspected that she would not be the only one haunted by the night’s events.
The question was why.
Arthur didn’t sleep. He half-expected MacRuairi to slither through the darkness and slit his throat or stick a dirk in his back for what had happened. It wouldn’t be the first time. MacRuairi hadn’t earned his war name “Viper” for his venomous personality alone, but also for his deadly, silent strike.
Not that Arthur would blame him.
As he’d done most of the night, he stared at the pile of bodies moved off to one side of the clearing, left for the “attackers” to collect.
Nine of Bruce’s men killed. More than half at the end of Arthur’s sword.
He’d erred. Badly. On too many levels to count. It was bad enough that his senses had failed him—that he’d missed the signs of the attack—but he’d also seemed to have forgotten what side he was on. He’d been entrenched in the enemy camp for so long, he’d started to believe his own lies.
Christ
. He closed his eyes, trying to block it out. He’d been forced to kill his own men before, but not like this. He hadn’t been just defending himself. He’d been in a frenzy. So focused on protecting Anna and killing anyone that threatened her that he hadn’t thought about anything else.
Even when he had realized what was happening, he hadn’t stopped. He’d saved MacDougall’s life at the expense of one of his compatriots.
He couldn’t forget the look on MacRuairi’s face when Arthur stabbed the man trying to kill MacDougall. That he hadn’t meant to kill him didn’t matter. He shouldn’t have interfered. Anna’s heart-rending cry wasn’t an excuse—or at least one that would matter to his brethren.
When the first orange rays of dawn flickered through the forest, he stood from his solitary post leaning against a tree. They weren’t coming. MacRuairi—and unless he’d erred in identifying three other members of the Highland Guard as they retreated, Gordon, MacGregor, and MacKay. He hadn’t expected them to, even if he’d hoped for the chance to explain. They wouldn’t further risk his cover. He’d done that enough himself.
He knew how close he’d come to blowing his cover and putting his entire mission in jeopardy. As her questions had proved, Anna—even terrified—was too observant. And she wasn’t the only one. Alan, too, was suspicious of his suddenly improved fighting ability and of how quickly the attackers had fled. He’d put them off for now, but he knew she had more questions and didn’t dare think about what else she’d noticed.
Recognizing MacRuairi was bad enough, but to have connected him with the Highland Guard was a disaster. Keeping their identities secret not only added to the mystique and fear surrounding the “phantom” guard, but also helped to keep them safe. If their enemies learned their identities, not only would they have a price on their heads, but their families could be at risk. It was the reason they’d decided to use war names when they were on missions.