It shouldn’t matter. She didn’t even know him. And he was a warrior—there was nothing refined about him at all. That should be enough.
What was one man? Plenty of men liked her. Including Thomas MacNab, a perfectly pleasant scholar, who’d just gone to fetch her a goblet of the sweetened wine that she loved while she recovered from their energetic dance—and her embarrassing fall—near the open window. She’d like to say she wasn’t usually so clumsy, but she couldn’t. She didn’t consider it a fault, more of an affliction.
She leaned against the stone sill, inhaling fresh breaths of air as her gaze traveled around the Great Hall. The room was sweltering, heated not by the peat fire but by the lively energy of the celebrants swirling all around. If the smiles and laughter on the faces of the men and women were any indication, the feast had been a resounding success.
Her smile fell. Except for one person.
Don’t look ...
But of course she did. She supposed she should add an appalling lack of self-control to the list. Her gaze immediately went to the figure in the far right corner of the room. He was still there—which was surprising, since he seemed to be watching the door as if he couldn’t wait to leave. In her experience, warriors were always anxious to leave. Eager to get to the next battlefield.
Unlike the other men around him, Sir Arthur wasn’t availing himself of the MacDougall wine and ale. His flagon had barely moved from the table in front of him.
Seated with his back to the wall and a blank expression on his face, he’d positioned himself with a view to the entire room. She wondered if it was intentional. Though he seemed perfectly at ease—leaning back against the wall and occasionally cracking a smile at something one of his companions said—she sensed a watchfulness to him. As if he were constantly assessing and always on guard. It was so subtle she didn’t notice it at first. But it was there, in the steadiness of his gaze and the stillness of his position.
Though he sat with a group of other warriors, including his two brothers whom he’d been with the first day, he seemed more of an observer than an active participant in the conversation. He seemed detached. Apart. And something about it bothered her.
She didn’t like to see anyone left out. Maybe she should see if—
Before she could finish the thought, she found herself lifted off the ground from behind and spun around in the air.
“No one to dance with, brat?” he teased. “Should I order one of my men to partner you?”
She laughed with delight, knowing exactly who it was. Though it had been a long time since she’d heard the teasing lilt in his voice. “Don’t you dare. I can find my own partners.” She pushed at his thick arm, trying to wriggle out of his bearlike hold. “Let go of me, you big oaf.”
He set her feet back on the floor and spun her around to face him, a stern look on his face. “Big oaf? You need to show proper respect to your elders, little one.”
“Did I say big oaf?” She batted her eyes innocently. “I meant
Sir
big oaf.”
He chuckled, the same blue eyes as hers crinkling at the edges.
Her heart swelled to see the smile on his face. It was the happiest she’d seen her brother since his wife had died giving birth to their third child, nearly a year ago.
Though Alan was only ten years her senior, the recent months had aged him. The affection he’d borne for his wife was etched deeply in the lines on his face. His dark-blond hair had receded at the temples, and perhaps thinned a little on top, but he was still a handsome man. Especially when he smiled—which wasn’t often for the serious heir of Lorn and Argyll.
He reached down and wriggled her nose between his thumb and forefinger the way he used to do when she was a child. “You were right, you know.”
“What was that?” She put her hand to her ear. “It’s so loud I can’t hear you.”
He shook his head. “Brat. You know exactly what I’m talking about. The feast. This is exactly what we needed.”
She beamed. She couldn’t help it. Her brother’s opinion meant much to her. It always had. “You really think so?”
He nodded. “I do.” He bent down and kissed the top of her head. Though not as tall as a certain young knight, Alan was a formidable man. Nearly six feet in height, he had the thick, bulky build of their father and grandfather. Ewen and Alastair, her two other brothers, were slimmer in stature.
A shadow of sadness passed over her. Somhairle had been somewhere in between. Tall, broad-shouldered, and packed with lean muscle, he’d cut an impressive figure. The quintessential warrior. Not unlike Sir Arthur (why did she keep thinking of him?). But Somhairle, her second-eldest brother, had died fighting alongside Wallace at the Battle of Falkirk almost exactly ten years ago. He’d been twenty years old.
Not wanting to spoil Alan’s rare good humor, she pushed aside the sad thoughts.
“Where are all those men who’ve been flocking around you all night?” her brother asked with an overprotective gleam in his eye.
She rolled her eyes. “If there were any, I’m sure they scattered when they saw you coming.”
His mouth curved in a satisfied grin. “As well they should.”
She harrumphed. “Thomas MacNab went to fetch me some wine; I’m sure he’ll return when you leave.”
Alan folded his thick arms across his chest and frowned. “That pretty—” He stopped himself. “Any man who lacks courage to face one harmless brother ...”
She snorted. “
Three
overbearing brutes, you mean. I saw all of you glaring at him earlier.”
He gave her a chastising look and continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “... isn’t worthy of you. You want a man who will stand down dragons and crawl on his knees through the fires of hell to protect you.”
Anna wrapped her arms around his broad chest and gave him a big squeeze. Alan didn’t understand her preference for a quiet, scholarly man like Thomas MacNab—who wouldn’t know what to do with a sword even if he could carry one—when an impressive knight like Sir Hugh Ross had wanted to marry her. “I thought that’s what I have you, Father, Alastair, and Ewen for.”
He squeezed her back. “Aye, Annie-love, that you do.” He held her back to look at her. “Is there no one else but the tutor who interests you?”
Without thinking, her gaze flickered to the back corner of the room, landing momentarily on Sir Arthur Campbell. It was long enough. Her observant brother took note. “Who were you looking at?”
“No one,” she said quickly.
Too quickly. Her brother’s eyes narrowed as he glanced in the direction where she’d looked. “Campbell?”
Drat her fair skin! She could feel the flush creep up her cheeks.
He looked surprised. “Sir Dugald? He’s a fine warrior.” He frowned. “A bit too popular with the lasses, though.”
She wasn’t about to correct him. It didn’t matter. She was a bit attracted to Sir Arthur, that was all. His indifference had only tweaked her womanly vanity.
“Careful, love. If he tries anything—”
Anna scooted him away. “I know just who to call. Now, why don’t you go over there and ask Morag to dance. She’s been casting glances at you all night.”
She expected an immediate refusal and was surprised to see instead a speculative glint in his eye.
“She has?” His gaze settled on the pretty young widow. He didn’t say anything more, but the flicker of interest gave Anna hope that her brother’s coma-like existence might be at an end. He’d mourned his wife deeply. Though his sadness was a testament to his love for her, he had not died with her.
She looked over the crowd for Thomas and held out at least another thirty seconds before glancing back toward the corner. She was just in time to see three young clanswomen—who happened to be pretty, buxom, and the most notorious flirts in the castle—approach the Campbells’ table.
Anna’s fingers clenched the soft velvet of her skirts. She felt a spike of something vaguely resembling irritation.
Extreme
irritation. It didn’t help that she knew it was irrational. Of course the girls were interested in them. Why shouldn’t they be? The newcomers were knights, handsome, and as far as Anna knew, unmarried. An irresistible combination to any young unmarried lass.
Nor was she surprised when the girls were quickly welcomed to join them. But when one of the women—Christian, the lovely raven-haired, blue-eyed daughter of her father’s henchman—sat beside Sir Arthur, Anna’s spine stiffened. The room seemed to grow even warmer. A hot flush rose to her cheeks, and her heartbeat took a sudden erratic jump. She told herself it was none of her business, but she couldn’t force herself to look away.
She needn’t have worried. After a few flirtatious advances went unappreciated—including coquettish smiles and a not-so-subtle dip forward to give Sir Arthur a good view of her ample bosom—Christian gave up and turned her attention to one of his companions.
Though Anna was more relieved than she wanted to admit, something about the interaction made her frown. Had she jumped to the wrong conclusion? Maybe it wasn’t her at all. Maybe Sir Arthur hadn’t meant to be rude, but was simply gruff like her father. Or shy around women, like her brother Ewen?
As much as she wanted to convince herself that was it—so she could forget about him—she couldn’t. Earlier he hadn’t acted shy at all. Actually he’d acted annoyed. A little angry, even. As if she were bothering him. Like a midge in summer or a recalcitrant pup under his heels.
She
had
slammed into him, of course, but it was an accident. And he certainly looked strong enough to weather a little jostling from a woman. Lord, he looked as if he could weather a blow from a sledgehammer!
She might not have noticed his size at first, but she was noticing now. Despite the loose, bulky fit of his wool tunic and relaxed posture, the man was built like a rock. All tight, steely hard muscle. Why, he’d barely even moved when she’d come barreling into him.
And when he’d held her in his arms, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of safety and security. As if nothing could possibly harm her with this big, powerful man holding her.
Before he dropped her, that is.
He pushed back from the table and bent over to say something to his brother Sir Dugald.
Her heart took a strange jump when Sir Arthur started to walk toward the door. He was leaving. Leaving! But it wasn’t even dark yet. The feast would go on for hours.
He couldn’t leave. He hadn’t even danced yet.
She glanced to her left, seeing Thomas threading his way back through the crowd, and then back to the young knight.
Before she realized what she was doing, she was striding purposefully toward the door. Not running, but not exactly walking, either.
He was only a few feet from the entry where she’d crashed into him earlier, when she cut in front of him.
He didn’t look happy to see her.
The forbidding glower on his face gave her a moment’s pause, but it was too late to turn back now. She’d always preferred the straightforward approach, though, she thought with a belated flush of embarrassment, it usually didn’t involve chasing after strange men.
She wasn’t chasing ... exactly. It was her duty to see that all their guests enjoyed themselves, wasn’t it? Moreover, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might have misjudged him.
Ignoring his expression, she smiled. “I hope I am not the cause of your early departure?”
If the lift of a brow was any indication, she’d managed to surprise him.
She smiled teasingly and explained, “I feared you might be nursing bruises from my clumsiness earlier.”
His mouth quirked, but only for a moment. “I believe I shall recover,” he said dryly.
Lord, when he smiled he was a handsome devil. She felt that same funny flutter in her stomach and jump in her pulse, but it was even worse standing so close to him. She’d been surrounded by tall, muscular men her entire life, but never had she been so acutely aware of a man’s masculinity and her own femininity.
He unnerved her. Made her feel nervous. Discombobulated. Flush with impulses she didn’t understand. She wanted to move closer. Put her hand on his chest and feel the strength underneath. Stare at his face and memorize every hard angle, every line, every scar. It was outrageous to the point of ridiculous.
She’d been attracted to a handsome man before, but this was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. Nothing like the fondness she’d felt for Roger, her former fiancé. It was deeper. More intense. More visceral. It reached inside and pulled, compelling her to him.
He was waiting for her to say something. Clearly he wasn’t going to make this any easier on her. “Then I hope it is not the food and entertainment?”
He shook his head. “It’s a fine feast, my lady.” His gaze flickered to the door in a none-too-subtle indication of his wish to leave.
She stepped to the side, putting herself firmly in his path. “Don’t you like to dance?”
When he arched his brow again, she blushed, realizing how forward her question had sounded. It sounded as if she wanted him to ask her to dance. Which she did, but it was hardly ladylike to solicit it so brazenly.
But perhaps it was what he needed. She hated to think of anyone being left out of the fun.
“Sometimes.” He hesitated, and for a moment she thought he would ask her. But then his gaze flickered over her shoulder, and he tensed. If she hadn’t been watching him so carefully, she wouldn’t have noticed the steely cold glint in his eye.
He turned back to her, letting his gaze slide down the length of her body.
She sucked in her breath. No one had ever looked at her so boldly. It might have been a little exciting if it weren’t also utterly dispassionate—as if she were a horse at market. And not a very impressive one at that.
“But not today.”
His meaning couldn’t have been more clear. He didn’t want to dance with her. She hadn’t misjudged him or misinterpreted anything. It wasn’t his brusque warrior’s manners.
The stab of hurt she felt by his rejection was surprisingly sharp for someone she’d just met. For a man who shouldn’t have interested her at all.
This shouldn’t be so bloody difficult. But standing there, watching the emotions flit across her face as easy to read as words on a page, Arthur felt as though he was being twisted in a vise or splayed out on the rack.