The Ranger by Monica McCarty Page B

he wouldn’t stop there.
    His gaze dropped to her chest, where it had rested too many times this past week. To the soft, creamy mounds of flesh straining and spilling out of her bodice.
    He’d think of cupping those spectacular breasts in his hands. Lifting them to his mouth and sucking them.
    Ah hell
. He jerked his eyes away, feeling the hard swell of heat in his loins.
    “I hope you are not too disappointed to miss your ride,” she ventured conversationally.
    He shrugged and grunted unintelligibly.
    She appeared not to notice his lack of enthusiasm. He couldn’t quite tell whether she was purposefully ignoring his obvious disinterest or just so happy and good-natured that she wasn’t aware of it.
    He handed off the horse to one of the stable lads and turned to face her. “What is it you would like to talk to me about?”
    A crease appeared between her brows. “Wouldn’t you like to go inside? I can have one of the servants bring us something cool to drink—”
    “Here is fine,” he said sharply.
    Defensive warfare
, he reminded himself. The Hall would be quiet inside at this time of day. A yard full of people milling about was much safer.
    Thank God MacGregor and MacSorley weren’t around to see this. He would never hear the end of it.
    Apparently he did have a cowardly bone in his body. He’d have to tell his brother Neil the next time he saw him.
    She pursed her mouth, trying to look disapproving. But it failed miserably, only making her nose wrinkle up—adorably, damn her.
    “Very well.” She didn’t sound happy about it. “Your brother mentioned you were good with a spear.”
    Dugald didn’t know the half of it. Arthur carefully kept the extent of his skill hidden, not wanting it turned against his friends. With his enemies he was good—but not so good as to attract notice. He downplayed his scouting skills even more. Dugald still liked to prod him about the “freakish” abilities he’d displayed as a lad. Only Neil knew they hadn’t disappeared but had actually been honed sharper.
    “What does my ability with a spear have to do with anything?” His voice held the edge of impatience.
    “I thought you might help organize the tests of skill for tomorrow’s games.”
    He frowned. “What games?”
    “Since we weren’t able to hold the Highland Games this year, I thought it would be fun to put together a series of challenges for the men. They can compete against one another instead of other clans. My father thought it was a wonderful idea.”
    Arthur stared at her incredulously. “
This
is what is so important?” This was what she’d made him miss his ride for? Fun? Games? He fought to control his temper, but he could feel it slipping away. He didn’t have a temper, damn it. Nonetheless his fists were clenched tight. The chit was living in a fantasy world with no idea of how precarious her father’s situation was. “Do you know why the games weren’t held this year?”
    Her eyes narrowed, not missing the patronizing tone. “Of course I do. The war.”
    “And yet you devise games while men are trying to prepare for battle.”
    He saw a spark in her eye. Good. He hoped she was angry. She might not want to think about the war, but neither could she ignore it. Maybe she’d see how ridiculous this was.
    Just like it was ridiculous for him to be noticing how long and feathery her lashes were, or the delicate arch of her brow.
    “It
is
training. The games are only a means to enliven it. The competition will be good for them, and it will be fun.”
    “There is nothing fun about warfare,” he said angrily.
    “Perhaps not,” she said softly, seeming to pick up on something in his voice. Then she did it again. Touched him. The gentle press of her hand on his arm made every nerve-ending blast off like one of William “Templar” Gordon’s explosions. Their eyes met and he could see her sympathy. He didn’t want it—or need it. It wasn’t him she should worry about but her father and