The Hunter

by Monica McCarty

  He returned to where she waited under the shelter of a large tree to collect the horse. “It looks fine. I’ll take the horse over first and come back for you.”

  The air seemed to be expanding in her chest and her heart pounded frantically. She looked up at him and shook her head. “I can’t. I d-don’t like bridges. Please, can’t we go a different way?”

  He gave her an encouraging smile that broke through her moment of panic. “It looks much worse than it is. You don’t need to worry—I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  She believed him enough to follow him to the bank of the river. But with what she saw next, nothing would have possessed her to go across. A big surge in the current caused the water to break over the trees. The force was so powerful, the entire structure seemed to rattle.

  He started to lead the horse (who seemed just about as eager as she was) forward, but she stopped him. “Please, you must reconsider. The current is too strong. The trees are thick with moss and slippery. It is too easy to fall in, and I don’t know how to swim. Isn’t there someplace we could stay nearby until morning? Perhaps by then the rain will stop and the water will have subsided?”

  As if to punctuate her words another surge crashed over the bridge, sending a spray of water bursting into the air.

  She turned to him with a cry. “Please,” she begged, looking up into his eyes.

  His gaze fell into hers. “You really are scared?”

  There was a strange note in his voice. A slight huskiness that penetrated through the haze of panic and sent a twinge of heated awareness racing through her.

  She nodded, her face tilted toward his only inches away.

  Inches away. Her breath caught. Only then did she realize what she had done. Her hands were clutching his arms and her body was pressed against his. Intimately. Chest to chest and hip to hip. She could feel every hard inch of his chest and legs. She could feel something else as well. Something that made her mouth go dry, her heart drop, and her stomach flip all at the same time.

  Oh, my.

  The shock of it startled her. It was as if every nerve-ending in her body had been struck by a lightning bolt of awareness. She opened her mouth to gasp, but the sound strangled in her throat when their eyes met.

  Heaven help her! Despite the rain and the cold, her body filled with heat.

  If she hadn’t felt the proof of his desire, she could see it now in his eyes. He wanted her, and the force of it seemed to be radiating under her fingertips, making her tremble with unfamiliar sensations. Her heart seemed to be racing too fast, her breath to be short and uneven, and her limbs too heavy.

  She couldn’t seem to move. She was caught up in something she didn’t understand but couldn’t resist. Didn’t want to resist.

  When his gaze dropped to her mouth, she knew what he was going to do. And she would have let him had he not found enough sense for both of them.

  His jaw locked, and the tiny muscle below his chest began to tic. He looked away.

  She let her hands drop and took a sudden step back, as if she were a bairn who’d just been caught by the cook with her hand on a tart and was trying to distance herself from the scene of her crime.

  She didn’t know what had come over her. She’d never touched a man so freely before, let alone tried to persuade one in such a manner.

  His voice sounded more curt than normal. “There is an inn not too far away in Trows that should be safe to stop at for the night.”

  Janet couldn’t hide her relief. “Thank you.”

  Trows! She realized suddenly what that meant. Not only had she avoided the bridge, she’d also managed to find a way—unconsciously, as it happened—to get to Roxburgh. Trows was only a short distance away.

  He gave her a hard look, and not for the first time, she wondered if he knew what she was thinking. “We cannot go as we are. A nun and a warrior traveling alone will draw too much comment.”

  Since he was being agreeable for once, she refrained from pointing out that she’d told him that same thing when he insisted on accompanying her. “What do you suggest?”

  “I’ll remove some of my armor, and you’ll have to take off your veil and the white scapular.”

  Her eyes widened as she realized what he intended. “You mean to pretend we are married?”

  Why did the idea frighten her more than pretending to be a nun? If she were going to parse her sins, the latter was infinitely more damning.

  “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  “Aren’t there any other places we could take shelter? A cave? An abandoned shieling? A hut?”

  “Yes, on the other side of that river.” He pointed to the bridge just as another rush of water poured over it. “It’s up to you.”

  The choice was obvious. There wasn’t any reason she should have hesitated, but she did. Why did the idea of pretending to be his wife terrify her almost as much as the bridge did? “The inn.”

  He gave her a curt nod. “I will leave you a minute to tend to your needs and remove your habit.” He pointed to the wooden cross on her neck that she’d worn since the night she tried to free her sister. “Hide that as well.”

  She was grateful for the moment of privacy. She tended to her most pressing need, and then quickly removed the veil and scapular, which wasn’t easy in the rain with everything sopping wet. She tried not to think that right now had he not insisted on accompanying her, she would be warm and dry in the abbey. When she was done, she wrapped the plaid around her again and packed the clothing in her bag. Without the protection of her habit she felt … vulnerable.

  But to what?

  She’d just finished tucking the cross under the plain black gown she still wore, when he returned and she knew exactly what.

  Oh God.

  Her stomach dropped. He’d removed the ghastly helm, and for the first time she could see his face in full.

  She was wrong. He wasn’t just handsome, he was brutally handsome. Handsome in the dark-haired, blue-eyed, rough-hewn kind of way that made every primitive female instinct in her stand up and take notice. His mouth … that jaw … those eyes.

  She sighed in a way that she never had as a young girl. What a time to start acting like one!

  His hair hung in sopping-wet clumps across his forehead, the stubble of his beard was a day or two too long, and rain was pouring down his face, yet it only seemed to add a rugged edge to his attractiveness. She felt something grip her chest and squeeze.

  The horror of realization hit her. She knew why she was acting like this and why he’d made her feel so uneasy from the start.

  Jerusalem’s Temples, I’m attracted to him!

  Instinctively, like the hare who sees the hunter for the first time, Janet felt the urge to run. She may have persuaded him to do her bidding, but part of her wondered whether crossing the bridge was any less dangerous than spending the night with him.

  Five

  It wasn’t until the innkeeper opened the door to the room that Ewen realized exactly how big of a mistake he’d made in letting her persuade him not to cross that river.

  His eyes scanned the second-floor chamber, which didn’t take long, as it wasn’t much bigger than the solitary bed that had been pushed up against the far wall. Aside from a small table and wooden stool, nothing else was in the room. There wasn’t room for anything.

  Alarm hit him like a poleaxe in the chest. There was no way in hell they could stay here. Jesus, they would be right on top of one another!

  He was just about to ask for another room—a much larger one—when the plump, matronly-looking innkeeper turned to him with a proud smile. “It’s our largest room, and I think our best. You can see right down to the courtyard from that window,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the shutter above the bed. “The roof is tight and will keep you nice and dry. Of course, we can’t have a fire in here with the thatched roof, but it is warm and cozy from the fire in the hall below, and if you give me your wet things, I’ll hang them by the fire downstair
s, and they should be nice and dry by morning.”

  Neither he nor Sister Genna seemed to know what to say. For him that wasn’t uncommon, but he suspected it was a rare occurrence for the silver-tongued nun.

  The innkeeper set down the stack of bed linens she was carrying and placed them on the bed. Then she turned to Sister Genna and said with a wink and meaningful glance toward the bed, “If you need another blanket, let me know. But your husband is a braw laddie, he should keep you plenty warm.”

  Sister Genna seemed to turn even paler and her eyes widened to such enormous proportions, Ewen would have laughed if he wasn’t feeling exactly the same way. Apprehension was an understatement. This room was beginning to look like his very own personal torture chamber.

  He was tempted to thank the innkeeper for her trouble and go right back down the stairs, but that might provoke exactly the type of attention he was trying to avoid. So far everything had gone well, and they had not seemed to attract any undue notice. He didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize that.

  Besides, part of him knew Sister Genna was right: it would have been dangerous to attempt to cross the bridge in the storm. They were both cold and soaked to the bone. He might have been able to build a makeshift shelter, but it would be a long, torturous night outside in the cold and rain. In here it would be a different kind of long, torturous night for him, but at least she would be warm and dry. He couldn’t stand watching her shiver anymore; it made him feel … odd. Like he would do just about anything to make her stop.

  With grim acceptance he took pity on his horror-struck “wife,” who couldn’t seem to find her tongue for once, and answered for her.

  “The room will do,” he said with his usual brevity. He spoke in English, the tongue spoken by the ordinary people in the border towns. He was surprised to discover that Sister Genna spoke it quite well—albeit with a heavy accent—something she’d neglected to tell him until now. The lass was full of surprises.

  He realized he’d said something wrong when the older woman’s face fell. But Sister Genna immediately moved to make it right. “It’s the perfect refuge from the storm,” she said to the innkeeper with a grateful smile. “I’m sure we will be quite comfortable.” She gave a gasp of delight that hit him hard in a place it shouldn’t. “Is that a feather pillow?”

  The innkeeper beamed. “It is indeed, m’lady.”

  “How wonderful! I will be asleep as soon as my head hits those feathers. I suspect my …” He hoped he was the only one who noticed her slight hesitation. “My husband might have to pry me out of bed in the morning. But we have a long journey ahead of us.”

  Much mollified, the innkeeper patted the sister’s arm as if she were a young girl. “Where did you say you were traveling to?”

  “We didn’t,” Ewen said.

  Sister Genna shot him a glare and gave the innkeeper a roll of the eyes as if to apologize for his poor manners. “My mother is very ill,” she said in low tones. “I only hope that we will make it to London in time.”

  “You poor child,” she said, patting her again. “And all the way to London? But you are …”

  “Flemish, Madame,” Genna filled in. They’d decided to be careful in case anyone was looking for an Italian nun. “My father is a merchant.”

  He had to admit she was good at this. For a nun, she certainly lied well. He was almost believing her himself.

  “How did you and your husband meet?”

  Ewen was forced to stand in the doorway for another ten minutes as Genna regaled the innkeeper with the story of their chance meeting at a market in Berwick before “Bruce had caused all this trouble by taking the throne.” He hardly thought he looked like the type to leave wildflowers on her doorstep for a fortnight, but the innkeeper was charmed by his “romance,” and he found himself blushing like a fool (as was no doubt the little minx’s intent!) under her approving gaze.

  Sister Genna was a natural, Ewen realized. If he’d wanted to deflect suspicion, she’d succeeded for him. But finally, after promises to send them up some food, the woman left them alone.

  The moment the door closed behind her, all his trepidation returned full force. The room seemed to grow thick with it. The sudden silence made him wonder if Sister Genna had been keeping the other woman there to delay this very moment.

  Trying to break the moment of awkwardness, he took the two steps to the table and put down the leather bag he kept tied to his saddle. After taking off the plaid he wore around his shoulders, he turned to face her. She’d inched her way to the foot of the bed at the opposite side of the room—about as far away from him as she could manage.

  He cursed silently, seeing the wariness on her pale face. She was looking at him as if he were a wolf and she were a juicy lamb. Worse, he knew it wasn’t unwarranted. She must have realized how close he’d been to kissing her out there earlier.

  What could he have been thinking? She was a nun, for Christ’s sake! He didn’t consider himself a particularly devout man, but the church was a part of his life, as it was for every man and woman in Christendom. His lust for a woman he’d been taught since childhood to revere as holy and sacrosanct was shameful.

  If the fate of his immortal soul wasn’t enough, the possible damage he could do to Bruce’s cause—and thus his own—were he to touch her should be all the reminder he needed. Bruce needed the support of the church to win his war, and Ewen needed Bruce’s if his clan was going to survive. He could only imagine what Lamberton’s reaction would be if it became known that he’d despoiled one of his anointed.

  But she sure as hell wasn’t making it easy on him. She didn’t act like any nun he’d ever met—or any woman, for that matter. And it might have been easier to ignore his feelings if he wasn’t pretty damned sure she was feeling them, too.

  His mouth fell in a grim line when he saw her shiver. She’d lowered the hood from around her head and the golden locks that had been plastered to her head had begun to dry. Damn it, not the hair again! He felt a tug in his groin and bit off another curse. “You should do as she says and get out of those clothes before you catch cold.” With the innkeeper gone, he went back to speaking French.

  Wide-eyed, she shook her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s warm in here. They’ll dry soon enough.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll turn my back while you change; your modesty will be protected.”

  Two bright spots of pink appeared on her cheeks. She’d obviously taken umbrage at his tone. “It’s not my modesty I’m worried about. I only brought two gowns with me, and if you’ll recall, the soldier destroyed the other.”

  He untied the strap of his bag and pulled out an extra leine. “You can wear this.” Anticipating her refusal given the transparency of the fabric he added, “Wrap the plaid she brought for the bed around you.”

  She debated for a minute or two before comfort won out. “Very well. But don’t turn back around until I tell you.”

  “As long as you promise the same. I’ll be changing as well.”

  He watched her fight the smile around her mouth and lose. “You might have used some of that charm with the innkeeper. If the English come looking for us, she would have happily turned you in after that less-than-complimentary comment about the room. And not telling her our destination? You’ll only make people suspicious by refusing to answer their questions.”

  Charm? He’d never been associated with that before. But talking with Sister Genna was different—easier. It was almost like talking to one of the Guard. His brusqueness and rough edges didn’t seem to bother her.

  “Does the same hold true for you, Sister? Can I trust you not to peek?”

  She flushed. “Of course.”

  He held her stare. She did not back down from the challenge in his gaze, but he knew she was hiding something. Something about her wasn’t right, and he intended to find out what it was.

  “Change,” he said gruffly, turning around.

  He’d taken his clothes off in the same room as a woman
countless times before, but he’d never been so achingly aware of it. Though they stood well over five feet apart, he swore he could feel every one of her movements. He made quick work of his own wet clothes, exchanging them for a clean tunic and breeches.

  And then he waited. She seemed to be taking an infinitely long amount of time. He started to turn his head …

  “Are you looking?”

  His head snapped back. “Are you done yet?”

  “Almost.”

  A few minutes later, thinking that she must be finished by now, he glanced over his shoulder again, catching sight of her slim back right before the leine dropped over it.

  He sucked in a groan, going as hard as a spike. Lust pounded through him and the painful ache returned. It was his own damned fault. This was what he got for looking.

  Now he had the image of a smooth, shapely, creamy bottom to go along with the smooth, shapely, creamy breasts. The walls of the torture room seemed to be drawing in tighter.

  But not all of her had been smooth. He frowned, recalling the scars that he’d noticed earlier. A hair shirt and whip? He didn’t think so. They looked like some kind of burn marks.

  The lass was going to start answering some of his questions.

  “You can turn around,” she said.

  The frown was still on his face. “How did you get the scars on your back?”

  Janet stiffened instinctively. It wasn’t shame but the natural defensiveness that the subject aroused. Though they’d faded, she knew the scars were unsightly. But somehow that seemed fitting. She wanted the reminder. She didn’t want to lose sight of her purpose. She might not be able to change what her interference that day at the bridge had wrought—or bring back Cailin—but she could ensure that something good came from it.

  She must be getting used to Ewen’s blunt manner of speaking, because neither his question nor his appalling lack of manners in bringing up such a personal subject surprised her. He was lucky that she wasn’t self-conscious.

  All of a sudden, she stopped. Her eyes narrowed. What had made him think of the scars? “You looked!”