The Hunter

by Monica McCarty

  Ewen clenched his mouth to prevent himself from arguing. But he didn’t see what could possibly be so important as to endanger her life.

  “Have you forgotten what Bella did for me?” Bruce asked, referring to MacRuairi’s wife, the former Countess of Buchan, who’d suffered years of English imprisonment for her part in crowning the king, part of it in a cage. “Or how my wife, daughter, and sisters are still suffering for my cause?”

  “That’s exactly my point,” Ewen said. “Women don’t belong in prison or cages. It’s our duty to—”

  He stopped before he said the offending words, but it was too late.

  “It’s our duty to protect them,” the king finished his thought.

  Ewen winced. Damn it, he’d stepped in it again! The king was haunted by what had happened to his women and blamed himself for the fate that had befallen them. He didn’t need Ewen to remind him.

  “It isn’t always possible,” the king said softly. He paused a moment before clearing his throat and continuing in a harder voice, “Your fears about my former sister-in-law are not unwarranted, but do not let it concern you. I’ve already started to make preparations for her return, as soon as I can arrange an alternative, which won’t be easy.”

  Ewen didn’t bother to hide his relief. “I’m glad to hear it, Sire.”

  “Sutherland was making it difficult with his enquiries on behalf of his wife, renewing interest in the lass, and with what you have said …” He shrugged. “Janet will have to understand.”

  He didn’t sound any more convinced than Ewen.

  “Lady Mary doesn’t know she is alive?”

  Bruce shook his head. “We thought it was safer for all involved to keep it secret. Until recently, I wasn’t sure in which direction Mary’s loyalty lay. She was in England for many years.”

  “I’m sure she will be relieved.”

  “She’ll be furious,” Bruce quipped dryly. He laughed. “But I hope to appease her with wedding plans.”

  Ewen frowned. “Wedding plans? But I thought Sutherland and Mary were already married.”

  “They are. It’s her sister’s wedding I speak of.”

  “But Janet is a …” Even before Ewen could say the word, he realized the truth. He stared at Bruce, feeling as if he’d been kicked in the chest. Or maybe a little lower.

  Bruce smiled. “She hasn’t taken any vows.”

  A dam burst as anger rose dangerously inside him. It felt like his whole damned body was shaking. “She is pretending to be a nun?”

  He was going to kill her, or kiss her until he earned the sins he’d been paying for and she begged forgiveness for the torture she’d put him through—he didn’t know which. But one way or another, his too tempting little non-nun was going to pay.

  Bruce stared at him with a frown, but Ewen was too angry to hide his reaction. “It started as an innocent mistake,” the king explained, “but ended up being the best way to protect her. Who would think Janet of Mar was an Italian nun?” Who indeed? Ewen fumed, feeling as if his head were about to explode. How long would it take him to reach Berwick? He was counting down the hours. “Sister Genna” wasn’t going to talk her way out of this one. “Lamberton said the lass has some ideas to take the veil in truth, but when she hears the husband I have picked out for her, I’m sure she will change her mind.”

  Ewen thought the knowledge of how she’d lied to him, let him wallow in his guilt for kissing her, and then used it against him was bad enough. He was wrong.

  Married? Every instinct in his body recoiled at the idea.

  “Who?” he asked in a flat voice.

  The king looked at him oddly. “Young Walter.”

  The blow could have felled him in two. “Stewart?”

  The king nodded.

  Ewen’s liege lord and the son of the man to whom he owed everything. The door that had cracked open for a moment slammed shut. If Ewen had harbored any thoughts of something more with Janet of Mar—even for an instant—the knowledge that she was meant for Walter Stewart erected a wall in his mind that was far more powerful than any veil.

  Everything Ewen had he owed to James Stewart—his home, his land, his education, his place in Bruce’s guard—and now that loyalty belonged to his son. Moreover, any hope he had of restoring his clan’s good name rested not just with Bruce, but also with the Stewarts.

  Pursuing his liege lord’s intended wasn’t likely to endear him to either. He wasn’t going to jeopardize everything he’d been fighting for for a woman, especially one who infuriated him half the time. More than half the time.

  No matter how hot she fired his blood.

  No matter that she was the first woman he’d ever talked to that didn’t make him feel as if every word out of his mouth was wrong.

  No matter that every time he closed his eyes he saw her face.

  A ridiculous thought stole through his mind: What if

  Stewart could be persuaded to step aside? Hell, one could even argue that Ewen would be doing him a favor. Janet was probably a good half-dozen years older than the eighteen-year-old Walter, and infinitely wiser. The lass would eat the poor lad up alive.

  But Ewen stomped on the flicker of hope before it could flame. Who the hell was he fooling? She was the former sister-in-law of a king. The daughter, sister, and aunt of an earl. He was a Highland chieftain with one finger of land in Cowal, a holding that was a pittance compared to Stewart’s—or even his cousin’s before the Lamont lands were dispossessed.

  Even if he wanted her—which he sure as hell wasn’t saying he did—Janet of Mar was not for him.

  Or so he would keep telling himself over the long months ahead.

  Eight

  Roxburgh, Scottish Marches, Autumn 1310

  An eerie prickle raced down her spine. Janet turned anxiously, scanning the area behind her, but nothing seemed amiss. No one was paying her any mind. It had to be the weather.

  It was a hot autumn day, and the sun beat down mercilessly on the heavy black wool of her habit as she waited for the group of ladies from the castle to appear from among the throng that had descended on the high street for market day. The ladies were late, but as they had been delayed before, it did not give her undue cause for alarm.

  She passed the time exchanging brief conversations with the people who stopped to enquire about her goods (a benefit of supposedly speaking only Italian and French) and the other nuns and friars who brought their goods to market, as well as listening to the talk of the villagers around her while pretending not to understand their words.

  As usual, the talk was of war. Since Edward had marched his troops north into Scotland late last spring, the talk had been of little else.

  “Another supply train was lost,” one of the merchants in a stall behind her said.

  Her ears pricked up.

  “Bruce’s phantoms again?” another replied in an almost reverent whisper.

  “Aye,” the first answered. “Like wraiths they appear out of the mist to slay all in their wake, with their swords forged in the fires of Valhalla, and fade back into the darkness again. It’s the Devil’s magic,” he whispered. “How else could they know where King Edward’s men will be?”

  The stories about the mysterious band of warriors—“Bruce’s phantoms”—spread across the Borders like wildfire. They were either devils or heroes, depending on which side you were on. But even among their enemies, there was a certain amount of awe and admiration when speaking of their exploits. Like all good legends, the stories were getting better with each retelling. If the warriors had managed even a quarter of the feats attributed to them, it would have been impressive.

  The common folk might think them phantoms, but King Edward’s commanders were keenly aware that they were only men—exceptional ones perhaps, but men all the same. The rewards being offered for any of “Bruce’s secret army” were staggering. But it was hard to capture men whose identities were shrouded in secrecy.

  Except for one. Janet still couldn’t believ
e that her sister-in-law’s disreputable bastard brother, Lachlan MacRuairi, was one of Robert’s chosen few. Janet had met the brigand only once—at Duncan’s wedding, before Lachlan had been accused of murdering his wife—but that was enough. The big, mean-looking warrior with a temperament as black as his hair had terrified her. Since John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, had unmasked him, Lachlan had a price on his head nearly as high as Bruce’s.

  Janet enjoyed the stories as much as anyone else, but she was curious about the real men behind the myths.

  “How many?” the other merchant asked. She didn’t want to look, but she guessed by his voice that he was only a lad.

  “Four, against nearly a score of English soldiers.” She could almost hear the older merchant shake his head. “How can King Edward expect to compete with such magic?”

  Janet bit back a smile. It wasn’t magic, it was her messages—or at least the ones she passed back and forth. But she could hardly tell them that. Over the past few months, she’d become the intermediary for Robert’s most important—and secret—informant in the enemy camp. Only a handful of people knew of their informant’s identity. Indeed, Robert was so protective of their source that Janet didn’t think he would have agreed to risk using her had she not been available to act as an intermediary. It had to be a woman—to lessen the chance of discovery for their informant—and someone he could trust. Like a former sister-in-law.

  On the first Saturday of every month, Sister Genna brought embroidery from the good sisters of Mont Carmel Nunnery outside of Berwick to sell at the market here in Roxburgh, one of Edward’s key command posts in the Borders. The finely stitched pieces were a favorite of the ladies in the castle, and they were always excited to see the Italian nun. If Janet occasionally found a folded piece of parchment in one of the purses they examined (or left one to be found as she did today), she knew it wouldn’t be long before there was another sighting of “Bruce’s phantoms.”

  “It’s not right,” the older merchant continued. “Bruce is a knight, yet he hides in the forest and countryside like a craven mouse while he sends his phantom brigands to harry our valiant and chivalrous soldiers. Edward will be forced to return to England for the winter, having never taken the field against the traitor.”

  Janet would not argue with the mouse analogy—with Edward playing the part of the cat—but Robert the Bruce was no coward. However, she understood what these men did not: the battle could be won by evasion as easily as it could by taking up arms—with much less risk.

  Why should Robert take the field? He had nothing to gain by meeting Edward on the battlefield right now. The quick, surprise attacks from the heather that were meant to harry and discourage the enemy might not be “knightly,” but they were giving him all the victories he needed. When he was ready, Robert would take the field against the powerful English army, with their knights, mail, and destriers.

  But until then, the war would go on.

  Janet sighed, sadness and resolve rolling over her in a wistful wave. If she’d harbored a secret hope that the war would end soon, she knew it was not to be. Scotland, her sister, and what remained of her family would have to wait a little longer.

  The talk around her continued, but Janet’s interest waned as the morning dragged on and the sun climbed higher in the sky. Jerusalem’s Temples, it was like midsummer during a heat wave! She dabbed a damp cloth at her forehead, not for the first time wishing she could tear off the blasted veil and gown.

  The vehemence of her reaction took her aback. It seemed that more and more, Janet was growing uncomfortable in the garments that had protected and kept her hidden for so long.

  Her mouth pursed, knowing exactly who was to blame for her discontent. Before Ewen Lamont had burst into her life and ruined everything with his confusing, bone-melting kiss, she’d barely noticed the clothes she wore. But now, every morning after she washed, she dressed with a feeling of wrongness. It felt wrong to pretend to be a nun when her thoughts—her dreams—were filled with such wickedness. And her intention to be a nun … that felt wrong, too. It had never been a calling to her, not in the way it should, but had seemed the practical solution to enable her to continue doing what she did enjoy.

  It was the only way; blast him for making her question it!

  It was ridiculous. All these months, and she was still thinking of a man she would probably never see again, who’d probably forgotten all about her. Who was utterly wrong for her. Who saw only one place for women in this modern world, and that was behind castle walls.

  Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Why did the short time they’d spent together play on her mind even all this time later? And why did she feel so guilty for lying to him?

  Lies in war were necessary. If she needed any proof that she’d done the right thing, all she had to do was think about today. Her role in Robert’s network had become more important than she’d dreamed. Robert needed her.

  It was for the best. Of course, it was. She was glad Ewen had never come back. Truly. He’d confused her enough already.

  For the second time that morning, Janet felt a prickle at the back of her neck and turned. She scanned the crowd of villagers, looking closely at the soldier who stood in their midst, but no one seemed to be paying her any mind.

  The long wait was making her antsy. Fortunately, when she looked back up the hill toward the castle, she could see that her wait was over. A group of about ten ladies were making their way down the hill toward the village. They were easy to pick out by the bright colors and finery of their gowns and jewels. They sparkled like diamonds in a sea of dreary gray.

  Janet was unable to suppress the pang of longing that stole through her chest. At one time, she’d looked just like them. As a girl, she’d driven her father half-crazed with her penchant for spending “a bloody fortune” on the latest fashions from France and England.

  But now …

  She gazed down at the hot, black homespun gown that she wore, which had no more shape than a sackcloth. Her chest squeezed. Was it wrong to want to be pretty again?

  She pursed her mouth, telling herself to stop being so silly. But she knew exactly who was to blame for the errant thoughts.

  The ladies from the castle were only two stalls away when she felt someone at her side.

  “Don’t turn around,” a man’s voice whispered in French. “You are being watched.”

  Janet did her best not to react, but the heat that had spread over her skin from the sun turned to ice. She cast a sidelong glance at the man who’d voiced the warning, recognizing one of the friars from the Friary of St. Peter’s, located just across the river from the castle. They’d crossed paths many times before at market, and he’d been the one to arrange for her stall among the other religious houses’ offerings, but she’d never paid the nondescript young churchman much mind.

  Perhaps that was the point. He was easy to overlook. Friar Thom was of average height and build, with a circle of straight brown hair around his tonsure. He was neither handsome nor ugly, with brown eyes and unremarkable features. Nothing stood out. Which probably made him the perfect spy or courier—she hoped, for Bruce.

  He moved away as quickly as he’d approached. If someone was indeed watching her, it would have seemed as if he’d passed right by after a quick glance at her table.

  But the brief contact had sent her heart racing. Whether friend or foe, she could not take the chance in meeting her source with him near.

  Her pulse took another anxious spike when she glanced over and saw the ladies from the castle at the very next stall.

  She tried to make eye contact, but one of the ladies was blocking the person she was looking for. If someone was watching her, perhaps that wasn’t the best thing to do anyway. She needed a distraction, something to keep the women away.

  All of a sudden, she had an idea. “Mais non!” she cried out in despair. She began tearing through the items she had laid out on the table.

  “What is it, Sister Genna?” one o
f the nuns at the next table asked, continuing in French.

  “The alms purse made by the Reverend Mother,” she said, twisting her hands. “I cannot find it. Someone must have stolen it from the table when I was not looking.”

  She’d spoken loud enough for those around her to hear, and the use of the word “stolen” had the desired effect in creating a disturbance. A number of the nearby churchmen and women came forward to help her.

  “What does it look like?” the first nun, Sister Winifred, asked.

  “It was an image of Our Lady embroidered in gold thread,” Janet answered about the nonexistent item.

  “When did you notice it missing?” another one of the nuns asked in English—this one she didn’t recognize.

  Janet pretended not to understand, and Sister Winifred, who knew she was Italian (or at least pretending to be), translated for her in French.

  Janet shook her head, hoping her eyes looked as if they were filling with tears. “I don’t know.”

  “Someone should send for the constable,” one of the friars said, outraged.

  Janet glanced at the ladies and nearly sighed with relief to see them being urged away by her contact, who’d obviously figured that something must be wrong.

  She shook her head at the friar who’d spoken. “It is no use. I did not see who took it. I’m sure the thief is long gone.”

  “What seems to be the problem?”

  Even before Janet turned, she felt a chill sweep across the back of her neck and knew without a doubt that this was the person who’d been watching her. He wore the robes of a priest, including a finely embroidered cope that spoke of his importance, but there was nothing about this man that was holy. He seemed to exude danger and animosity. For a moment she felt like one of the hunted Templars under the inquisitor’s gaze.

  As he’d spoken in French, she could not feign ignorance. “A purse, Father. It seems someone has stolen it.”

  “Is that so,” he said carefully, eyes narrowing. “And how is it that this thief made off with your purse and no one noticed?”

  Janet’s eyes widened innocently. “What a wonderful suggestion, Father. Perhaps I should ask around. Did you see something, by chance?”