The Hunter

by Monica McCarty

  In her memories—all right, in her fantasies—Janet had forgotten just how unreasonable Ewen Lamont could be. How could she have thought there could ever be something between them? The man was perfectly immovable. Utterly recalcitrant. Rigid and uncompromising. Who cared if he could take her breath away with his kiss and was so heart-stoppingly handsome that seeing him again after all this time made her knees turn to jelly? She could never care about someone so totally unreasonable and indifferent to her wishes.

  Talking with him was an exercise in frustration.

  But it was also exhilarating.

  Janet’s heart was still beating hard as she stomped her way up the hill to the priory with the other nuns.

  Of course, he wasn’t here because he had feelings for her. How could she have been so foolish as to let herself be disappointed even for a moment? The only reason he was here was because the king had ordered him to come fetch her. He’d probably forgotten all about the kiss. He didn’t even seem to care that she’d lied to him about her identity. She’d thought he’d be furious to discover she wasn’t a nun.

  Heaven’s gates, of all the time to start acting like a lovesick girl. He wasn’t the man for her. There wasn’t a man for her. She was going to be a nun, wasn’t she? Of course, she was. How could she have let him make her lose sight of her plans for even a minute?

  “Is something wrong, Eleanor?”

  It took Janet a moment to realize Beth was talking to her.

  She smiled at the young novice, whose big, dark eyes reminded her so much of Sister Marguerite. “Nay, why do you ask?”

  The girl looked puzzled. “You were muttering.” She blushed. “I thought I heard you say ‘stubborn oaf.’ ”

  It was Janet’s turn for hot cheeks. “I was thinking about my brother. He’ll be here to fetch me soon. I’ve had some distressing news from home and must return to Cumberland for a few days. My mother is ill.”

  Beth appeared so distressed, Janet almost reached out to offer her comfort. Lying was part of the job—and she was good at it—but recently it had begun to chafe.

  “How horrible!” the girl said. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Janet started to shake her head, but then she thought of something. “If anyone asks for me at the hospital, will you tell them I will return soon?”

  Beth nodded solemnly. “The patients will miss you. As will I.”

  Janet felt a soft tug in her chest. As with Sister Marguerite, it was hard to keep herself distant from the young novice. But as Sister Marguerite had proved, a connection with her could be dangerous. Janet almost regretted making the simple request of Beth, but just in case she took longer than expected, she wanted their informant to know she would be back.

  The abbess accepted without comment the story of her needing to leave. Friar Thom—the horror of his death still weighed heavily on Janet—had told her the abbess was a friend. How much she knew, Janet didn’t ask, but she suspected the older nun had guessed most of it.

  When Ewen arrived to collect her at the gate at the appointed hour—thankfully, dressed in the plain clothing of a farmer rather than his leper’s cloak and hood—she was ready to go. He grunted some kind of greeting, took her bag, and led her (or rather, he stalked away and she hurried after him) down the path to where he’d tied the horses. She was pleased to see two. Of course, she was. The last thing she wanted to do was ride with him again.

  It wasn’t as if the memory of his arms around her, the big, hard wall of his chest behind her, or the gentle warmth and feeling of contentment was something she dreamed about. Nor was the thought of spending a few days with him something that should be making her pulse race, blast it.

  She noticed that he did a surreptitious scan of the countryside around the convent before he turned and helped lift her onto the horse. But other than a few nuns working in the garden, and a young lad fishing by the river, there was no one else about. Janet supposed he was just being cautious, but she did sense an unusual watchfulness about him.

  No doubt any warrior in Bruce’s army would feel a bit anxious being in the Borders, but the convent was in a quiet part of the village, at least a quarter-mile away from any other abode. He had no cause for concern.

  She might have told him so, but the moment his hands wrapped around her waist to lift her, she jolted. There was no other way to describe the blast of sensation that surged through her at the moment of contact. She could feel the imprint of every one of those big fingers splayed over her ribs.

  Good heavens, she’d forgotten how strong he was. He lifted her as if she weighed no more than a child. She reached out to steady herself by grabbing the solid muscle of his arms, and the jolt was followed by a heavy rush of heat. Heat that poured through her body in deep, molten waves.

  Oh God, it was just like she remembered. She’d wondered if she’d imagined it—exaggerated it in her mind. But she hadn’t. One brief touch and she was falling to pieces.

  Yet one glance at his stony expression and she felt a pang. Obviously he was not similarly affected. He wore that same grim look on his face that she remembered so well, except that his mouth was even a tad tighter than before. Little white lines were etched around his lips and the muscle below his jaw seemed to tic a few times.

  He set her down so harshly on the saddle, she gasped. “Ouch!” she said, rubbing her affected backside. “That hurt.” He didn’t bother to offer an apology but glared at her as if it were her fault. She lifted one eyebrow. “I can see you’ve been perfecting your gallantry skills since last we met.”

  His eyes glinted and her insides did a little tossing about at their steely intensity. He gave her a mock bow. “Forgive me, my lady. I’d forgotten who I was serving.”

  Janet bit her lip, regretting the sarcasm that had reminded him of her wee deception. Apparently, he wasn’t as indifferent as he appeared about learning her true identity. She half-expected him to start bellowing at her, but instead, he turned sharply away and mounted his own horse.

  Janet wasn’t the best judge of horseflesh, but even she could see that the horses were better suited to plow animals and certainly weren’t going to be able to carry them far from Roxburgh. They rode a few minutes before she asked, “Did you borrow the horses the same place you borrowed those clothes?”

  He shot her a glare. “You didn’t leave me much time to plan for something grander, my lady. I thought the farmer better than the leper or wearing my armor to collect you.”

  He had a way of saying “my lady” that made her want to cringe. “Stop calling me that.”

  His gaze bit into her and she shuddered, seeing the anger simmering there. But his voice was deceptively even. “What would you prefer I call you? Sister? Genna? Eleanor?”

  “Janet. You know that’s my name. Stop pretending you’ve forgotten.”

  “Oh, I haven’t forgotten.”

  With that ominous bit of warning that made her stomach feel as if a rock were bouncing up and down inside, he turned away.

  They rode in silence for a while, each mile more and more uncomfortable. Why didn’t he just get it over with? Waiting for the axe to fall was making her anxious.

  He was tense, too, although not for the same reason. The alertness she’d noticed had only increased the longer they rode—south, she realized suddenly.

  “Why are we riding in this direction? Shouldn’t we be riding away from England?”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “I’m making sure no one is following us.”

  “Why would they be?”

  She wasn’t surprised when he didn’t answer her, as it seemed she had about a one-in-two chance of that occurring. If he was trying to deter her from questions, however, it wasn’t going to work.

  He seemed to be making an effort to cover their tracks. At least that was what she assumed he was doing, when he occasionally led them off the path into rocky ground or obscured their direction at junctures by riding back and forth a few times and varying the speed—and thus the stride—of their
horses.

  “Is anyone following us?” she asked.

  “I don’t think so, but we’ll go a few more miles before we circle back to meet the others.”

  “Others?”

  “You did not think I would come alone? Your former brother-in-law sent four of his best men to find you, including your new brother-in-law.”

  “Mary’s husband?”

  She’d heard from Lamberton about Sutherland’s defection from the English and knew that her sister was safely returned to Scotland. If there was one good thing about being dragged back to Scotland like this, it was that she would finally be able to see her sister.

  But beneath the excitement was also nervousness. Would Mary feel the same? Janet had caused her sister so much grief. She’d made a mess of everything, and Mary had been the one to suffer for it. She’d only narrowly escaped imprisonment and her son, Davey, had been taken from her again. Mary had every right to blame her for it.

  Did she?

  God knows, Janet did. Because of her, the man who’d picked her up and wiped her tears when she’d skinned her knee, who’d taught her how to ride a horse, who’d told her stories on his knee, was dead. The old servant had loved her like a father—better than a father and much better than her actual father. And what had he gotten for it? An arrow in the back.

  Ewen must have been watching her face. When he spoke, it was in a far gentler voice than he’d used before. “Aye. Kenneth Sutherland, heir to the Earl of Sutherland.”

  Janet nodded, having learned as much from the bishop. “Is … is she happy?”

  He nodded, and for a moment she saw a glimmer of the softness in his eyes that she remembered. “Aye, lass. Very happy.”

  Janet smiled. “I’m glad. No one deserves it more.”

  He looked as though he wanted to say something. But when he turned away instead, Janet told herself not to be disappointed.

  It didn’t work.

  They followed the road south for a few more miles, encountering no one, before veering off the path near a small loch, where they stopped to water the horses. Not having ridden a horse for some time, Janet was grateful for the short reprieve to stretch her legs.

  She tended to her needs, and then walked to the edge of the water. It was a small loch, no bigger than a mile in diameter, but pretty, with the trees shrouding it in shades of green and brown.

  The light was beginning to fade, and she guessed it must be a few hours after midday. With winter approaching, the days were growing shorter. It would be dark before long. They would barely be back to where they’d started, when it would be time to stop for the night.

  Ewen came up beside her, seemingly reading her thoughts. “We will travel at night.”

  “Won’t that be dangerous?”

  His gaze hardened. “Aye. But that shouldn’t bother you.”

  Janet couldn’t stand it anymore. His not-so-subtle barbs were driving her mad. “I know you are angry about what happened before. Why don’t you just say what you have to say and get it over with?”

  Then maybe he would stop acting like a stranger. Like nothing had happened between them. And then maybe they could … what?

  Janet didn’t know, but it wasn’t this.

  Not giving in to his anger was a hell of a lot harder than Ewen expected. Every time he thought of what she’d been doing—of what she’d done—he went a little crazed with it.

  “Angry?” he repeated. “Why should I be angry? Because you let me kiss you, and then let me believe I’d committed a grave sin, or because you gave me your word you would stay out of this?”

  She stiffened, pursing her mouth the way she did when she found something distasteful. In other words, when someone pointed out something she didn’t want to hear. “I didn’t say that. I said I would leave the fighting to the men—which I have.”

  It took everything he had not to put his hands on her. No woman had ever riled his temper so easily. Hell, he hadn’t even known he had a temper. The muscles in his arms flexed at his side, shaking with the effort not to touch her. Not to take her by the arms and haul her up against him, where he was damned sure she would have to listen to him. “Don’t try that shite with me, Janet. You know bloody well what I meant!”

  Not heeding the warning of his crass language, she gave a careless shrug of her shoulders and batted those big sea-blue eyes at him innocently. “Do I?”

  He wasn’t aware that he’d moved until she gasped and took a step back—right into a tree. He loomed over her, a flurry of dangerous emotions firing inside him. Anger, frustration, and something that went far deeper. Something extreme and uncontrollable. Something wild. Something that roused every primitive and base instinct left over from his barbarian ancestors. Something that made him want to push her up against that tree, rip her clothes off, wrap one of her legs around his hips—what the hell was there about a woman wrapping her legs around him?—and ravish her until she vowed never to put herself in danger again. He could almost feel her shuddering against him. Feel the softness of her breasts crushed against his chest. Feel the heat of her. The taste of her.

  God, he wanted her, and restraint hurt. He was hot and hard, and pounding with need.

  How did she do this to him? How could she strip him bare in a matter of minutes? Make him as out of control as …

  As his father.

  A sudden chill penetrated the heat.

  Rather than be intimidated—as any lass in her right mind should be—the lass only looked more outraged. Stretching to her full height, a good foot shorter than he, she stood toe-to-toe with him and dotted her tiny finger into his chest to emphasize her words. “You have no right to order me to do anything. What I do is none of your business.”

  Whether it was her words or the thought of his father, he didn’t know. But as quickly as the anger had stoked inside him, it was doused. Ewen was nothing like his father. Nothing.

  His father had been rash and undisciplined, wild and irresponsible. He had no concept of duty and loyalty.

  Ewen knew exactly where his duty lay, and it wasn’t in laying with her.

  He stepped back. “You’re right.”

  He should thank her for reminding him. He wasn’t going to have this conversation because it didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. Janet of Mar was not for him.

  It didn’t matter that no other woman had ever affected him like this. It didn’t matter that he took one look at her and felt every inch, every bone, every ounce of blood in his body heat with desire so fierce and raw that it took his breath away. It didn’t matter that she made him angry. It didn’t matter that she was the first woman he could talk to without having to worry about whether he’d said something wrong.

  Hell, it didn’t even matter that he liked her. So what? Marriage wasn’t based on likes and dislikes. It was based on duty, and people did their duty and ignored their personal desires every day.

  Civilized men—responsible men—didn’t simply take a woman because they wanted her. His father might have done that, but he wasn’t his damned father. He didn’t get impassioned about anything, damn it. And sure as hell not about a woman.

  Except her.

  He swore. It was only a few days. He could handle a few days of almost anything—including being aroused to the point of pain.

  His physical discomfort was almost worth the expression on her face. His sudden retreat had discombobulated her.

  She blinked up at him. “I am?”

  He nodded. “Aye. It’s not any of my business. But you’d think after what happened with your sister at the bridge, you would be more cautious.” She flinched, and Ewen sensed that his barb had struck deeper than he’d intended. But maybe it would make her think. “Now, if you are ready, we should go.” And with that, he turned on his heel and left before the hurt in her eyes made him do something stupid.

  Stung by the reminder of her sister, Janet watched him walk away. What had just happened? One minute he was looking at her as if he didn’t know whether to throt
tle her or kiss her (she was rather hoping for the latter), and the next he was walking away as if he didn’t care one whit about her.

  Perhaps he didn’t.

  The realization stabbed. Why was he acting like this, so cold and indifferent? Good heavens, he’d seemed more attracted to her when he’d thought she was a nun!

  Something had changed between them, and it wasn’t just a veil. She’d thought …

  What? That he felt something for her? That there had been some kind of special connection between them? Had her own feelings made her see something that wasn’t there?

  It wasn’t often that Janet felt unsure of herself, but it was becoming an all-too-frequent occurrence around Ewen Lamont. How a rough, uncouth soldier with limited communication skills (which sounded better than “spares words but not feelings”) and abysmal manners could leave her so unbalanced and confused defied comprehension. She’d come across a thousand men like him (although admittedly not many who were built like a stone wall and handsome enough to make her knees weak).

  She didn’t know what she wanted from him. He wasn’t right for her—she knew that. He was too opinionated, too rigid, too much like her patronizing “lasses-can’t-do-that” brothers and father. But she couldn’t deny that seeing him again made her heart flutter as if she were a thirteen-year-old lass who’d just met her first handsome knight. She felt silly and woozy and flushed all at the same time.

  Jerusalem’s temples, she couldn’t even breathe right! All he had to do was stand next to her and the wild fluttering of her heart took over her lungs, making her breath quicken into short little gasps.

  And heaven forbid he touch her! If he touched her, she would turn into a horrible soupy mess. All melty and hot, and unable to think straight.

  She was too old to be acting like this. Surely these kind of feelings were the province of lovesick young girls, and not a woman of seven and twenty who was basically a nun?

  Except there was no “basically” when it came to being a nun. He’d made her remember that she was a woman. A woman who was no longer young, but who knew exactly what she was going to do, until he’d come along and confused her with his no-nonsense, say-whatever-is-on-his mind and won’t-be-gainsaid manner, his ruggedly handsome face, that broad chest and distracting display of muscle, and most of all, the fierce taste of passion that had shown her just how far from nunhood she really was.