The Hunter

by Monica McCarty

  His frown deepened. “It’s not the same.”

  Suddenly, Janet felt tired. Too tired to try to make him understand. Too tired of banging her head against a stone wall—no matter how impressively built.

  She stared down at him. He still had his hand on her arm, but he let it drop. “Are you going to let me help or not?”

  He hesitated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  His gaze shifted uncomfortably. “It isn’t …” His cheeks darkened. “It wouldn’t be proper.”

  Janet gaped at him. My God, he was blushing! “You are modest?”

  A flash of annoyance cleared away the blush. “Of course not. I was merely thinking of you.”

  She tried not to laugh, but she feared the smile showed behind her pursed lips. “I’ve been pretending to be a nurse for quite a while. I think I can manage not to faint with maidenly shock.”

  She did. But just barely. It was one thing to tend old men and women, and another to stand inches away from a man who made your heart skip, even when he wasn’t sliding his breeches—and then his wet braies—down his hip.

  He managed to keep himself covered except for the top of his outer thigh, but good gracious, she felt like she was jumping out of her skin. How was she going to touch him so intimately and not think about …

  Her gaze flew from the big bulge (where to her horror she’d been looking), and heat flamed her cheeks. Only the sight of the wound prevented her from thrusting the ointment into his hand, babbling some excuse, and racing back to the cave.

  But the angry mass of torn flesh brought her back to reality. She gasped in half-horror and half-outrage. Though the dip in the freezing loch had washed most of the blood away, it was still a red, angry mess. The crusted black flesh where the original wound had been burned closed had been ripped open again—shredded, actually—and blood was seeping out. Instead of the small hole she’d hoped to see, the seared wound was nearly two inches long and jagged in shape, as if someone had just pulled the arrow out without thought or care.

  Her eyes met his with accusation. “How could you let it get like this and say nothing?”

  “It isn’t that bad,” he said defensively.

  She gave him a glare, not bothering to deign that with a response, and went to work.

  But even her anger couldn’t completely mask the effects of touching him, and her hands shook as she started to apply the ointment.

  Thinking to keep her mind on her task, she asked, “Who pulled the arrow out? I assume it wasn’t Helen?”

  He bit out a harsh laugh. “Hardly. She was furious that I didn’t wait for her.”

  She should have known. “You should have. You made a mess of it.”

  He shrugged unapologetically. “There wasn’t time. I was in the middle of a battle and it was getting in my way. It was deeper than I thought. It hit the bone and stopped.”

  “You could have bled to death.”

  One side of his mouth lifted. “It wasn’t that bad. It looks much worse now since it’s been opened up a few more times.”

  “Did you ever think to let it heal?” He shrugged and started to say something, but she stopped him. “Let me guess: there wasn’t time, and you were fighting.”

  He grinned and stopped her heart with a wink. “Smart lass.”

  Ignoring the hammering in her heart brought on by the rare display of boyishness, she rolled her eyes away and resumed her task. After finishing with the ointment, she started to wrap the clean cloth around his leg, but as soon as her hand dipped toward the inside of his leg, he grabbed her wrist. “I’ll do it.”

  Their eyes met and the hammering started all over again—harder this time and more insistent. She couldn’t escape from it. It was in her chest, in her ears, in her throat. It stole her breath.

  She needed …

  Wanted …

  His eyes pulled her in. Or maybe it was his hand still holding her wrist? She didn’t know, but one minute she was staring into his eyes and the next she was in his lap, her other hand was on his shoulder, her lips were on his, and she was warm again. Perhaps warmer than she’d ever been in her life.

  It felt so good. He felt so good. The heat of his mouth on hers. The velvety softness of his lips. The minty spiciness of his breath, and the fresh scent of the water that still clung to his skin and hair.

  She made a soft mewling sound, unconsciously opening her mouth, sinking deeper into the kiss.

  He made a low growling sound, opening his mouth over hers, and for one moment she thought he meant to deepen the kiss. Her pulse jumped and warmth spread through her as she anticipated the deep thrust of his tongue claiming her, and the strength of his arms wrapping around her.

  Kissing him was like nothing she’d ever imagined. She could get lost in the perfection of the sensations assailing her. It was as if she were floating. Sailing away on a sea of sensation. Soaring up the stairway to heaven. Being transported to a magical land filled with new and wonderful possibilities.

  It was new. It was exciting. It was perfect.

  And then it was over.

  He made a harsh, strangled sound low in his throat, almost as if he were in pain, and thrust her harshly away.

  For one moment, Ewen forgot himself. For one moment, her nearness and the feeling of her hands on him proved too much to resist. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the flutter of her pulse under his hand as he held her wrist, and practically taste it on her lips.

  She wanted him, and not all the land in Scotland or all the duty and loyalty in the world to the Stewarts and his clan could stop him from wanting her back. So when her mouth moved toward his, he didn’t do anything to stop it. He let her fall, let her slide into his lap, and let their lips come together one more time.

  He just hadn’t anticipated the blow to the chest that crippled him with longing, the overwhelming desire that crashed over him, the mind-numbing pleasure, or the fierce and nearly irresistible urge to take her into his arms and make her his.

  How could a kiss do this to him? How could the simple contact of her lips on his make him so weak? Strip him of almost everything he believed in?

  Because it felt good. Really good. It felt like nothing he’d ever experienced before. It felt big and powerful and significant. It felt like nothing else mattered except for the two of them. And for that one precious moment in time it felt something else, too. It felt perfect.

  It would have been perfect. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that making love to her would be as close to heaven as he would ever hope to get on this side of the gates. But he had just enough conscious thought, just enough strength, left to put an end to it. Because no matter how desperately he wanted a few minutes of heaven with her, he’d be left with a lifetime of hell and recriminations.

  He wasn’t his father. He couldn’t ignore his duty and responsibilities. Even for her.

  But the look on her face tore his resolve to shreds. She looked stunned and dazed, and too damned aroused for any innocent maid.

  Hell, he almost wished she’d go back to pretending to be a nun. At least then she’d attempted to hide her desire. But not anymore. It was there, naked, staring at him, daring him to take what she offered.

  He clenched his fists so he would not reach for her again, and then turned away. Recalling the state of his clothing, he finished wrapping the clean cloth around the wound and pulled up his breeches. But the thin layers of cloth weren’t enough. He’d need a suit of the English mail to arm himself against her—and that probably wouldn’t be enough.

  She was still standing there, watching him, when he was done. He wished he hadn’t looked at her. The stunned look had turned to something else: hurt. And it knifed in his chest like a mangled blade.

  “Is there … was there … is something wrong?”

  He steeled himself against the urge to comfort her. To offer her reassurance. To tell her it was too damned perfect—that was the problem.

  He couldn’t meet her gaze when he said, “You
shouldn’t have kissed me.”

  “I didn’t …” Her protest dropped off when he looked at her. It was nearly dawn, and there was enough sunlight to see the spots of dark pink on her cheeks. “You didn’t seem to mind so much last time.”

  He detected the challenging glint in her eyes and knew he had better put a stop to this. “As I told you before, I am no longer interested.”

  The glint turned to a full spark. “What has changed? Other than the fact that you do not now think I am a nun.”

  He ignored the heavy sarcasm. “The fact that you are not a nun doesn’t make any difference. You’re the king’s sister-in-law, and it’s my duty to bring you back to Dunstaffnage—that’s all.”

  “So it didn’t mean anything to you? The fact that you are here doesn’t mean anything?”

  “I’m a warrior, Janet; I go where and do what I’m told. I’m here for one reason and one reason only: to do my job. Don’t read anything more into it.”

  She sucked in her breath, her eyes widening. He’d never struck a woman in his life, but somehow it felt as if he’d just done so. The wave of remorse hit him hard. He didn’t want to hurt her, damn it.

  He didn’t even want to have this conversation.

  He shouldn’t need to explain it to her. It was obvious. This wasn’t how it was done. They weren’t free to follow their feelings. They weren’t free to marry. And she sure as hell wasn’t free to do anything else. She should know that.

  But if he expected her to run away, he was the one who should have known better. She was Janet of Mar. The sister-in-law of a king, and daughter of an earl. She wasn’t sweet and docile but bold and confident. She didn’t cower or run from danger, she met it head on with a knife in her hand.

  How could she have possibly thought he would think her stupid? The accusation had taken him aback. Christ, if anything, the lass was too intelligent—and too headstrong and stubborn, for that matter. Bold, confident, opinionated—none of the things a woman should be. Which sure as hell didn’t explain why he liked her so much.

  He was trying to protect her from the horrible things he’d seen, but she’d taken his concern as criticism, as a lack of intelligence, as patronizing. He cringed inwardly, realizing from her perspective that it probably was. But he hadn’t meant it that way, damn it. What did she expect, that he would sit back and let her be captured by the English? Tortured? Killed? It was almost as if she wanted him to defer to her judgment. That was crazy, wasn’t it?

  Stewart was going to have a hell of a time stopping her.

  What if he couldn’t?

  The lass was too prone to getting into trouble, as her next step—toward him—proved. “I don’t believe you.”

  His fists clenched. He wanted to pull her back into his arms so much, the physical restraint hurt.

  Damn her. Couldn’t she see that this was impossible?

  He swore, taking a step back (not in retreat, damn it!), and raked his fingers through his hair. He wasn’t good at this. He didn’t like conflict. He just tried to keep his head down and do his job. But she wouldn’t let him. “What the hell do you want from me, Janet?”

  She blinked in surprise, staring at him. “I …”

  She didn’t know. She was acting on impulse and feeling, not on thought. He should relish the moment of putting lead on that silvery tongue of hers, but instead he felt sad. Unbearably sad. It was impossible, and when she thought about it, she would see it, too.

  “I thought so,” he said softly, before turning and walking away.

  He hoped for the last time.

  Thirteen

  It wasn’t often that Janet’s tongue tied, but Ewen’s question had forced her to ask herself a question she hadn’t wanted to think about: what did she want from him?

  The truth was, she didn’t know.

  Marriage wasn’t an option. Assuming Robert could be persuaded to marry her to an ordinary warrior—even one whom he seemed to value—that certainly wasn’t what she wanted.

  Was it?

  Instead of sleeping as she should, she stared at the dark stone wall of the cave for most of the day, pondering that question. Janet had thought she had her life all planned out. She had thought she was meant to be alone. After the deaths of two fiancés, the loss of her family, and with what had happened with Cailin and her sister Mary, it seemed prudent to avoid entanglements. Frankly, she’d never wanted to marry and was content in the belief that God must agree with her. She would become a nun and continue on as she’d been doing: helping the king for as long as he needed her.

  It was certainly preferable to being treated like a serf or a child. Not taken seriously. Coddled and “protected” until she couldn’t breathe. Robert would do his best to protect her, but there was always a risk.

  But Ewen confused her and made her wonder whether there was something more than the future she had planned. A nun shouldn’t think about—dream about—a man and his kiss for months. And a nun certainly shouldn’t find her heart pounding in breathless anticipation for more.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe “more” was what she wanted from him. Marriage might not hold any interest for her, but it was clear—at least with him—that what went along with it did.

  She wanted him the way a woman wants a man, and no matter what he tried to tell her, he wanted her, too. What was holding him back?

  She didn’t know, but she intended to find out.

  But good gracious, had she really kissed him? Her cheeks grew hot all over again. She supposed she might have. She’d thought he’d pulled her toward him, but maybe she’d just fallen into his lap? There was something different about Ewen. Something that made her act with an unusual boldness—even for her.

  If she wanted “more,” she suspected it was going to take a lot more boldness on her part to batter down that stone wall. Her mouth curved. As the daughter of an earl, and a woman who was ready to spend the rest of her life as a nun, she really shouldn’t be looking forward to it as much as she was.

  It seemed as though Janet had just closed her eyes when she was being jostled awake with her brother-in-law staring down at her. He was really quite handsome, in an almost dazzling, hurt-the-eyes way. Perhaps even more so than Mary’s first husband had been, and the Earl of Atholl was said to have been one of the most handsome men in the kingdom. She hoped that Kenneth Sutherland was a better husband.

  But Mary had always been more pragmatic than Janet. She’d never set unrealistic expectations, and she accepted her fate with more grace than Janet could ever manage.

  “It’s almost dark, my lady.” Seeing that she was about to correct him, he amended his speech. “Janet. We need to get back on the road.”

  She forced herself not to groan. The prospect of another long night on horseback, after a short and uncomfortable few hours of sleep, did not sound promising. But knowing she had no choice, she dragged herself out of her makeshift bed, which consisted of Eoin’s borrowed plaid and the leather bag that held her clothes as a pillow, grateful once again for the lad’s clothing. It really was much more comfortable and easier to move around without layers of cumbersome skirts in her way. Perhaps one day women would be able to wear such clothes without comment or sensation? Ha! And maybe someday men would fly like birds.

  She looked around the cave. “Where is Ewen?” she asked her brother-in-law.

  The last time she’d seen him was after he’d returned from the loch and exchanged a few words with Magnus. She’d assumed he’d returned while she was asleep.

  “Making sure we aren’t being followed.”

  “All day?”

  Sir Kenneth shrugged. “He and MacLean had watch. You needn’t worry. I’m sure he had a few hours of sleep.”

  Her cheeks heated. “I wasn’t worried, I—”

  A commotion outside the cave prevented her from finishing her thought. Ewen was back, and from the urgent tones of his hushed voice, and the clipped exchange with Magnus, she suspected something was wrong. “What is it?”

 
; Her brother-in-law shook his head. “I don’t know, but be ready.”

  He went to join the others who were gathered at the mouth of the cave, while Janet hastily gathered her belongings and tucked her braids back under her cap. She longed to run down to the river and wash, but instead she did the best she could with the water she had in a pouch, washing her face and using a cloth and a mixture of wine, salt, and mint to clean her teeth.

  The men were still talking in hushed tones when she approached a few minutes later. She glanced beyond them into the dusky, tree-covered hillside. The first flakes of the long awaited snow had just started to fall.

  Unconsciously, her gaze sought out Ewen’s. As if feeling its weight, he glanced up. Her heart dropped. She knew before she asked, “What is it?”

  She had new appreciation for his direct, matter-of-fact way of speaking when he didn’t try to soften or hide the truth. “We are being followed.”

  She surprised him. Ewen expected tears or panic, or at least some other feminine sign of alarm, but Janet’s expression barely changed; her only sign of concern was a slight widening of the eyes that someone who had been watching her very closely—as he’d been doing—would have picked up.

  He might not like the idea of women in war, but he had to admit, her cool-under-pressure reaction was as impressive as any battle-hardened warrior’s.

  She didn’t waste time with questions about his certainty. “How close are they?”

  “About three miles east, heading this way. I saw them from the top of the mountain,” he pointed to the hill above them, “so with the distance and obstacles, I can’t be sure, but I’d guess there are at least forty men.”

  A slight paling of her cheeks told him that she fully understood the danger. “How are they tracking us?”

  “They must have gotten lucky.” Whether they were the same men as before or new, he didn’t know. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to ask them. They were the enemy; that was all that mattered.

  Ewen had covered their tracks as best he could, but the horses, the speed at which they were traveling, the darkness, and the damp ground made it impossible to hide all traces. A good tracker—a very good tracker—who knew what he was looking for, and guessed their general direction, could find them. In the daylight, that is. “The darkness should slow them down.”