by The Hunter
One corner of his mouth lifted in a half-smile. She was probably right.
“You warriors are all alike—” She stopped and looked around anxiously. “Where is Sir Kenneth?”
“Don’t worry. He was finishing up when I came after you. He should be along any minute.”
“I can’t believe—I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Two men against so many.” Her voice held the unmistakable reverence of awe. But he couldn’t enjoy it. She was treading too close. Somehow he knew what she was going to say even before her eyes locked on his. “You are part of it, aren’t you? You are one of Bruce’s phantoms?”
God’s blood, the lass courted trouble like a lovesick troubadour! She’d seen too much, and now she was making guesses—dangerous guesses that could put them all at risk. Wasn’t what she was doing dangerous enough? Knowledge—even suspicions—like that would have half the English army after her. Identifying and capturing the members of Bruce’s secret army was top on the list of the English command.
His expression gave no hint of the storm of emotions her question had unleashed inside him. He feigned unconcerned amusement. “Didn’t your parents tell you there is no such thing as ghosts?”
She lifted her chin. “Do you deny being part of the secret army that has wreaked havoc with the English troops—”
He cut her off with an oath, taking her by the arm. “We need to go.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
But barely had the words left her mouth when she heard it, too. The bark of a dog, and not far behind it, the sound of horses. Her eyes widened, and she dug her heels into the ground, preventing him from pulling her toward the horse. “But what about Sir Kenneth? Don’t we need to wait for him?”
His mouth fell in a grim line. “He’ll find us.”
He hoped. But the sound of approaching horsemen did not bode well. He cursed again—silently, not wanting to add to her concern. But the mission that had started out bad only seemed to be getting worse.
He was about to help her up on the horse, when she pulled away again. “Wait! I forgot my dagger.”
Realizing she must have used it to try to defend herself, he stopped her from going after it. “I’ll get it.”
He approached the body of the dead knight. It didn’t take him long to locate the knife.
Well, I’ll be damned. If his spear hadn’t ended the bloody Englishman’s life, her blade, which was wedged deeply in his leg, would have.
He felt an unmistakable swell of pride. The lass was a fighter. His first impression all those months ago of a Valkyrie had not been far off.
Wiping the blood from the blade on his chausses, which were already splattered with any manner of deathly grime, he handed it back to her.
She looked up at him hesitantly. “Did I …”
He knew what she was asking. “You defended yourself well, lass. You would have hobbled him for life,” he lied.
She sighed, looking visibly relieved. “I wasn’t sure.”
He had enough death on his soul for both of them. He could protect her from that at least.
Another bark—this one discernibly closer—put an end to the brief delay.
Helping her onto the horse, he mounted behind her and they were off, riding hell-bent for leather along the riverbank toward the hills. They would ride the horse as long as they could—he hoped long enough to break the scent and make it more difficult to follow them. One of the best ways to do that was with another animal. Water would also help. Whenever it was shallow enough to do so, he steered the horse into the river.
They continued at that frantic pace for a few miles, until the sounds of their pursuers grew fainter and fainter, eventually disappearing altogether.
He heaved a sigh of relief. They’d lost them for now, and none too soon. He was forced to slow their pace considerably, as the ground started to rise and the forest and river valley gave way to heather-covered hillsides that beckoned to him like the first sight of land after days at sea. Home. Refuge. Safety.
Though dawn had broken some time ago, a thick blanket of wintry mist hid the barren mountaintops from view. Not only did they look ominous and haunting, they would also provide plenty of cover for them to disappear. Even if the English picked up their trail again, they would think twice about following them into such forbidding terrain.
But he wasn’t going to take any chances. Knowing the horse would only hinder them from this point, when he came to a small bridge over the river, he told Janet to wait while he rode it across. Dismounting, he hit the horse on the rump and watched it gallop down the narrow path. With any luck it would do so for some time. Careful to hide his tracks, he retraced his steps to where Janet stood watching him.
She stared down at the dark river with a wrinkled nose. “I assume my feet are going to be getting wet again?”
He grinned at her expression. “Afraid so.”
Instructing her to step on rocks or harder ground whenever she could, he helped her down the riverbank and into the water. Unfortunately, unlike the last river, the banks were steep, and the water swirled nearly up to her knees.
They followed the river up the hill until the ground grew too steep and the water became falls. Trudging up the bank, he motioned to a large rock. “We can rest here for a while.”
Not needing any more encouragement, she collapsed. Shrugging off the bags he carried, he used one of them as a seat and joined her. Fortunately, along with the bags of their belongings, he was also carrying the food. He tried not to think about Sutherland, telling himself their new recruit could take care of himself. But the attack shouldn’t have happened. It was Ewen’s job to make sure it didn’t. If he felt responsible, it was because he was responsible. He’d failed, damn it, and the failure didn’t sit well with him.
What had gone wrong? How in the hell had the dogs picked up their scent?
Apparently her thoughts were running in the same direction as his. “Do you think we’ve lost them?”
“For now,” he said. “With the horses and the river, the dogs will have trouble following the scent.”
“How did they pick it up in the first place?”
“I don’t know. I made damned sure we didn’t leave anything—”
He stopped, his gaze catching on a shimmering coil of golden hair that had slipped from its braid. Even in the mist, her golden head shone bright. Her bare golden head.
His mouth fell in a hard line, as the explanation for what had happened became clear. He swore. “Where is your cap?”
Fifteen
Janet’s hand went to her head reflexively. She was surprised to find smooth strands of hair under her palm instead of wool. “Oh, I didn’t realize.” She thought back. “It must have fallen off last night, when I slipped from the horse.”
He swore again, which was redundant in her opinion, as the look on his face said it all. He was furious. Beyond furious, actually. Irate. Stormy. The forty-days-and-forty-nights kind of stormy.
“That must be how they are tracking us.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize—”
He stood and hauled her to her feet. She was half-surprised that he didn’t take her by the ear like a naughty pup. “Damn it, I told you we needed to be careful. No wonder they were able to follow us so quickly. You led them right to us.”
He didn’t need to say it; she knew what he was thinking. This is why a woman doesn’t belong here. A woman has no business in war. Go back to your nice little box and stay out of it.
She’d wanted so much to impress him, to show him that she could help as much as he could—in a different way, perhaps, but in a manner that was also valuable. Instead she’d proved his point. How could she expect him to see her a certain way if she made silly mistakes?
Janet wanted to argue with him. Her instinct was to defend herself, to try to talk her way out of it. But for once she didn’t have an excuse or an explanation. He wasn’t being unfair, he was only speaking the trut
h—even if most people wouldn’t have spoken it so plainly. But avoiding hurt feelings wasn’t Ewen’s forte. Nay, he was honest and straightforward to a fault.
Usually she didn’t mind. But she was scared and tired, having slept only a few hours in the last couple of days, and feeling unusually vulnerable after what had happened earlier. They’d shared something in the forest: an honesty of emotion that she wasn’t going to let him deny. She’d been so sure he was going to kiss her. So certain that he’d put aside whatever reservations he had. But he’d turned away from her again. And now …
Her hands twisted, a sick feeling growing in her stomach. “It was an innocent mistake.”
“A mistake that could have gotten us all killed.”
She flinched as much from the steely hardness in his gaze as from the verbal lash that went along with it. “I’ve said I’m sorry; I don’t know what else I can do.”
“Nothing. But next time I tell you something, try to follow orders.”
Janet had reached the limits of her passive acceptance of guilt. “I am not one of your men you can order about.”
“That is painfully clear. My men are much better disciplined.”
Now he wasn’t the only one who’d lost his temper; hers sparked like wildfire. Her twisting hands fisted at her side. “Fine. Women have no place on the battlefield—is that what you want me to say?”
His eyes flashed. He leaned closer to her and growled, “It’s a bloody good start.”
Janet wanted to stomp her foot in outrage. But as that would no doubt give him more fodder for treating her like a bairn, she tossed her head with a loud harrumph.
He was the most infuriating, patronizing, brutish, and blastedly unreasonable man she’d ever met!
And yet, even as he stood here taking her to task—which unfortunately in this case was deserved—a silly part of her still hoped that he would take her in his arms and tell her it was all right. Comfort her, as he’d done before. For such a formidably built man, he’d been surprisingly gentle.
But comfort was the last thing on his mind. “You’ll have to take off your clothes.”
She drew back. “My clothes?”
“Aye, all of them. And get in the river. You reek of bluebells; scrub every last bit of it from your hair and skin. We need to make sure they’ve lost the scent.”
“But …” She looked at the small pool below the falls. Even from here it looked freezing. And bluebells didn’t reek.
He clenched his jaw as if fighting for patience. “Damn it, can you just follow directions for once?”
Their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. She’d had just about enough of his brusque commands. A secret smile crept up her lips, as the devil inside her reared its ugly head.
I can follow directions, all right. “As you wish.”
She let the plaid drop from her shoulders and fall into a dark puddle at her feet.
He blinked.
Lifting a distinctly challenging brow, she unfastened her doublet, which joined the plaid at her feet a moment later.
He managed to find his voice by the time she’d kicked off her boots and started to shimmy the leather breeches over her hips.
“What are you doing?” he said—rather inanely, in her opinion.
She smiled, removing her hose. “Following orders.” She gazed up at him innocently. “Do you need some water?”
“Water? No, why?”
“Your throat sounds a little dry.”
And with that, she lifted the shirt over her head.
It must have been the battle. Or perhaps the physical exhaustion of the past few days. But as Ewen stood there, watching her, his limbs turned to lead. He couldn’t move. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.
Oh God, stop her.
But before some manner of self-preservation could take hold, her shirt landed on the ground.
The world stopped. His heart forgot to beat. His mouth was dry all right. Burning dry. Searing dry. His throat was as parched as the deserts of Outremer, and he knew there wasn’t enough water in the oceans of Christendom to quench the thirst he had for her.
She was perfect. Long of limb, slender and curved in all the right places, with miles and miles of flawless, creamy skin. The firm, round breasts that had been emblazoned on his memory were even more spectacular than he’d remembered, the nipples smaller, tighter, and darker pink, and the soft, feminine place between her legs …
Sweet God in heaven! He groaned. Desire fisted in his groin, hot and aching, pulling and squeezing with need.
Her voice brought him back. “Is this what you wanted?”
The husky challenge of her voice sent a fireball of lust racing down his spine. It gathered at the base, pulsing—nay, quaking—with need.
He looked into her eyes.
Damn her! The lass didn’t have a weak or vulnerable bone in her body. Even naked as the day God made her, she was bold and challenging and strong.
Strong enough to break him.
In the spate of two long heartbeats, he had her in his arms, her velvety-soft skin plastered against him.
She gasped at the suddenness of his movement but didn’t resist. Nay, she’d asked for this, and by all that was holy, she would get it.
For one fraction of a heartbeat, Janet felt a flicker of fear and wondered whether she’d pushed him too far. But then she was in his arms, and she knew he would never hurt her. Even out of control, Ewen held her with a gentleness that was belied by the strong, hard-as-a-rock body against her.
The leather and steel of his armor against her naked flesh was a shock, albeit not an unpleasant one. There was something oddly sensual about having all that warm leather and cool metal pressed against her. Or maybe it was just that she’d been so cold before, the heat radiating from his body made any discomfort seem small.
She tilted her head back, looking into his eyes.
The fierceness of his expression sent a thrill shooting through her veins.
“Damn you,” he said angrily, his last gasp of protest before surrender.
All thoughts of gentleness were forgotten as his mouth covered hers. He kissed her roughly, his lips moving over hers with a fierce possessiveness that made her gasp. And moan. More than once. Especially when he started to use his tongue. The deep, penetrating strokes definitely elicited lots of moans from her. Low, urgent moans that seemed to start somewhere deep inside—right about the place she could feel him hard against her.
She shuddered, her body responding to the primitive evidence of his desire. She was achingly aware of every thick inch of that evidence.
He pulled her in closer, bending her back, going deeper and deeper. She had to fight to keep up with him, her innocence no match for the raw onslaught of passion.
She knew he was punishing her for forcing him to this, trying to frighten her off with the intensity of his desire. But Janet met him stroke for stroke. She might be an innocent maid, but the instincts he roused in her were those of a wanton.
She wanted this. Every bit as much as he did, and the raw sensuality of his passion only fired her own.
Aye, she was hot, her skin almost feverish. She seemed to be melting, dissolving into a pool of molten heat.
He’d removed his gauntlets and the feel of his big, callused hands roaming over her bare skin—stroking, caressing, squeezing, leaving no inch untouched—only increased that heat and elicited far more of those little moans.
“God, you feel so good. Your skin is so soft.” The warmth of his breath tickled her ear, but it was his words that made her shudder. “I want to touch you all over. Every inch of you, mo chroí.”
“My heart.” The tender endearment made her chest squeeze. Janet couldn’t believe it was Ewen speaking to her like this. The silky-smooth words couldn’t have been more at odds with the brusque warrior who spoke without thought or care of social graces. It was a heady combination, the fierce, rough passion mixed with the soft, sensual words.
His hands possessed her
, sliding down her back, over her bottom, lifting her a little harder against him, rocking …
Sweet Mother! She might have jumped, her entire body sparking with an energy not unlike bottled lightning. She forgot to breathe, her body clenched and waiting.
For what?
“God, you’re killing me.”
Normally, she wouldn’t think that was such a good thing, but the way he said it made her think it might be.
His mouth moved down and over her neck hungrily, setting her skin ablaze in its path.
Her heart was pounding. Her knees were wobbling. And the place between her legs …
A fresh surge of heat rose to her cheeks. She didn’t even want to think about what was happening there. She was hot and achy and … wet, with strange little flickers—
Oh! He rocked against her again and those strange little flickers started to pulse. She wanted him there. Right there. The thick column of steel wedged high and tight, riding against her.
“Sweet Jesus, you’re driving me wild.” His voice was ragged and tight with restraint.
Janet knew the feeling.
“I want to be inside you,” he whispered in her ear.
She almost cried out with disappointment when he released his hold on her bottom and the sweet pressure went away. But her disappointment lasted only a moment. His hand skimmed over her stomach to cover a breast.
“So soft,” he groaned, squeezing, cupping her gently in his hand. “Your breasts are incredible. I’ve dreamed of doing this since the first moment I saw you.”
He had?
Janet was glad he didn’t seem to expect a response, as she was having a difficult enough time breathing. The sensations his hands wreaked on her body were commanding all her attention. Instinctively she arched into his hand, having discovered rather quickly that pressure increased the sensations.
But she hadn’t anticipated the feeling of his fingers on her nipple. The rough pad of his thumb over the sensitive, throbbing peak nearly sent her jumping out of her skin again, as another one of those lightning rods sent a flash of energy shooting through what seemed to be every nerve-ending in her body.
