The Hunter (13 page)

Janet had been right. The quick detour into Roxburgh had been easy. No hue and cry had been raised, no one had noticed them; indeed, it had all been accomplished with little risk to either of them.

She’d slipped in and out of the castle, making contact with a potentially war-changing source of information, and returned to Ewen at the church in less than an hour. The importance of this contact could not be understated; and Janet would be right in the thick of it.

Yet it was hard to be excited. She may have won the battle in getting him to agree to take her, but victory was proving cold and lonely.

They rode in virtual silence the rest of the way from Roxburgh to Berwick-upon-Tweed. The ease of conversation they’d shared had disappeared. His curt, blunt responses returned tenfold, making him seem almost chatty in comparison before. He rode so stiffly behind her, she couldn’t relax. After hours of riding together, her body ached with the effort to keep distance between them. Snuggling against the comfortable shield of his chest was a distant memory.

During their brief stops to eat or water the horse, he barely looked at her.

Something had changed between them, and Janet knew it was her fault. She felt guilty for what she’d done but didn’t know what to say. Worse, she knew it was better
this way. She had a job to do and so did he. Apologizing, telling him the truth, would only make things more complicated.

But every time she looked, his implacable features set in such cold repose that something inside her cried out. She wanted to reach for him, to draw him back from the remote place to which he’d removed himself. But what purpose would it serve?

Though she told herself over and over that she was doing the right thing, it didn’t help to calm the restlessness and anxiety teeming inside her. It wasn’t until they stood outside the gates of Coldingham Priory, however, that Janet felt the first stirrings of what could only be described as panic.

“We’re here to see the bishop,” Ewen said to the monk who answered the bell. “Tell him it is Sister Genna and her escort.”

He dismounted and helped her down while they waited for the man to return.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, leaving plenty of light for her to see the rigid set of his jaw. She bit her lower lip, her hands twisting in the folds of her gown, as she contemplated what to say. “Ewen, I …”

He turned his face to hers, his expression a mask of indifference. “Yes?”

Her heart fluttered wildly as she searched for … 
what
? “I … Thank you.”

Why she was thanking him, she didn’t know. She hadn’t wanted his protection or his company, indeed she’d fought against it. But he’d given it, and that demanded something, didn’t it?

He nodded, and for one minute she saw some of the warmth in his eyes that she hadn’t realized had been missing until it was gone. Whatever he intended to say, however, was lost when the monk returned and opened the gate to take them to the bishop.

They were led across the courtyard and into the small chapter house that was attached to the priory. As it was dark inside, the monk lit a few candles before leaving them alone again.

While they waited for the bishop to appear, Janet suddenly found herself wondering what Ewen might say. As happy as Lamberton would be about the contact she’d made in Berwick, she didn’t think he’d be pleased to learn what had happened with the English soldiers near Melrose. She knew better than to think that Ewen would agree not to tell him, but there was no telling how he would make it sound if she let him be the one to relate it.

“I would appreciate it if you would let me explain to the bishop about what happened in the forest.”

The shrewd quirk of his brow told her how easily he’d guessed her thoughts. “I’m sure you would.”

She gritted her teeth. Whatever had changed between them, he still managed to rile her temper easily enough. “Perhaps you will tell him
everything
, then?”

His blue-gray eyes hardened to slate. “I think you’ve already used that bargaining marker, Sister.”

Janet felt her cheeks grow hot, knowing he was right. “I don’t know why you must be so difficult about everything. It’s not as if I’m not going to tell him.”

“Aye, but it’s
how
you’ll tell him that concerns me. I suspect you could make Armageddon sound like a day at the fair.”

Janet pursed her mouth. “You give me too much credit. I assure you, the bishop will understand the danger.”

“Aye, but do
you
?” His gaze held hers. “Promise me that you’ll leave the fighting to the men and stay out of it, and I’ll let you explain to the good bishop any way you want.”

With some effort, Janet bit back her angry retort. But inwardly, she fumed. Whatever confusing emotions she’d been feeling earlier disappeared.
Leave the fighting to the men
. Ewen Lamont saw women as nothing more than
helpless, silly creatures who needed a big, strong man to protect them. Although he certainly qualified, she wanted nothing to do with a man who thought like that. Physical attraction—no matter how powerful—wasn’t enough. She should thank him for reminding her.

“You’d better decide quickly,” he said. “The bishop is coming.”

She didn’t hear anything. But she frowned a few moments later when she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaching.

“Very well, I agree,” she said, not feeling the least bit guilty about the lie. Although technically, it wasn’t a lie. She would let the men do the
fighting
, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t continue doing exactly what she’d been doing.

His eyes narrowed as if he didn’t believe her, but she was saved from further enquiry by the arrival of the bishop.

Lamberton gave her a smile of greeting, but it fell from his face when he saw Ewen. Janet didn’t need to have much insight to see that the bishop didn’t like him. “You were expected back earlier,” he said to Ewen. “Your friends have been looking for you.”

Janet sensed Ewen’s immediate alertness. It was as if every muscle in his body flared to life. She tried not to remember all those muscles, or how good they felt—

She stopped before she could finish the thought. Heaven help her, he’d turned her into a wanton!

“When?” he asked.

“Immediately.” Lamberton handed him a missive, which Ewen quickly unfolded and read.

Her frown deepened. In addition to fluency in multiple languages, it seemed her ordinary soldier could also read.

But she would not get the chance to question him. He turned to her with a curt bow of his head. “My lady.”

My God, this was it. He was leaving. She would probably never see him again. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it?

Then why did it feel as if someone was pulling the strings of her heart in opposite directions?

“Monsieur,”
she managed in a whisper, returning his nod.

He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but like her, struggled for the right words. He found the wrong ones. “Remember your promise.”

When the door closed behind him with a slam, Janet told herself it was good riddance. A stubborn, patronizing, women-are-the-weaker-vessel kind of man wasn’t for her. She’d had enough of that attitude from her father and brothers to last a lifetime. The past few years had proved what she’d already known: she was better off alone.

Ewen didn’t believe her for an instant. Although he had no intention of telling Lamberton what had happened, he intended to give Bruce a good earful of his opinion on letting nuns be involved as couriers.

But it would have to wait. The missive he’d received was from Hawk. Apparently, Sutherland was in trouble, and they needed to extract him and his wife from England as soon as possible. Ewen raced to the coast north of Berwick Castle and caught up with his fellow Guardsmen as they rode to Huntlywood, where Mary of Mar, Sutherland’s wife, was residing, in hopes of executing a rescue.

As it turned out, Sutherland didn’t need them. Their new “recruit” had proved himself worthy of his place in the Highland Guard by rigging a bridge with black powder to ensure his wife’s safety, and then by defeating a score of Englishmen to ensure his own.

But the journey back to Dunstaffnage Castle on Hawk’s
birlinn
had been twenty-four hours of sheer hell. Sutherland’s wife had gone into labor a short time before she’d arrived at the ship, and the sounds of her pained cries were not something Ewen would forget anytime soon.

Bloody hell, there was a reason men were not allowed anywhere near the birthing chamber. Hearing a lass in
pain and not being able to do anything about it went against every primitive bone in the male body. Apparently he had a lot of them.

Sutherland, who’d been known for his hot temper, surprised them all by being the calmest man on board. Were the woman giving birth his wife, Ewen might have jumped overboard.

When an image of Sister Genna’s face sprang to mind, he pushed it away. Ewen knew he would have to marry sometime, but this was the first time he’d ever thought of “his wife.” He didn’t miss the irony in a nun being the source of his inspiration.

Fortunately, Sutherland’s heir had waited to make his appearance until they were safely arrived at Dunstaffnage and Angel—Sutherland’s sister Helen, who was the Highland Guard’s healer—could attend the birthing. By all accounts, both mother and child were doing well, but even two days later Sutherland—or Ice, as he’d been dubbed after that hellish journey—had the stunned look of a man who’d been through a long, savage battle and somehow walked out alive.

It wasn’t just the flurry of excitement over a new child that Sutherland had brought to the castle, however; he’d also managed to uncover some important information about Edward’s battle plans when the truce expired at the end of the month. Once again war with England loomed on the horizon, and every member of the Highland Guard was eager to get back to the work of solidifying Bruce’s kingship and defeating the English—this time for good.

But Ewen hadn’t forgotten about Sister Genna (hell if he knew why), or his intention to speak with Bruce about the increasing dangers faced by his female “couriers of the cloth.” Usually, Ewen did his best to stay in the background, but for this he would make an exception.

A few days after their arrival, he entered the Great Hall, which was already burgeoning with activity as the midday
meal was well underway, and approached the dais, intending on requesting a private meeting with the king in his solar.

He was making his way around the crowded trestle tables on the east side of the Hall, dodging serving lasses with platters stacked high with food, when he glanced toward the head table and noticed a woman seated next to the king.

He stilled, a strange buzz radiating down his spine and spreading over his skin. Her head was bent toward the king, but there was something about the deep, golden blond of her hair that reminded him of another. It was the way the light caught the different-colored strands, from silvery blond, to golden brown, to rich copper. He’d never seen the like—until he’d met Sister Genna.

A quick glance at the man on her other side identified the woman as Mary of Mar, Sutherland’s new bride, who was making her first appearance after the birth of the child. It was also the first time he’d had a good look at her in the light, Ewen realized. God knew he’d stayed as far away from her as possible on the
birlinn
.

His heart was beating strangely as he walked closer, almost as if he sensed something momentous was about to happen.

He was about ten feet away when she looked up, and he stopped dead in his tracks, as if he’d run into a stone wall.

Christ!
The color slid from his face. It was her. Sister Genna. She was Sutherland’s wife? He felt an unfamiliar pain in his chest, as if a hot dagger had just been plunged inside and twisted.

Nay
. The shock cleared from his head, and he realized she couldn’t be the same woman. Sutherland’s wife had been pregnant a few days ago, and Sister Genna hadn’t. He ought to know, he thought with a hard clench of his jaw; he’d had his hands all over her.

A closer study of the woman’s smiling face as she responded
to something Bruce said revealed further differences. Mary of Mar’s face was fuller, the lines around her mouth and eyes were etched a tad deeper, and her hair was a few inches longer. She had the same unusual blue-green eyes of Sister Genna, but Mary’s leaned toward the blue whereas Sister Genna’s favored the green.

Yet they had the same pale skin—albeit Sister Genna’s had a few more freckles, including the one strategically placed above her lip—slender noses, high cheekbones, dark, sooty lashes, and full pink lips. Hell, even the delicate arch of their brows was the same.

How could there be two …?

The truth slapped him. Mary of Mar had had a twin sister. Everyone had heard the story of how the lass had disappeared a few years ago after an ill-advised and failed attempt to rescue her sister from Edward the First’s clutches. She had been presumed dead. A presumption that apparently was wrong.

The bridge! Of course. The lass had disappeared when a bridge had collapsed. Sister Genna had told him as much, but he hadn’t put the two together.

His mouth fell in a hard line as the full import of his discovery hit him. The wee nun had lied to him. Sister Genna wasn’t Italian; she was Janet of Mar, Mary’s lost sister, and, he realized, Robert the Bruce’s former sister-in-law. Bruce’s first wife, Isabella, had been her sister. Ewen clenched his fists as anger surged through every vein in his body.

Suddenly some of the inconsistencies that he’d noticed made sense. The accent that had faded in and out with anger. The too-fine chemise he’d glimpsed during the attack.

The dagger.

Bloody hell, now he remembered where he’d seen something similar! Viper had a dagger that was nearly identical.

Obviously the sister-in-law Janet had been talking about
was Christina of the Isles, one of the most powerful women in the Highlands, and Lachlan MacRuairi’s half-sister. Christina had been married to Duncan of Mar. Sister Janet’s brother was well known to him; Ewen had considered him a friend. He’d fought beside the fierce warrior and witnessed his beheading at the hands of the MacDowells at Loch Ryan.