The Hunter (22 page)

No one said anything as she approached. Indeed, they all seemed to be standing rather still. Her hand went to her woolen cap. Though she’d braided her hair before she’d tucked it inside, she pushed a few errant tendrils at her temples back underneath for good measure.

But it didn’t seem to be her hair that had caught their attention.

Was it her clothing? She frowned, doing a quick once-over of the black leather breeches and doublet. She double-checked to make sure the linen shirt was completely tucked in, but everything looked fine. Actually, she rather thought the ensemble fit quite well. The breeches were perhaps a shade snug, but the short coat might have been made for her.

She glanced back at the men, but all but Ewen had turned away and seemed to be very busy fiddling with their horses.

Ignoring Ewen and his black glare that at one time might have intimidated her—God only knew what she’d done this time—she found her bag, which had been propped against a tree, and bent over to place her habit and the beautiful gown Mary had sent for her inside.

She thought Ewen made some kind of strangled sound
low in his throat, but when she turned he, too, was busy with his horse.

She was surprised at how comfortable it was wearing breeches, and how oddly freeing to be rid of all those heavy skirts. She was, however, cold. The only mantle she’d brought with her was the hooded one that she’d worn earlier. As it didn’t seem too feminine, she slipped that on over her squire’s ensemble. It wasn’t lined, however, and she wished she’d thought to bring along an extra plaid.

The men all wore the same dark plaid Ewen had worn the first time they’d met. It looked black at night, but in the daylight, she’d noticed the subtle shades of dark grays and blues mixed in with the black. She wrinkled her nose, thinking it odd. Was it some kind of uniform, then?

Finished, she picked up the bag, which felt considerably heavier with the extra clothing, and walked over to what she assumed was her horse. She knew Ewen was watching her struggle, but he made no effort to help her, even though he stood the closest to her.

If that was how it was going to be, so be it. He wasn’t the only one who could pretend “it” had never happened.

A streak of devilishness that had been buried a long time picked that moment to reemerge. He seemed to have an ability to make her feel very
un
-nunlike. In many different ways.

Janet turned to MacLean, who stood a few feet away with his horse. “Ewen, would you be so kind as to help me up?”

She could see Ewen stiffen out of the corner of her eye and didn’t need daylight to see his steely blue eyes harden to flinty gray.

MacLean laughed—at least she thought the sound was a laugh, but coming from such a grim facade she couldn’t be sure. He and Ewen were much alike in that regard, but Ewen’s grimness seemed born of seriousness, whereas Eoin’s had a darker, more angry bent.

“I’d be happy to, Lady Janet. But I’m not Lamont.”

She feigned surprise, hoping Ewen could see the blush she forced up her cheeks. “I apologize, but you all look so much alike that I can’t tell you apart. With those dark plaids and helms, you could well be Bruce’s phantoms.”

She laughed, but no one else joined her. Indeed, there seemed to be an odd silence. It reminded her of the times she’d walked into her father’s solar when he was talking with his men and he’d just said something he hadn’t wanted her to hear.

Out of the corner of her eye she could see Ewen step toward her, but before he could move to help her, she turned sharply to give him her back and held her hand out to MacLean.

The big warrior seemed to be amused, but he came forward to take it. Like Ewen, MacLean wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. He was every bit as strong and far more gentle. But unlike Ewen, when he touched her and she put her hands on his muscular arms to brace herself, her pulse didn’t race, her skin didn’t flush, and her stomach didn’t flip.

Unfortunate, that.

Feeling the weight of Ewen’s gaze upon them, Janet forced a gasp of maidenly shock to her lips. It had been a long time since she flirted with a man, but it came back to her so naturally, it might have never been gone. She’d always been the more flirtatious of the sisters, but it was more her natural friendliness than real flirtation, and she’d never taken it seriously. Until now.

She gazed into MacLean’s eyes, the startling dark blue just visible beneath the edge of his helm. Beneath that hard, grizzled exterior, he was quite handsome, she realized. And sharp; she could see it in his eyes.

Flirting with him wouldn’t be difficult at all.

“My word!” She left the men to contemplate what that exclamation might be about. “Thank you, Eoin. You must
have all the women at court fighting for your assistance. Not all men are so gentle.” Her gaze flickered over to Ewen for just an instant—but long enough. “You’d be surprised at the lack of gallantry in some.”

Her barb found its mark. She could see Ewen’s fists clench at his sides. He was furious.

Far too furious for “a mistake.”

Far too furious for someone who’d forgotten.

Perhaps she’d found her way to break through to him? She would see how indifferent he was when she “forgot,” and turned her interest in another direction.

“Not all ladies are as easy to lift as you, my lady.” MacLean paused, as if the gentle, flirtatious banter between a man and a woman had been dormant a long time for him as well. “Or as pleasurable,” he said with a wicked smile that she suspected at one time had felled the heart of many a maid before anger had taken over.

“If the
lady
is quite comfortable,” Ewen interrupted, “we’ve wasted enough time. I want to be east of Selkirk before daybreak.”

If MacLean noticed Ewen’s irritation, he didn’t show it. He turned to her. “My lady?”

She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Comfortable enough for now, but if I decide I need a litter, I will let you know.” She let her gaze drop over the wide spans of chest and thick arms. “You seem more than equal to the task.” He grinned, and she lowered her voice to a whisper that was loud enough to ensure Ewen would hear. “Is he always so grumpy?”

MacLean shot a surreptitious look to the man in question, who was glaring at them so furiously she was surprised smoke wasn’t coming out of his nose.

“I’m afraid so, my lady.”

She smiled back at him, thinking that under the circumstances, she was rather enjoying herself.

Twelve

The mission had to come first, damn it. As angry as he was—and Ewen couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so angry—he knew the danger ahead of him. Hell, not just ahead of him but everywhere around him. The Borders were rife with it.

They wouldn’t be safe until they boarded the
birlinn
waiting just off shore for them in Ayr—assuming Hawk and Viper hadn’t been called off on another mission. So he buried his anger beneath the call of duty, reminding himself of all he had to do. But it was there, simmering, getting closer to the breaking point with each mile that they rode over the gentle rolling hills of the Tweedsdale.

Although he would prefer to travel on the north side of the Tweed, the bridges were heavily monitored. This part of the Scottish Marches was a maze of rivers and tributaries. At some point they would have to cross water, but it was safer to wait until they were west of Selkirk, where there were numerous places to cross that didn’t require a bridge. They could have tried to cross at the place he’d taken Janet to all those months ago, but that was how he and the other Guardsmen had arrived, and he always tried to use a different route to leave in case someone had tracked them the first time.

With the English controlling the border towns, he supposed it didn’t make much difference: everywhere was dangerous. But even traveling at night with only a single
torch to light their way, he felt exposed. The low hills and fertile valley of the Tweedsdale provided little natural cover. It wasn’t until they neared Selkirk that the hills would rise and the forests would thicken. Ironically, he would be returning to Selkirk in two weeks with Bruce for peace talks.

He hoped to reach as far as Ettrick, deep in those hills and forests about twelve miles southwest of Selkirk, before daybreak. There was a cave in the area where they could rest until nightfall.

But they had hours of dangerous and difficult riding ahead of them. Ewen spent the first few hours circling around behind them to hide their tracks as best he could and ensure no one was following them. The snow seemed to be holding off, which was good. Hiding tracks in freshly fallen snow was difficult, unless it fell quickly and heavily.

Ewen had been chosen by Bruce for the Highland Guard for his extraordinary tracking skills. Man or beast, if there was a trail, he would find it. It was what had given him the war name of Hunter. But the other side of tracking was knowing how to hide your own tracks. And like the ghosts that some thought “Bruce’s phantoms,” it was Ewen’s responsibility to make the Guardsmen disappear.

He still couldn’t believe how close Janet had come to the truth with her jest. But thankfully, that was all it had been: a jest.

Not that he was much in the mood for jesting. It seemed as though every time he rejoined the group or they stopped for a short break—as much for Janet as for the horses—she was laughing with one of his brethren.

But especially with MacLean. His partner was lapping it up like a starving pup. Who in the hell knew that Striker could smile? In all the years Ewen had known him, he’d never seen MacLean like this. Not only smiling and jesting, but also
talking
. Hell, he didn’t think Striker was capable
of carrying on a conversation that wasn’t about war or battle strategy.

But the strange ease that Ewen had found with Janet seemed to apply to his partner as well. And something about that set him on edge—on deep edge.

The lad’s clothing didn’t help, either. MacRuairi should have warned him. Women sure as hell didn’t belong in breeches—especially snug leather ones. They molded the womanly curves of her hips and bottom to perfection and emphasized the slim lines of her surprisingly long legs. It was distracting. Damned distracting. And he hadn’t been the only one to take notice. MacKay and Sutherland seemed embarrassed, but MacLean … he seemed a little too appreciative.

It was after midnight when they stopped for the second time. Ewen had gone back on foot to obscure some of the hoofprints, and intersperse a few signs that he hoped would confuse or delay anyone on their trail, when he heard a soft feminine laugh coming from the direction of the river.

The muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched.
Focus, damn it!
He knew he should ignore it. But the sound grated against every nerve-ending in his body. He couldn’t take it anymore.

As soon as he came over the rise he could see her. Janet was seated on a rock, and MacLean stood beside her. He was handing her something.

“Thank you,” Janet said, taking what appeared to be a piece of beef. “I’m more hungry than I realized.”

MacLean murmured something that Ewen didn’t hear, and then said, “You are warm enough?”

Ewen was striding toward them, but the sound she made stopped him mid-step. Squeezing the plaid around her shoulders, she gave a delighted sigh that went straight to his groin.

“Wonderfully warm,” she said. “Thank you for letting me borrow it. It was most thoughtful of you.”

Thoughtful? MacLean?
Ewen had never known him to be so attentive to a woman.
Any
woman. And she was the wrong woman.

MacLean shrugged. If Ewen didn’t know him better, he’d think his partner was preening. “I thought I saw you shiver at our last stop.”

Ewen had seen the same thing. He’d been about to offer her his own plaid—God knew it would help to cover her up more—when MacLean had walked over to her and handed her his own.

Ewen had had to fight the urge to rip it off her.
It should be mine, damn it
.

Janet glanced over as he approached, but rather than acknowledge him, she turned to MacLean with a roll of the eye in his direction.
That
grated.

Though Ewen knew his partner had heard him earlier, it was only then that MacLean glanced in his direction.

He cocked his brow. “Is something wrong?”

Ewen held his temper by the barest of threads. “Other than the fact that they can probably hear you talking halfway to London? Unless you want the English down on top of us, keep your voices low. And stop all that bloody laughing.”

If Ewen hadn’t already known how ridiculous he sounded, their expressions would have told him. But nothing was worse than their quick exchange of looks, and Janet whispering “grumpy” under her breath, while trying not to laugh.

“What did you say?”

Janet shook her head, mirth shimmering in her eyes. “Nothing.”

MacLean attempted to change the subject. “Did you see anything?”

Ewen glowered at Janet until she finally sobered. Only
then
did he answer. “Nay.”

She studied him, her gaze assessing. “You are being very careful. Do you have cause to believe someone is following us or are you always this vigilant?”