The Hunter (6 page)

The girl looked back and forth between Genna and MacLean. Genna held tightly to her arm, not wanting to relinquish her. But she knew Marguerite needed to get back to attend to her lungs with the butcher’s broom sweetened with honey that she used, and as it was clear that it was going to take a little more time to reason with this infuriating man, she had to let her go. “It’s all right,” she said. “Go with him. I will be along soon enough.”

“Say
goodbye
, Sister,” Lamont instructed from behind her.

Genna shot him a glare, and then turned to Marguerite to give her an encouraging squeeze. “Take care,
ma petite
.”

Sister Marguerite glanced at Lamont uncertainly, and then back to her. “Are you sure? I don’t want to leave you …”

“Perfectly sure. This man will do me no harm.” She hoped that wasn’t her third lie of the hour. “Don’t worry about me; just promise me you will rest before you continue your journey.”

The girl nodded.

Genna bit her lip. “It is probably best if you don’t say anything about what happened here. I do not wish to put these men who helped us in any danger.”

Marguerite nodded again, and then after one last hug, Genna let her go. She watched as MacLean led her away through the tunnel of trees. They were almost out of sight when Lamont shouted something at his friend in Gaelic. It sounded like, “Striker,
Bàs roimh Gèill
!”

She translated the last as Death before Surrender, but what did “striker” mean?

MacLean nodded and repeated the phrase, adding something she did understand: “hunter.” Strange … “What did you say to him?”

“It isn’t important.”

“And yet you chose to speak it in a language that I could not understand?”

He shook his head. She thought it quite remarkable that he had the same exasperated look on his face that her brother and father used to have, which had taken them years to perfect. He’d managed it with her in minutes.

“Yes.”

The man had also perfected the non-answer. “Your friend,” she said. “Won’t it be dangerous for him?”

He dismissed her concern with a shrug. “He’ll be careful. He knows how to blend in.”

Genna couldn’t imagine how either of them would blend in anywhere. They stood out. They were so big, for one thing. Standing next to him she couldn’t help notice just how big. He stood nearly a foot taller than she—he must be at least a hand over six feet—and his shoulders were nearly twice as wide. With all the weapons and armor, he was a bulky man. Not fat, but with far too many muscles for her taste. He was a man built to remind women of their vulnerability, something she tried not to think about. But she couldn’t ignore it with him, which made her all the more eager to be rid of him.

Genna had noticed that he liked the direct approach—or in his case, the stunted approach—so she decided to take
it herself. “Why are you insisting on escorting me back to Berwick? Did my superior instruct you to do so?”

“Nay.”

“Then why?”

“That should be obvious: it isn’t safe.”

“And you think I’ll be safer with you? You are wrong. The English are far more likely to stop a warrior on the road than they are a group of pilgrims. I will be far safer with them.”

“Then it’s a good thing we won’t be traveling on the road.”

“Do you proposed to fly to Berwick?” The sarcastic words were out of her mouth before she could snatch them back.

He smiled, and some of that irritation she was feeling squeezed strangely in her chest. He was handsome, she realized. Sinfully handsome. She didn’t need to see the rest of his face to know it. It was right there in that crooked smile. A strange shudder passed through her, prickly and warm, as if someone had just spread a thick plaid over her naked skin.

“Not quite,” he said. “We’ll keep to the trees and stay off the main roads.”

He took a step closer to her, and she caught a faint whiff of leather and pine that she wished she could say was unpleasant. Instead she felt the nearly irresistible urge to inhale. She shook it off, wondering why she was acting like this. She had never been the type to be made silly by a man—not even when she was young. In fact, it had been the other way around.

She had to tilt her head back just to look at him. “What if we get lost?”

The harsh sound out of his mouth was almost a laugh. “We won’t get lost.”

He glanced down, and their eyes met. Something locked
in her chest. Her breath, she realized. It seemed to have become stuck. Something strange passed between them. Something hot and intense. Something that made the skin beneath her cloak prickle. She was suddenly very aware of her naked skin beneath the wool.

Almost as if he knew what she was thinking, his gaze dropped to her chest. A strange warm flush spread over her, and she gasped. The small sound was enough to break the connection. He jerked his gaze away, a dark look crossing his face.

He took a step back and she tried to cover the moment of awkwardness, but her voice sounded unusually breathy. “I’m afraid it’s impossible. You may escort me to Dryburgh if you insist, but it isn’t proper for me to travel alone with a man.” Jerusalem’s temples, they’d have to spend at least one night together!

His mouth twisted. “There is nothing improper; you are a nun. Your chastity is safe with me.”

There was something about that little smile and the way he said it that didn’t sit well with her. Had she misread what had just happened? Was he telling her he wasn’t attracted to her? Though that was exactly the way she
should
want it, she had just enough vanity left to discover that it bothered her.

She needed to change into a new chemise and put her veil in order. Then she was sure she would feel like herself again.
After
she got rid of him. “I did not mean to impugn your honor. You are a man of honor, are you not?”

“Usually.”

She frowned. Not exactly the answer she was hoping for, but it would have to do.

“And as an honorable man you would not force your person on an unwilling woman?”

For a chivalrous man there was only one answer. He, of course, gave her another.

“Well, I guess it depends upon the circumstances, because
I have every intention of forcing my person on you, Sister. So if you are done trying to talk circles around me until I do what you want, you can change while I find my horse, and then we can be on our way.”

And without waiting for her to respond, he turned on his heel and left her there, gasping. Or perhaps sputtering was more accurate. It had been a long time since she’d lost a war of words.

It seemed she wasn’t going to be rid of him as easily as she’d hoped. Actually, it seemed as if she wasn’t going to be rid of him at all.

Three

Something about her expression when he walked away made Ewen want to laugh. He’d wager it wasn’t often the wee nun heard the word “no.” He was less amused, however, upon his return. For a woman of God, she sure as hell had a way of rousing the devil in him.

He stared down at her from atop his horse, his hand extended. “I said, give me your hand.”

She shook her head, the hideous black veil back in place, completely hiding the golden beauty that lay underneath. But he knew it was there, and if he looked hard enough—which he did—he could just see the silky-fine strands of gold curls escaping from beneath the tight wrapping at her temples. The softness, however, was at distinct odds with the stubborn set of her mouth. “I thank you for your kind offer, but I prefer to walk.”

It was the third time he’d asked, which was already the second time too many. His jaw tightened, but it didn’t help to moderate his words. His patience had run out. “It wasn’t kind, it wasn’t an offer, and I don’t give a rat’s arse about what you prefer. You’ll get up on this horse voluntarily or I’ll put you there myself, but be assured that one way or the other you will ride with me.”

Her eyes widened just a little, but to her credit her gaze did not falter from his. “You have an unusual way with words.”

This from the woman who’d threatened a shriveling manhood and bollocks like raisins?

“So I’ve been told.”

Ewen had never been very good at conversing with ladies. He was too rough around the edges—hell, he was too rough all around. MacSorley had enough charm for all of them put together. Which was fine by him. Ewen was a warrior, not a troubadour. He had neither the time nor the inclination to charm. His plain speaking might be off-putting, and maybe even harsh at times, but it was effective. In battle and in the other life-and-death situations that faced the Highland Guard, being clear and concise was what mattered. There was no room for subtlety. Besides, the kind of communication he enjoyed with women didn’t require much conversing.

Immediately his mind slipped to places it shouldn’t go. His gaze dropped for an instant to the woman’s well-covered chest before he snapped it harshly back.

Jesus, he needed to stop doing that!
Nun
, he reminded himself.
Belongs to God
.

But he suspected it was going to be a long time before he forgot the sight of the perfect, soft feminine flesh hidden under the habit.

He clenched his jaw. “Well, what’s it to be, Sister?”

After a long pause, she gave a loud harrumph and put her hand in his. Apparently, Sister Genna had decided not to test him. It was a wise decision. She would learn very quickly that he didn’t make threats; he did what he said.

He lifted her effortlessly into the seat before him—she weighed next to nothing—and they started off. By his estimation, they should reach Berwick the following evening. It was only a distance of about forty miles, but with two on a horse and keeping to the countryside to avoid the roads in difficult terrain, it would take them twice as long.

Having ridden in and out of the Borders more times than he wanted to remember over the past two years on Highland
Guard missions to wreak as much havoc as possible with the English garrisons who held the castles, Ewen was intimately familiar with the landscape. He knew every forest, every patch of trees, every contour of every hillside, every mask that nature provided to pass in and out unseen.

Because it was instinctive, not because he thought there was any real threat of being followed, he did what he could to avoid leaving tracks, but with the recent spate of spring thunderstorms, the soft ground made it nearly impossible. However, the rain would hide what he could not. In the time it had taken to retrieve his horse and “persuade” Sister Genna to ride with him, dark clouds had gathered across the sky, the wind had started to ruffle the leaves, and the temperature had dropped a few degrees.

But it wasn’t the brewing storm that made him dread the miles ahead. No sooner had he settled her in the seat in front of him, and slid his arms around her slim waist to take the reins, than he realized he might have been too hasty to dismiss her plea to walk. Having her body nestled against his was making it difficult—bloody difficult—to remember that she was a woman of the cloth.

Now admittedly, he didn’t have much experience holding a nun in his arms, but he couldn’t recall ever coming across a nun that smelled like the bluebells that blanketed the hillside near his home in Ardlamont. The soft floral fragrance infused his senses, teasing him and making him draw her closer, lean down, and inhale.

Damn it, he needed to do something. Perhaps say a prayer. “
Lead us not into temptation and deliver us from evil
” seemed appropriate.

He bit back a groan, the prayer forgotten, when her body slammed into his again.

God, it felt good.
She
felt good. And his body was noticing.

He tried to keep some distance between them, but the movement of the horse over the difficult, uneven terrain
made it impossible. It seemed as if with each clop of the hooves, her bottom slid back into his groin, her back into to his chest, and the soft weight of those breasts that he couldn’t forget bounced against his arm.

No amount of prayers, no amount of saying “nun” over and over in his mind, could prevent his body from responding to the intimate contact. He was hard as a rock, though thankfully, due to the thick leather of his armor, he didn’t think she was aware of the big column of flesh riding against her.

But God sure as hell knew that every time that softly curved bottom slid against him, Ewen thought about swiving. He thought about it until he could almost imagine what it would be like to wrap his hands around her hips and sink in and out. The sensual rhythm was driving him half-crazed with lust. He was hot, bothered, and so distracted that he nearly missed the turn he’d been looking for.

He cursed, furious with himself. Control and discipline were seldom a problem for him—especially regarding women who were off limits. Lately, it seemed like every other member of the Highland Guard was marrying a beautiful woman, and not once had his appreciation for their beauty veered into an inappropriate flash of lust.

Hell, Christina MacLeod was one of the most beautiful women he’d ever seen, with just the sort of lush, well-curved body he liked—the nun was a little on the slender side—but he’d never had one impure thought about her. Of course, having the greatest swordsman in Christendom watching every man who came within a hundred yards of her served as a rather effective deterrent. But if there was anyone who could strike fear in the heart more than the chief of the Highland Guard, it was God.