The Hunter (17 page)

“I am very forgetful, Father. It is a terrible sin,” she bowed her head for a moment as if shamed by the admission. “But the Sisters are helping me work on it. Lists help.”

“Is something wrong, Father Simon? Why are you questioning Sister Genna like this? She has done nothing wrong. It is she who is a victim of a crime.”

Janet had never noticed how formidable Sister Winifred could be, but she did so now.

Father Simon sniffed as if at something unpleasant. It
was clear he and the older nun did not like each other. “She was acting suspiciously.”

“By possessing a folded piece of paper?” She laughed, and the priest’s face flushed an angry red. He looked foolish and knew it.

Fortunately someone had indeed gone for the constable, and he chose that minute to arrive. Janet held out her hand to Father Simon. Reluctantly, he handed her back the note. She knew the priest was suspicious but could think of no reason to question her further. No legitimate reason, at least.

Thankfully, that was the end of the unfortunate incident. It had been a closer call than most, but Janet had escaped unscathed—or relatively unscathed. Initially, she’d resisted Father Thom’s suggestion that she remove herself from Roxburgh for a while. But at his urging, she’d decided to take precautions.

Friar Thom had seen what had happened and had intercepted Janet as soon as she left the market. He’d told her that Father Simon, the priest who’d questioned her, was thought to be trying to earn himself a bishopric by ferreting out suspected rebels in the clergy for Edward. The priest from the castle church of St. John’s was much hated and feared in Roxburgh.

With Friar Thom’s help—and that of a handful of nuns who’d provided a distraction in case she was still being watched—Janet slipped away from the market and didn’t return to the Priory of Roxburgh, where she’d been staying at the convent. Instead, she changed her veil from black to white and made her way to Rutherford. There, Sister Genna had disappeared and Novice Eleanor had emerged. She’d given the friar a message for Lamberton, explaining her change of identity and where to find her, and Janet went about the long, tedious process of biding her time and waiting for his return.

She used her time to read, pray (mostly for patience), indulge to her heart’s content in enjoying her favorite nuts
(which the nuns were kind enough to buy for her when they went into town), and try to think of a way to get a message to her source at the castle that didn’t involve going to the market and potentially coming face-to-face with Father Simon again.

After four weeks the friar still hadn’t returned, but Janet had a way to make contact, which proved far easier than she’d anticipated.

Her informant had come to her.

The next time the Sisters left to tend the sick and needy at the nearby Hospital of Saint Magdalene, “Eleanor” accompanied them. The important hospital along the Abbey Road—linking the four great abbeys of the area—served not only as a sojourn for travelers and a place for the poor and infirm, but also as a charity for many of the ladies of the castle. When the next saint’s day arrived, Janet knew they would arrive to give alms to the sick and the poor who’d taken refuge there.

Every day for the next two weeks, Janet accompanied the nuns to the hospital. Surprisingly, she took to the work of nursing. When some of the other Sisters shied from the lazar house, the separate cottages housing the lepers, Janet took over the task of bringing them their daily loaf and, three times a week, their salt meat.

Finally, on St. Andrew’s Day, which also happened to be the first Sunday of Advent, Janet’s efforts were rewarded. The informant had been surprised but greatly relieved to see her. In the one moment they’d had to exchange a private word, her source told her that something important was brewing, and they hoped to have more information by St. Drostan’s Day, about a fortnight hence.

The following morning there was still an excited spring in Janet’s step as she took the lepers their bread. As she left the last cottage to walk back to the hospital on that chilly first of December morning, she was feeling so pleased, she
didn’t notice the shadow that moved behind her until it was too late.

Fear leapt to her throat, cutting off the scream that might have sounded before his hand covered her mouth as he dragged her behind one of the cottages. A green sleeve. Her abductor wore the cloak of a leper!

He captured her hard against him, pinning her arms so that when she tried to lash out to free herself, she couldn’t move. His hold was like a steel vise, cold and unyielding. Yet while his body was solid as a rock wall, it was warm—achingly warm—and smelled of pine and leather. By the time he’d lowered his mouth to whisper in her ear, her heart was racing not with fear but with something else.

Her captor was no leper. It was Ewen. He’d come back!

“You seemed to have forgotten your promise to stay out of trouble,
Lady Janet
.”

She was so happy to realize it was he that it took her a moment to realize what he’d said—in Gaelic, no less. Her heart started to pound all over again, this time with trepidation. He knew her name. Her
real
name.

And he hadn’t called her Sister.

Tending lepers?
Christ!
The lass couldn’t seem to avoid danger; she only jumped from one fire to another. Speaking of fire, his body was getting too damned hot just from having her pressed against him.

Ewen released her as soon as they were safely out of eyesight behind the farthest cottage, spinning her around to look at her.

The bottom dropped out of his stomach. He’d forgotten how pretty she was. Glimpses from afar hadn’t prepared him for seeing her face-to-face again. With her bright eyes and cheeks rosy from the cold, Lady Janet of Mar was the picture of country vivacity and health. His mouth hardened. Far healthier than someone who’d caused him so much damned … trouble (not fear, damn it!) had a right to look.

This mission had been plagued from the start. No sooner had he and his three Highland Guard brethren left the ship at the coast in Ayr than they’d run into an English patrol in Douglasdale. Normally a single patrol of a dozen men wouldn’t be of much concern for four members of the Highland Guard, but after months of fighting Edward’s army, they were all a little battered and bruised. Ewen was no exception. He’d suffered an arrow wound in the leg while on a mission to track down some of Bruce’s men who’d been taken in a skirmish near Rutherford Castle, and even with Angel’s help, it had yet to fully heal.

Arrow wounds, cuts from swords, broken bones from war hammers and maces, and stabs from pikes were nothing they weren’t used to, but the various injuries had hampered them in their efforts against the patrol. There was no other explanation for how one of the Englishmen had been able to escape and find safety behind the walls of Douglas Castle before Ewen, MacLean, Sutherland, and MacKay could catch up to him.

The unfortunate result was that reports of Bruce’s phantoms in the area had spread, and their presence was no longer a secret. With God-knew-how-many soldiers looking for them, they would have to be very careful.

Then, as if the English hunting them weren’t enough, they’d arrived at Roxburgh to retrace Lady Janet’s last steps and heard from one of their loyal clergymen about the confrontation at the market with the priest. Worse, no one had seen her since. The lass had seemed to disappear without a trace at about the same time as the dead friar.

Ewen would not soon forget the gut-wrenching fear he’d experienced when the trail seemed to have come to a dead end. For days they’d scoured every road leading out of Roxburgh, hoping to find something—anything—except for the one thing he would not consider: a body.

Damn it, why hadn’t she listened to him? She had no business being out here doing this. Bruce should have
brought her back earlier. Ewen should have done more to convince him. But he hadn’t wanted to stir up trouble.

He knew what could happen to women who were thought to be helping Bruce. Not a day went by that he didn’t see the faces of the slaughtered villagers near Lochmaben Castle in his mind. All those women and children. His stomach turned. He probably should have done more then, too. But it had been just after Bruce had returned to Scotland, and Ewen had still been reeling from the disaster that had befallen them at Loch Ryan.

They hadn’t realized the danger they were putting the villagers in when they’d sought their help. But weeks later, when some member of the Highland Guard had returned, they’d learned the horrible truth. The entire village had been decimated by the English for helping them. The only survivor had been a young girl who’d been tossed in the pit prison and forgotten. Arrow’s wee ward, they called her, after MacGregor had taken pity on the poor orphaned lass—who obviously worshiped him (which wasn’t unusual for lasses with MacGregor)—and taken her back to his home.

Had the same thing happened to Janet? He’d about given up hope of tracking her—the trail was just too cold—when he had an idea. Thank God for her love of those damned nuts. It had taken a while to locate the merchant, and then to track down every nun who’d purchased from him in the past few weeks, but eventually their hunt led them to the priory at Rutherford.

He would never forget the relief he felt yesterday when he’d seen her stroll out of the convent with a devil-may-care smile on her face. It was only later, while he waited for the right opportunity to intercept her, that anger settled in. How dare she look so happy and carefree when her disappearance had caused such turmoil!

He caught the flash of alarm in her eyes as she realized what he’d said, but it didn’t take her long to collect herself.

She gave him a long once-over, taking in the green cloak
and hood. “You are missing your alms cup and bell so that I might hear you coming.”

His mouth thinned. “There wasn’t time.”

“To steal them?”

“To borrow them,” he corrected, returning the scrutiny. As long as they were talking disguises, the nun’s costume had been more believable. “Aren’t you a little old to be a novice?”

She gasped, her eyes flashing with outrage. “I’m not old! And I’m a widow.”

He lifted his brow at that. “Who is the unfortunate groom?”

Her eyes narrowed as if she were trying to figure out whether he’d meant it as “unfortunate dead” or “unfortunate married to her.”

He hadn’t decided.

“An Englishman. He was a soldier who died in the war. And hasn’t anyone ever told you that it’s rude to comment on a woman’s age? I’m seven and twenty—younger than you.” She bit her lip uncertainly, and he nearly swore at the swell of heat it provoked in his groin. “How old
are
you?”

He frowned. “One and thirty.” He’d just celebrated his Saint’s Day last week.

She nodded, pleased to have made her point. “What do you want? Do you have a message for me?”

Ewen fought to keep his temper in check, but after nearly a week of looking under every rock between Roxburgh and Berwick for the lass, he was having a difficult time.

“Bloody right I have a message! Where the hell have you been? No one has had sight or sound of you in over a month.”

He didn’t know what he’d expected, but damn it, perhaps to find her in a little more peril? And a little more gratitude on her part to see him, rather than this feeling that he was somehow interrupting her.

Ignoring the voice that warned him not to touch her, he took her by the arm again and hauled her up against him.
The wall he’d erected in his mind was proving a little thin. Instead of thinking that she belonged to Walter Stewart, he couldn’t help thinking how good she felt against him.

Janet of Mar, damn it
.

“Did it occur to you that people might be concerned?” He may have growled the last.

Her eyes widened. “Of course, it didn’t. I’m not missing.”

His jaw locked. “So I see. But it might have been nice for you to tell the rest of us.”

“Did no one receive my message? I sent word of my change in plans to our friend in Berwick.”

Ewen grimaced, guessing how she’d sent her message. “With a local friar?”

She nodded, and he swore, letting her go. Some of his anger dissipated. It wasn’t all her fault. Messages failing to reach their destination was a common occurrence in war.

Part of him hoped she wouldn’t ask, but she was too smart not to have figured it out. “What happened? Did something happen to the friar?”

He didn’t make an attempt to soften the blow. Perhaps this would make her understand the risks she took. “He was killed. Tortured, by the look of it, and his body was dumped on the road to Berwick about a month ago.”

She recoiled from the shock. “No!” Her eyes filled with tears, and he had to steel himself from reaching out to give her … what? Comfort? Bloody hell! He was furious with her; what in Hades was wrong with him?

He nodded, giving her a moment to come to terms with what he’d told her. “No one knew what had happened to you.”

She gazed up at him, tears dampening her lashes. Her eyes shimmered like a sunlit sea. His chest squeezed so tightly he had to look away.

There was long stretch of silence, but finally she said, “Thank you for coming to find me. I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble, but as you can see, I’m perfectly safe.”

Safe? The lass wouldn’t be safe until she was locked up high in some bloody tower in … 
Bute
. The only tower she’d be going to would belong to Walter Stewart.

Not your problem
. But the knowledge didn’t seem to calm him down any. He held his temper in check—barely. “I think you and I have a very different definition of ‘safe.’ I heard you were nearly discovered in Roxburgh by one of Edward’s priests.”

“I wasn’t nearly discovered at all. He asked me a few questions, that’s all.” While he clenched his fists so he wouldn’t grab her again, she frowned. “How did you find me, anyway? We were very careful.”

He sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her how difficult it had been. “There was one thing you told me that wasn’t a lie.”

She paled and eyed him warily, as if this were the moment she’d been expecting and was bracing herself for it. And God’s blood, he wanted to give it to her. He wanted to show her exactly how angry he was.