The Hunter (32 page)

She took her time, washing her face and hands and enjoying
the moment of peace. She should have known it wouldn’t last.

Ewen gritted his teeth for the battle ahead. He should have known she wasn’t going to like his plan. God, did all women have so many
opinions
? Thinking of his fellow Guardsmen’s wives, he suspected they did.

Bloody hell, what was happening to him? It had been so much easier when he didn’t think about what a lass thought or wanted.

Her gaze slid over him in a silent scoff that sure as hell shouldn’t make him hot, but his cock didn’t seem to notice her flashing eyes.

“A change of clothes does not hide what you are, Ewen. Anyone who looks at you will see that you are a warrior.” The observation pleased him far more than it should. As did the way her eyes lingered appreciatively on his shoulders and arms. “Let me go with you—I can help. You will be less obvious with a wife by your side.”

Remembering how well that had gone the first time, he declined. “I’m buying a horse, Janet. I’ve done this hundreds of times before. There is nothing to worry about. I will be back before you even realize I’m gone.”

She shook her head. “But what if there are soldiers about?”

“There won’t be. As you can see,” he pointed down into the valley at the dozen or so holdings and small church nestled into the hillside, “it’s a small village. No castle means no English.”

“I can help you. Remember what happened in the inn? I’m good at talking with people.”

And he wasn’t. But he could bloody well bargain for a horse. Knowing that they’d be standing here forever if he didn’t do something, Ewen tried a different tack. One that held more truth than he wanted to admit. “That’s not why
I don’t want you to go. I know you could help, but having you with me would put us both in danger.”

“Why?”

“I’d be worrying about you. Focusing on you. You make me …”

He didn’t know how to explain. Weak. Vulnerable. Words he’d never used to describe himself before.

Christ!

If she noticed his discomfort, it didn’t stop her from asking, “Make you what?”

He settled on, “Distracted.”

His answer didn’t appear to satisfy her. She wrinkled her delicately turned nose. “I’ll stay out of the way; you won’t even know I’m there.”

As if that were bloody possible. “I
always
know you’re there.”

“Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, not having anticipated the question.

“Aye, why do you always know I’m there? Why am I so different?”

His jaw hardened. “You know why.”

She lifted her chin in a manner that told him that she intended to be difficult about this. “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

He knew what she was trying to do, damn it. But if it meant keeping her safe, he’d say whatever the hell she wanted him to. “Because I care about you. Because the thought of something happening to you makes me lose my damned mind. That’s why I don’t want you going with me.”

She smiled, and he swore it was as if the sun had just come out. “All right.”

The acquiescence had come so easily, he didn’t think he’d heard her right. “All right?”

She nodded. “And just so you know, you distract me,
too.” She gave him a small smile. “I had no idea you were so romantic.”

Romantic? Him?
Bloody hell!
She was reading too much into this. “Janet, you don’t understand—”

She waved him off—actually waved him off. He didn’t think anyone had done that since the cook had shooed him away from the kitchen—and the freshly baked tarts—when he was a lad.

“I understand quite well. You’d better go now, before I reconsider, while I’m still agog over the poetry of ‘lose my damned mind.’ ”

His mouth twisted. She was teasing him. It was still difficult for him to believe how natural it seemed.

He should correct her and make sure she understood that this didn’t change anything, but she was right: he didn’t want to give her the opportunity to change her mind. It would have to wait. “Aye, well don’t get used to it. I’m afraid I’ve a limited supply of poetic words. I can’t think of anything that rhymes with ‘bloody.’ ”

She laughed, and the sweet sound reverberated in his chest.

“How about ‘study’? Or maybe ‘muddy’?”

He gave a sharp laugh. He should have known she’d think of something. “I’ll work on it.” He sobered, and the wry smile slid from his face. “I won’t be long. Stay out of sight. If anyone approaches, you can slip behind those rocks.”

It wasn’t a cave, but the space between the big boulders was large enough to slide between. He wished he didn’t have to leave her alone, but it couldn’t be helped. If they were going to reach the coast anytime soon, they needed a horse. He would have preferred two, but that would be much harder to explain.

His first priority—his
only
priority—was getting Janet to safety as quickly as possible. But he would also concede a twinge of uncertainty about his leg. Something didn’t
feel right. All the climbing yesterday must have aggravated it. Unfortunately, he hadn’t thought to take the ointment from MacKay before they separated. Nothing appeared wrong when he’d looked at it earlier while bathing—actually, if anything the bleeding seemed to have lessened—but it had hurt like hell every time he took a step. The pain was sharp and deep—biting. And he was tired. More than he should be. The sooner Helen could look at it, the better.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “If anything goes wrong, I have my dagger.”

Although he knew better than she did how well she could use it, it didn’t exactly ease his mind to think about her needing to do so.

He nodded. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Their eyes met. His feet didn’t want to move. She looked so sweet and trusting. So beautiful and strong. He wanted to reach for her with every fiber of his being, as if it were the most natural thing to do. But he didn’t. He forced his feet to walk away.

“Ewen.” He turned. “I …” He could see some kind of turmoil on her face, and an emotion he couldn’t name. “Be careful.”

He nodded, wondering what she’d been about to say. Indeed, he seemed to be thinking about it the entire way down the hill to the village. She’d been about to tell him something. Something he suspected he didn’t want to hear, but longed to hear at the same time. His chest burned. Knowing he would only drive himself mad thinking about things that could not be, he forced his mind to the task at hand.
Focus
.

His plan was simple: he would offer enough money to avoid any questions. Normally when the Highland Guard needed horses in the Borders, they made use of the network of Bruce supporters in the area. Unfortunately, the loyalties of this village tucked away high in the hills of Galloway were unknown. They had supporters in Douglas,
Lanarkshire, about fifteen miles away, but as that was also where they’d run into trouble earlier, he wanted to avoid the area.

As the village did not have an inn, he started with the nearest holding and worked his way across, getting more and more frustrated with each stop.

There didn’t appear to be a single horse for sale in the entire village, let alone one that was suitable. Hell, at this point he would welcome an old field nag.

After a half-dozen stops, his frustration was showing. But when he approached the next croft, he caught sight of something roaming in the field that would make it go away: a beautiful, sturdy, and agile-looking courser.

Unfortunately, the owner was proving difficult.

“Where did you say you were from?” he asked.

Ewen eyed the old farmer, whose weather-beaten face hid an agile and shrewd mind. “Roxburgh,” he answered curtly. “Are you willing to sell the horse? I’ll offer you ten pounds.”

Even for the fine animal it was a generous offer. The old man should have jumped at it. Instead, he stroked his long, gray beard assessingly. “ ’Tis a lot of silver. You must really have need of it.”

Ewen’s temper was running thin. The farmer obviously suspected something, and Ewen didn’t like the way he was putting him off with questions, but he wanted that damned horse. He gave him a hard look. “Will you sell me the horse or not?”

“He isn’t for sale.”

Ewen clenched his teeth and counted to five. “Why not?”

“He isn’t mine to sell. I’m caring for him. I was a stable-master in King John’s army.”
Ah hell, Balliol!
Definitely not a friend of Bruce’s, then. “I still take in ailing horses when I can. This one belongs to the captain to the guard at Sanquhar.”
Damn
. This just kept getting better and better. Sanquhar was one of James Douglas’s castles now garrisoned
by the English. The old man’s eyes gleamed deviously. “Perhaps you can put your request to him?”

Ewen didn’t need to ask what he meant. He could just hear the clop of approaching horses now. He looked over his shoulder, catching the glint of mail in the sunlight as a half-dozen English soldiers entered the outskirts of the village from the pass to the west. Although they were still a good distance away, they were closing in fast.

He wouldn’t be able to flee without being seen. When he wasn’t hobbled by injury, he ran fast—but not faster than a horse. In these wide-open hills, with no mist to hide his direction, he couldn’t be sure that he could find cover fast enough to lose them.

And then there was Janet. What if in hunting for him, they found her instead? He couldn’t risk it.

He swore over and over again in his mind, but there was only one thing he could do: come up with a good story or best six mounted, mailed knights with no more than his dagger.

As he didn’t have Janet’s facile tongue, he suspected it was going to be the latter, and even for one of the elite warriors of the Highland Guard that was no mean feat.

God’s blood, could this get any worse?

A few minutes later, when the sound of a voice calling out his name that sent a blast of ice through his veins to chill every last bone in his body, he had his answer: Aye, this could get a hell of a lot worse.

“Ewen!” Janet didn’t let his death glare stop her. She’d known he would be furious, but the moment she’d seen the banner flying in the distance from her hillside perch, she wasn’t going to let anything stop her from trying to warn him. Unfortunately, it had taken her a long time to find him, and now it was too late. She approached the croft at the same time as the soldiers. “There you are! I’d begun to think you’d forgotten all about me.”

She saw his eyes widen as he took in her appearance. With one hand at her hip, as if supporting her back from exhaustion, she patted her softly rounded belly with the other. “Have you found a horse for us to ride yet?”

His face was as dark and brooding as a storm cloud, but after a moment’s pause, he realized his part and came forward to help her. His eyes bored into hers, promising retribution, as he slid his arm around her waist protectively. “I thought I told you to wait for me,” he said, adding after a pause he hoped didn’t sound awkward, “
mo chroí
.”

She laughed, as if used to his masculine bluster, which surprisingly she was. He would no doubt bellow and growl like an angry lion when this was over, but she didn’t care. He needed her help, whether he wanted to admit it or not.

He was practically unarmed. She wasn’t going to watch him being thrown in irons and dragged away from here.

Lifting to her tiptoes, she placed a soft kiss on his cheek, as if soothing him with a placative balm. The grip around her waist instinctively tightened. She felt a shiver of awareness as their bodies melded together. “I grew tired of waiting,” she said, a little flustered by the contact. “Both the babe and I are restless.”

The part of the loving, soon-to-be father apparently wasn’t one with which he was familiar. It took him a moment to feign concern. He put his hand on her rounded belly—or in this case, the pillow of clothes she’d stuffed under the cotte Mary had sent her to wear. The under-gown was still too fine for whatever he was pretending to be, but the plain brown wool was better than the gold embroidered silk surcoat that went over it.

“The babe is all right?” he asked.

Aware of their interested audience, she mirrored his concern in her own eyes and sighed with weariness that she did not need to feign. “I hope so. I didn’t realize how tiring it would be. I’m just so exhausted. I shall be glad when our journey is done.”

“What is going on here?” an authoritative voice boomed. One of the soldiers—the leader, she suspected—had come forward, putting himself between Ewen and the old man, who stood at the doorway of his rectangular stone croft with its crucked turf roof.

“I am seeking a horse for my, uh, wife,” Ewen explained. “She is weary and cannot walk any farther.”

“You didn’t tell me it was for a lass,” the old man said with a surprised frown on his face.

From her position tucked against his body, it was easy for Janet to look up and give Ewen a reproachful shake of her head. Then she glanced over to the old man with another weary sigh. “Sometimes I think he forgets he has a wife. He didn’t want me to come, but I insisted, and now I fear I’ve caused all sorts of problems.”

The old man gallantly jumped to her defense. “A wee, bonnie lass like you, what kind of problems could you cause?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ewen said under his breath, but loud enough for them to hear.

Janet jabbed him in the side with her elbow and shot him a glare. “I told you I was sorry.” She turned to the old man for help. “He blames me.”

“For what?” the soldier interjected.

“For losing our horse in the first place.” She twisted her hands anxiously. “It was all my fault. I didn’t tie the reins well enough, and it wandered away in the storm. Now we must use the coin that we’d planned to give to the abbey to buy another one.” When the men looked at her in confusion, she added, “He did not tell you we are on our way to Whithorn to pray for the birth of the child?”

The old man shook his head.

For some reason the tears weren’t difficult to produce. The though of carrying Ewen’s child filled her with all kinds of strange emotions. Deep emotions. Tender emotions.
“We’ve lost so many,” she said softly. “I just want to give him a son.”