The Hunter (35 page)

Hearing him speak of his father explained so much. It seemed Ewen had done everything he could to distance himself from the type of man his father had been. His discipline, his sense of honor and responsibility, were the opposite of his father. Where his father had been wild and irresponsible, Ewen was the model soldier, doing exactly what was expected of him.

“What about your mother?”

His fingers clenched on the skin he still held in his hand. “His irresponsibility killed her.” She gasped. “What happened?”

“He couldn’t keep his bloody hands off her. She’d barely
given birth to me before he got her pregnant again. She died in the birthing chamber ten months after my saint’s day. The child—a little girl—was stillborn.”

The way he said “little girl” made something in her heart catch. “Oh Ewen, I’m sorry. That is horrible. Growing up without a mother … It couldn’t have been easy.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t know any differently. Fortunately, the Stewarts took me in to foster or I might have ended up every bit as wild and disreputable as my father. When he wasn’t fighting or drinking, he was trying to kill himself with some fool challenge. That’s actually how he died. The Lamont chief finally had his revenge, daring my father to climb a cliffside near Dundonald Castle in the rain.”

“He must have been devastated after your mother’s death.”

“He was building her a castle when she died. For years, all he would talk about was finishing that castle. But, of course, he never did. As a boy, it came so that I hated even the bloody sight of those half-constructed walls.”

Her heart squeezed. It must have been a painful reminder of his father’s failures.

He shook his head. “But you know what the worst part is? He somehow managed to get me to do it for him. So now, on top of trying to regain some of the Lamont lands, I also need to earn enough coin to finish the blasted thing.”

Emotion lodged in her chest and for the first time she admitted to herself what it was: she loved him. With every fiber of her being, she loved him. How strange after all these years to have finally lost her heart.

He was staring off into the distance, lost in his memories, the strong lines of his handsome face cast ablaze by the orange hues of the fading sunlight. Nay, lost was wrong. She’d
found
it. Her heart had always belonged to him.

“You are a good man, Ewen Lamont,” she said softly.

He turned to look at her and something strange flashed in his eyes. It looked almost like guilt. But then he smiled
wistfully. “I’m a sentimental fool, and I think you’ve spent too many nights on this hard ground.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come. You’ve a warm bath, a hot meal, and a comfortable bed waiting for you.”

She sighed dreamily, slipping her hand into his and allowing him to help her up. “It sounds divine. But Ewen …” Steel-blue eyes met hers. “None of that will change my mind.”

He held her gaze for a long pause. And then he said something that she didn’t understand, but that held the vague sense of a warning. “I hope you’ll feel the same in a few days.”

The sight of the lime-washed walls of the wattle-and-daub farmhouse, nestled against a small hill on the banks of Lochend Loch, should have been cause for celebration. It was the first stop on the end of their journey. They would be safe here.

But to Ewen it represented a bitter return to reality. Free from the narrowed vision of danger, where getting Janet to safety and staying one step ahead of the English who stalked them was all that mattered, he could see clearly what the guilt, which had been building since he’d first realized how important her place in the king’s network was to her, had been trying to tell him.

She was going to hate him for not telling her the truth. For allowing her to believe she could actually be returning to Roxburgh in a few days. For not telling her about the betrothal.

What had seemed prudent and not-his-place at the outset now felt like a betrayal. It
was
a betrayal. He couldn’t pretend otherwise. Their relationship had changed. The sinful attraction he’d felt for “Sister Genna” had transformed into something deeper, something more intense, as he grew to know—and care about—Janet. Somewhere in
there, the right thing to do had switched, and if he’d ever had an opportunity to correct the mistake, he’d missed it.

Finishing this mission was going to exact a personal cost that he’d never imagined. He’d known she’d be angry; he just hadn’t realized how much it would matter to him.

Part of him wanted to tell her the truth, but he knew it would probably be better this way.

Maybe if she hated him it wouldn’t be so hard for him to walk away? Maybe it would stop him from thinking of things that couldn’t be? Maybe it would make it less hard to see her marry someone else?

His chest burned. The very thought of it ate like acid in his gut.

His hand clenched the reins, and unconsciously his arm drew tighter around her waist.

What the hell choice did he have? The king wasn’t going to very well set aside the betrothal with Stewart to let her marry one of his Guardsmen—not to mention a Lamont—even if Ewen could convince
her
, which he wasn’t sure he could. The only option open to him was one he wouldn’t consider. He wasn’t his damned father. He wouldn’t “abduct” his liege lord’s bride. He wouldn’t risk everything for one woman. No matter how much he wanted her.

And God, how he wanted her! After so many hours with her in his arms, every inch of his body burned with need. The scent of her hair, the slimness of her waist, the heaviness of her breasts, the curve of her bottom, had infused his senses, imprinted on his consciousness, invaded his soul.

He didn’t want to let her go.

She turned to look up at him. “Is something wrong?”

He startled. “Nay, why?”

“Aren’t you going to get down? I assume this is our destination?”

He cursed under his breath, trying to cover his embarrassment. How long had they been standing there?

He pried his arm from around her waist and jumped
down. After helping her to dismount, he tied the reins to a post. “Wait here, while I make sure we are welcome.” She nodded, but then he thought of something else. “It is important that you only call me by my first name.”

She frowned. “Why?”

“Lamont is not exactly a welcome name in these parts. There are some who still believe that my kinsmen had a hand in killing William Wallace’s father.” Not to mention that his cousin, the exiled Lamont chief, was a vassal of the Earl of Menteith, the man who was responsible for turning Wallace himself over to the English.

Normally, he would simply use his war name of Hunter. But with Janet here that wasn’t an option. She knew too much already.

Fortunately, the answer seemed to satisfy her. “Very well. And who am I?”

He knew what she was asking, but there was no way in Hades that he was going to pretend to be married to her again. He couldn’t stand another night of sleeping beside her. “Janet. That is all they need to know. I would not make them uncomfortable by learning that they serve the king’s sister-in-law in their humble abode.”

“I would not make anyone uncomfortable, but it has been many years since I’ve been served by anyone. I do not expect it, nor do I wish it. I assure you, this humble abode will seem like a castle compared to some of the places I’ve stayed.”

He didn’t miss the soft rebuke. If she was also trying to tell him that their difference in station didn’t matter to her, he pretended not to understand. It might not matter to her, but it would to the king. Of that he was damned well sure.

With one last look that felt suspiciously like goodbye, Ewen went to find the farmer.

Once Janet realized the truth of her feelings for Ewen, everything seemed to fall into place. If she had any doubts
about what she wanted, they were soon put aside upon arriving at the small farmstead.

She sat at the table set out before the softly glowing peat fire, enjoying the warmth that enveloped her. It wasn’t just the heat from the flames or the satisfaction of a good meal, but also the company. The Wallaces were gracious hosts, and their happiness was contagious.

Ewen was right; not all marriages were horrible. The Wallaces were proof of that. Their fond banter, subtle loving glances, and unconscious touches spoke of possibility.

Robert Wallace was a distant cousin of William Wallace. He’d fought alongside his illustrious relative until six years before, when Robert lost a hand at a skirmish in Earnside. Margaret was considerably younger than her husband, and far prettier. The dainty, dark-haired lass with her elfin features and slim build seemed utterly wrong beside the grizzled warrior of around forty years, who had the towering height of his famous relative and the imposing bulk of a smith. But somehow they went together perfectly. Her bright laughter and open, sunny nature complemented her husband’s gruff, taciturn disposition. It was clear he doted on his young wife. His young
pregnant
wife.

The odd pang Janet had felt in her chest when she’d first realized Margaret was with child had become more identifiable as the evening wore on. It was longing. Sharp, aching longing.

On the heels of her own “pregnancy,” Janet had never felt the absence of children in her life so acutely. Of course, there were times over the years when she’d thought of a child—of what she would be giving up by taking the veil—but given that a child required a husband, and considering the importance of the work she was doing, it seemed a small price to pay. In the abstract, perhaps it was. But it didn’t feel so small right now, sitting with a beaming pregnant woman on one side and the man she’d just realized she loved on the other.

It felt like something she wanted. With him. Children. Cozy nights before the fire. Loving glances and tender touches. She wanted what the Wallaces had.

She knew what that meant.
Marriage
.

She waited for a few seconds to react to the word, but the usual bad taste did not rise to the back of her mouth. It
must
be love, she thought with a wry smile. With Ewen, a happy marriage seemed possible.

She knew there were complications. The king for one, her work for another. Robert was probably the easier of the two. If Ewen was indeed in his secret guard as she suspected, that would help. Ewen wouldn’t like the idea of her continuing her work, but he understood how important it was to her. He wasn’t like her father and brother—he wouldn’t try to stick her in some box. He valued her—he’d told her as much. If he loved her, they would find a way to make it work—like Magnus and Helen.

She’d finally met a man who was strong enough to let her be herself. His force of will might be a lot quieter than hers, but it was just as strong. There would be battles between them, aye, but she was looking forward to them.

Of course, she wasn’t the only one who needed to be convinced that it was a good idea. He wanted her, of that she had no doubt, and he cared for her—he’d admitted as much. But did he want to
marry
her? He’d said it was impossible, but what if it wasn’t?

Her gaze slid to the man in question. He was locked in a quiet conversation with Robert Wallace about the war, while Janet and Margaret finished their meal—the latter pretending not to listen to the men’s discussion.

“Are we talking loud enough for you, wife? I wouldn’t want you to miss any of our private conversation,” Robert said, looking up. His expression was chastising, but his eyes were soft as they fell upon his wife.

Margaret didn’t miss a beat. “That is quite considerate of you, Robert. I’m sure it is all beyond my poor woman’s
understanding, but if you could speak a little louder that might help.”

Her eyes danced as she leaned down and whispered to Janet, “Although I’d hardly qualify the exchange of a few words and the occasional grunt a conversation. I don’t know which of them is worse.”

Janet burst out laughing.

Robert’s eyes narrowed on his wife. “What is so funny?”

Margaret smiled and gave Janet a wink as she stood from the table. “I’m afraid it is private.”

Robert shook his head, but Janet didn’t miss the small smile as he turned back to his conversation with Ewen.

Margaret started clearing the platters from their meal. When Janet rose to help, she ordered her back to her seat. “You are a guest,” she said, and then in a whisper, “Besides, you must tell me if they say anything interesting.”

Janet smiled conspiratorially. “I shall do my best. But ‘interesting’ is probably more than we can hope for.”

Margaret chuckled. “You’re probably right. How about this: try not to fall asleep.”

“I make no promises,” Janet said. “I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so comfortable. You have a lovely home, Margaret.”

She could see how much the comment pleased the other woman. “I think you saw the apple tart.”

Janet laughed. “I may have, at that.”

Margaret moved to the other side of the long room, while Janet relaxed. She eyed the two men at the end of the table surreptitiously. She must not be as adept at overhearing as Margaret, because she could make out very little of what was being said. Although she was used to Ewen’s sparse conversation, even for him, he seemed unusually subdued tonight.

Something was wrong.

Was he more worried than he’d let on that his friends
had not arrived? He’d seemed confident that they would arrive soon. Or was something else bothering him?

She frowned as he refilled his goblet again. He seemed to be drinking more than usual tonight. His face looked a little flushed.

She waited for a break in the men’s conversation. “Is your leg feeling all right, Ewen?”

He looked over at her. “It feels fine. Why do you ask?”

She blushed, not wanting to admit that she’d been watching his intake of ale. “You had not mentioned it for a while, and I was just wondering how it was healing.”

“It’s fine.”

“You are injured?” Margaret asked, approaching the table.

“Some time ago,” he answered.

“But it has not healed properly,” Janet interjected.

Ewen shot her a glare. She smiled.