The Hunter (5 page)

If she could have managed it, she would have shed a tear or two, but some things were beyond her acting abilities. The look of reverent gratitude she’d adopted might have worked, but when he looked at her hair and frowned, she remembered that she wasn’t wearing her veil. Without it, she felt … exposed. It had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman in a man’s eyes, and it made her feel strangely vulnerable. She’d been pretending to be a nun for so long, she’d almost forgotten that she wasn’t one. Not yet at least.

Without stopping to let him get a word in, she stood and thanked him again before letting his hand go. She snatched her fallen veil off the ground to drape it over her head, linked Sister Marguerite’s arm in hers, and started to move away. She would return her to the abbey, make sure the young nun was all right, and then leave as soon as possible—this time, alone.

But it seemed her penchant for finding trouble wasn’t over.

“Sister Genna,” the Highlander said in perfectly accented Norman French. “We aren’t done yet.”

She muffled an oath, realizing this wasn’t going to be over as fast as she’d hoped.

And how did he know her name?

What in Hades was going on? Was this simpering creature who’d just babbled all over his gauntlet the same bold Valkyrie who’d bravely defended herself and her companion against four English soldiers?

Ewen was having a hard time reconciling the two, when he realized she was walking away. When he stopped her, he could have sworn he heard her mutter an oath before she turned around. “You speak French?”

Though she said it with a smile on her face, he suspected she was anything but pleased.

He nodded, not bothering to answer the obvious question.

“You know my name?”

Again, he saw no cause to answer. He glanced at the young woman beside her, whose sobbing had abated and who now seemed almost too quiet. “The lass,” he bit off sharply. “Is she ill?”

“Sister Marguerite suffers from a lung ailment,” Sister Genna said in the pious and subservient manner she’d adopted. But he didn’t miss the subtle way she tucked the younger woman behind her, as if putting herself between her charge and any threat he might present. He admired the impulse, no matter how ridiculous.

The younger nun rallied enough to explain. “Asthma,” she said in a wavering voice. “I feel much better now, but if Sister Genna hadn’t stopped them when she did …” Her voice fell off and her eyes filled once again with tears.

Her fierce protector shot him a reproachful glare, showing a flash of the spirit she’d masked behind the reverent exterior. He was glad she’d covered herself and put on her veil, but even the memory of what lay underneath was distracting.

“You are upsetting her. As you can see, she is unwell, and I need to get her back to the abbey right away. So while I thank you for your assistance, I’m sure you don’t wish to delay us any longer. Nor do I imagine you will want to be here when these men are found. There are bound to be others in the area.”

It was clear the lass was trying to be rid of him, and he didn’t think it was concern for their welfare that motivated her. Did she think to frighten him away with Englishmen? He almost laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “But you aren’t going anywhere.”

MacLean had finished disposing of the bodies as best he could and came up beside him. “Christ, Hunter,” he said under his breath in Gaelic. “You might try explaining rather than issuing edicts.”

Given that MacLean was only marginally less blunt and possessed at best incrementally more finesse when it came to communication, the criticism was somewhat ironic.

“My name is Eoin MacLean, and this is Ewen Lamont,” MacLean said in broken French. Unlike Ewen, MacLean wasn’t quick with languages. Normally they used their war names for Highland Guard missions, but as this mission wasn’t in the dark and the nuns would be able to see their faces to identify them, they’d decided it was safer to use their clan names. “We were sent to find you,” he added.

Ewen didn’t miss the instant look of wariness she shot in his direction at the mention of his clan. A look that unfortunately he was used to among Bruce supporters. Like the MacDougalls, Comyns, and MacDowells, the name Lamont was not a trusted one.

The long feud between the two branches of Lamonts had not ended with Fynlay’s death at Dundonald. Ewen’s cousin John, the current Chief of Lamont, had chosen to fight with his mother’s clan, the MacDougalls, against Bruce. When the MacDougalls had been chased from Scotland after the Battle of Brander, his cousin had gone
into exile with the MacDougalls, and the vast lordship of
Mac Laomian mor Chomhail uilethe
, The Great Lamont of all of Cowal, had been forfeited to the crown, including the important clan strongholds of Dunoon and Carrick.

Distancing himself from his cousin’s rebellion and his father’s “wild” legacy was a constant battle. But he was surprised an Italian nun was that apprised of clan politics.

“Who sent—” She stopped herself, obviously remembering her companion. Slowly, she nodded. “I see.”

She’d realized that it must have been Lamberton who’d led them to her.

“With such an important undertaking as your, uh … pilgrimage,” MacLean added, “your superiors were concerned that nothing go wrong and wanted to make sure you reached your destination safely. As you have discovered, there are many enemies to the church these days.”

Ewen hadn’t realized MacLean was so adept at speaking with double meaning—especially in a language he wasn’t exactly fluent in—but it was clear that Sister Genna understood what he was trying to say: they were here to make sure the message to Bruce did not go astray.

He was studying her while MacLean spoke and didn’t miss the flash of what might be deemed annoyance in her eyes. They were sea blue, he realized. A very pretty, very crystal shade of bluish green. And what kind of nun had long, feathery eyelashes like that?

Whatever pique he’d detected was quickly smothered behind the pious facade. “I fear your journey was unnecessary. I reached my destination two days ago without any problems. Indeed, I was on my way back to Berwick this morning. Sister Marguerite was simply walking me to the hill to say goodbye.”

“You were planning to travel by yourself?” Ewen said.

He hadn’t bothered to keep the incredulity from his voice, and the face she turned to him was serene enough, but he could swear her eyes were shooting tiny greenish-blue
darts at him. Damn, she was pretty! Not too old and not too young. He’d guess she was in her mid-twenties—a handful of years younger than his thirty. The other one was pretty too, in a frail, helpless manner Sister Genna was trying to adopt, but she didn’t look much older than a child.

“I hoped to catch up with another group of pilgrims at Dryburgh Abbey, a few miles away. We in the service of God are used to walking long distances. I walk much farther to sell our embroidery at market. Most people I encounter on the road are not like these.”

“But some are,” he pointed out.

She shrugged with far less concern than she should have. Even after what had just happened, she seemed oblivious to the danger she was in. Which only reinforced his belief that women had no part in war—even nuns acting as couriers. Women were too fragile. Too trusting. Too innocent of the ugly side of the world. How could she expect to defend herself against an armed knight?

Though he admired the bravery and spirit he’d just witnessed, the next group of soldiers she came upon might not be so easily persuaded by her threats. What the hell was Lamberton thinking? The good bishop was sending his pretty lamb out to the slaughter with no idea of the danger she faced. And without protection, damn it.

He should be glad to hear she’d passed the missive along and leave it at that. Escorting pretty nuns who didn’t know enough to realize that they were out of their element wasn’t what he’d joined the Highland Guard to do.

As the only Lamont not in exile, it was up to Ewen to restore the good name of his clan and reclaim the clan lands lost by his cousin, ensuring that one of the greatest lordships in the Highlands did not fade away into the mist like those of the MacDougalls and Comyns.

All he had to do was keep his head down, do his job, and
not do anything to anger Bruce. When the war ended, he would be rewarded with land and coin.

It was a simple equation. He sure as Hades didn’t need any complications from unknown variables—unknown variables like pretty little Italian nuns. As much as he liked Arthur “Ranger” Campbell’s eldest brother, Neil, he didn’t want to see any more Lamont land in Campbell hands.

But he couldn’t very well leave her out here to fend for herself. Not after what he’d seen.

She made an attempt to explain. “A few, perhaps. Though even these men, I think, were realizing the error of their ways.” Realizing that might sound ungrateful, she added, “Although, of course, we are grateful for your help. You were magnificent! Your sword skills were most impressive; I will make sure to pass along our praise to my superiors.”

Though it was said with the perfect balance of feminine flattery and sincerity, Ewen had been around MacSorley long enough to recognize when he was being humored.

Perhaps detecting his skepticism, she added, “Truly I do not know what we would have done had you not appeared when you did.”

If he hadn’t seen her display earlier, the meek, helpless act might have fooled him. His eyes narrowed. Why the act at all? What game was she playing?

She gave them a solemn smile, as if she were blessing them. But he was distracted by the small heart-shaped mole she had above her lip. God’s blood, a mole like that belonged on the mouth of a jade!

“You have our deepest gratitude. Sister Marguerite and I will keep you both in our prayers. Goodbye.”

Jesus!
Ewen frowned and came to a sudden stop. How the hell had she done that? She’d been walking, and they’d been following her without even realizing it. They were almost back to the road.

He felt like bloody Odysseus with the sirens. “Not so
fast, Sister.” He had no intention of letting her walk off alone. MacLean could take the missive to Bruce, and he’d see their courier safely back to Lamberton. And when he was finished, he and the bishop were going to have a nice, long talk about using nuns as couriers. “Say your goodbyes if you wish, but you are coming with me.”

Genna tried not to let her discomposure show, but it had been a long time since a man had tried to order her around. Not since … Duncan. Her chest pinched thinking of her brother. It was still hard to believe he was gone. Her big, strong, seemingly indestructible brother had been killed by the MacDowells at Loch Ryan not long after her disappearance.

She turned around calmly and met his gaze—the disarming one whom, as he’d not seen fit to do so himself, MacLean had introduced as Lamont. Odd, as she thought the clan had stood with the MacDougalls against Bruce and had been exiled to Ireland. The Lamont clan was located in Cowal, she recalled, near Argyll in the Western Highlands. Their name was thought to be derived from the Norse “Logmaor,” or lawman. Which was especially ironic given that this man seemed to have the communication skills of a rock.

He wasn’t responding in the way she expected, and it was mildly disconcerting. He also had a disarming way of looking at her. Hard. Intense. As if he could see all her secrets. Thinking of the scars, she realized that he had—some of them, at least. But she had plenty more waiting to be discovered.

The sooner she rid herself of this unnerving man, the better.

Feigning a patience she certainly didn’t feel, she bestowed one of her most nunly smiles on him. Calm. Serene. Understanding. With that slightly mysterious and hallowed detachment that set the nuns apart. How Mary
would laugh to see her affect such a countenance! Her chest pinched, and she pushed the thought away. Her twin sister was safer without her around. But she hated not being able to see her and tell her she was all right. Soon, she hoped. The war couldn’t go on forever … could it?

“I don’t understand. I believe I explained that there was no cause for you to come.” She’d delivered the missive, blast it. Why would the bishop send them after her? Lamberton had never displayed such a lack of faith in her before. She didn’t need an escort; he would only interfere with her plans. “Was there something else?”

The smile had no effect on him. His face was as impenetrable as the steel that hid his brow and nose. She frowned. She had to admit, she was curious to see the entirety of his face. He had a nice mouth and jaw—

She stopped with a startled jerk, wondering what in perdition had come over her.

“I will return you to Berwick. You don’t need to worry about your friend. MacLean will see her safely back to the abbey. He will make sure
everything
reaches its intended destination.”

The man wasn’t as adept at hidden meanings as his friend, but she understood well enough. Apparently, MacLean would take the missive she’d left with their contact at the abbey directly to Bruce himself.

“You are so kind. Although I appreciate your gallant offer, it isn’t necessary. Why don’t we all return to the abbey, and you and your friend can both see that everything arrives safely.”

She turned to leave, but he stopped her with that deep, lilting voice of his that despite the curtness of his words seemed to seep right through her like warm caramel.

“It wasn’t an offer, Sister.”

The man was like a rock all right. Utterly immovable! She felt a spark of temper but tamped it down. Her smile
this time might have been a little forced. “It isn’t necessary—”

“Yes, it is.” He motioned with his head to his friend, and MacLean came toward her. “Take the girl to the abbey and then see that our friend receives the message,” he added in Gaelic. “I’ll deal with our little holy warrior.”

Good thing she had plenty of experience pretending not to understand. But still his comment managed to get a small rise out of her. Little holy warrior, indeed! He made her sound like a bairn playing some game.

“Sister,” MacLean said, holding out his hand to Marguerite.