The Hunter (7 page)

He felt her shift against him as she turned her head to glance back. “Is something wrong?”

Other than the slow, torturous descent into hell that was
the soft curve of her bottom pressing against his turgid cock? He gritted his teeth together. “Nay, why do you ask?”

“You cursed.”

His eyes narrowed. “I thought you didn’t understand our language.”

“I don’t. But I didn’t need to understand Gaelic to know that it was a word I should not wish to hear.”

His mouth twitched with amusement. He supposed that was true enough. Sometimes tone said it all. “There is nothing wrong.”

“I thought you might have been confused about which way to go. Are you sure you know where you are going?”

This time he couldn’t resist the full smile, even though she had no idea how amusing her question was. He was the best tracker in the Highlands; he didn’t get lost. He’d built his reputation by focusing on every detail of his surroundings. A reputation that had led to Bruce selecting him for his team of elite warriors. “Don’t worry, I know where I’m going. We aren’t going to get lost.”

A little furrow appeared between her brows. No doubt she’d sensed his amusement but didn’t understand the source. “You seem quite confident.”

“I am.”

“It’s just that it looks like it’s going to rain, and with the mist—”

“We’ll be fine.”

She tilted her head back a little to study him for a moment. Their faces were so close, it was hard for him to resist doing the same.

She really was quite pretty—for a woman of God, he reminded himself. The lines of her face were simply but classically drawn. Wide-set almond-shaped eyes framed by delicately arched brows. High cheekbones, a small, straight nose, and a tiny pointed chin. The only extravagances were those ridiculously long lashes, the brilliant
sea-blue of her eyes, and that sensually curved mouth. Her lips were too pink, too lush, and too damned tempting—especially with that wanton freckle distracting him.

He shifted his gaze back to the road ahead of them, where it was safe.

He was relieved when she did the same. Until she shivered a little and settled back against him. He nearly groaned, and his voice came out a tad gruffer than usual. “Are you cold?”

“A little.”

With one hand holding the reins, he reached back and unfastened a plaid from the roll on the saddle. “You can use this,” he said, handing it to her.

The smile she gave him was almost girlish in its delight and so out of keeping with the serene nun, his heart jogged a beat or two.

“Thank you.” She wrapped it around her and sighed contentedly, sinking back against him again.

At least one of them was comfortable. Ewen had the feeling that the next twenty-four hours were going to be some of the most uncomfortable of his life.

The plaid smelled like him, cozy and warm with a faint hint of the outdoors, and the soft blues and grays reminded her of his eyes. Steel-blue, she would call them—with an emphasis on the steel.

Steel rather summed him up quite nicely, from his eyes, to his intractable temperament, to the solid shield of his chest behind her and the hard strength of the arms that had lifted her from the ground. She’d never felt arms like that in her life. She’d reached out to brace herself in surprise as he’d lifted her, and she might as well have been trying to grip rock. A strange shudder had stolen through her, and her stomach had taken the oddest little dip.

Actually, her stomach seemed to be doing that quite a lot
around him. And she would feel flush at the oddest times. She hoped she wasn’t becoming ill.

But for such a hard-edged man, she had to admit he was surprisingly comfortable to ride with. It was nice. Quite nice, she realized. Perhaps she’d been worried for naught? It was infinitely more comfortable riding with the warmth and protection of his big body behind her, especially as the weather grew more ominous. That wind was cold, and he was like a bread oven, radiating heat. She shivered, burrowing deeper under the plaid when a powerful gust tore through the trees.

She thought he made a pained sound, but when she glanced over her shoulder he was looking straight ahead with that masculine square jaw set at the same uncompromising angle.

It wasn’t often that she didn’t get her way, but Genna could accept defeat graciously, particularly when it was proving to be to her benefit. She would just have to ensure he didn’t interfere with her plans. When the time came she would find a way to make a quick stop in Roxburgh, which shouldn’t be too difficult, as they would pass in that direction anyway. Until then, there was no reason not to make the best of it and try to pass the time pleasantly. At least as pleasantly as they could until the rain started.

She eyed him curiously. She wasn’t sure what it was about him, but he wasn’t like anyone she’d met before. Her first impression hadn’t changed much in the short time they’d been riding. He was hard to read—which strangely intrigued her.

“You don’t talk much, do you?”

He gave her a sidelong glance from under that terrifying-looking helm that she wondered if he’d ever remove and said dryly, “I didn’t think you noticed.”

She laughed. “Are you suggesting I talk too much?”

“I’m suggesting you talk until you hear what you want to hear.”

She lifted a brow in surprise. The comment was insightful. She’d never been very good at hearing “no.” Mary used to say she was like a big boulder rolling down the hill, and heaven help whoever was in her path when she wanted something.

Apparently, he was a big enough wall to get in her way. She bit back a smile at the appropriateness of the comparison. “As you can see, it doesn’t always work,” she said wryly.

That elicited a smile from him. Well, at least one corner of his mouth lifted, which from him she supposed was good enough to be characterized as a smile. “Just most of the time?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “Let’s just say it has come in handy more than once.”

His face darkened. “You’ve been damned lucky, then.”

She suspected she wasn’t going to like what he had to say, yet she felt compelled to ask, “What do you mean?”

“I mean that what you are doing is dangerous, and you’ve been lucky to have avoided trouble, but believe me, Sister, not all men are susceptible to manipulation. Women don’t belong in war, even as couriers—a fact I intend to impart at the first opportunity to the good bishop.”

Perhaps it had been a bad idea to get him to talk. Genna was so outraged, it took her a moment to know where to start. She didn’t manipulate anyone; she argued her point. And how dare he try to tell her what she could or could not do! She might have taken a different name, but she was still the daughter of an earl. Her sister had been Robert the Bruce’s first wife. She had more right than anyone to help his cause. And she had reasons of her own for wanting to do her part that weren’t his to question.

She took pride in what she did. She
liked
it. And she was good at it, woman or not! “I serve the king, just as you do. He needs everyone to help—man and woman—if he is
going to have a chance to defeat Edward. What you do is dangerous, is it not?”

He didn’t say anything in response. An annoying tendency of his, she was learning.

She took his silence as agreement. “And yet you choose to fight for what you believe. Why should I not be able to make the same choice?”

“It isn’t a woman’s place.”

Was that an answer? Genna tried to control her temper, but the flames were snapping. “And where exactly is a woman’s ‘place’?”

“Somewhere safe, running the household and keeping watch over the bairns.”

Genna stiffened. “A place that is hardly fitting for me, sir.” She paused. “And your wife? She is content to stay at home and watch you ride off into battle?”

“I’m not married.”

“What a shock,” she muttered under her breath, but from the way his eyes narrowed, she knew he’d heard her.

She didn’t care. She knew that most men felt the way he did about the traditional roles for women (which probably explained why she intended to take the veil!). Perhaps it would have been different if either of her two betrothals had ended in marriage. But now that she’d experienced freedom, she couldn’t go back to being ordered about as if she had a pea for a brain and being treated like chattel. For that’s what marriage did to women. God, hadn’t she seen enough of it when she was growing up?

She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “Not all women desire to be coddled and protected. Some of us can take quite good care of ourselves.”

“A silvery tongue is no match for a blade.”

She flushed, and before she could think better of it, she reached down, slid her
sgian-dubh
, her hidden knife, from the scabbard near the top of her boot, and had it pressed
against the inside of his thigh where it met his hips. “Then it’s a good thing that I’m good with both.”

The expression on his face was one Janet—Genna, she reminded herself—would remember with satisfaction for a long time.

The lass moved so quickly, Ewen had no idea what she intended until the blade was pressed against the soft leather of his thigh. Like most members of the Highland Guard, he did not wear mail to protect his legs—or his upper body, for that matter (it was too heavy)—and the five-inch-long blade was pointed right at the place where a deep enough cut would kill him. He didn’t think it was a coincidence. The lass knew one of the few places he was vulnerable.

Jesus!
One slip of that knife and he’d be dead—or gelded. Neither option of which was very appealing.

All of his attention should be on that blade, yet he was achingly aware of the placement of her other hand. To brace herself—and give herself better leverage to wield the blade—she’d put her left hand on his right thigh.
High
on his right thigh. And too damned close to the part of him that had been made half-crazed by their ride.

So even while he watched the right hand with the blade, he couldn’t stop thinking about the left, and how good it would feel if she moved it a few inches and took him in her hand. He wouldn’t have thought it possible to be aroused with a knife a few inches from his cock. He now knew differently.

Slowly—very slowly, so as not to jar her into sudden movement—he drew the horse to a halt. Outwardly he kept calm, but his heart was pounding. He kept his eyes pinned to hers, but she didn’t flinch. She was as cool and calm as any of his fellow Guardsmen would be, and he knew without a doubt that she would use the knife if she had to.

What the hell kind of nun was she, anyway? He stilled when she pressed the knife a little harder, the tip of the blade digging deeper into the leather. A bloodthirsty one, apparently, who knew how to wield a dagger.

“You’ve made your point,” he said.

She quirked a well-formed brow. Like her lashes, her eyebrows were thick and dark, framing her blue eyes to perfection and providing a striking contrast to her fair hair and skin …

He stopped himself, furious. There he went, doing it again. Noticing details was part of his job, but he shouldn’t be noticing those kind of details about her.

Knife
, he reminded himself.

“Have I?” she said. “Somehow I think not. Men like you only respect in others what they see in themselves. In your case, physical strength.” She looked him over in a way that might have made his blood heat had she not added, “Of which you appear to have an over-abundance.” She gave him a taunting smile, digging in the knife a little more. “But as you can see, physical strength isn’t always enough.”

There it was again. Ewen had a gift for languages, and every now and then he caught something in her accent. At times it didn’t seem quite so strong. Like now, when she was angry. Given the current circumstances, he supposed it was safe to say that she’d dropped her pretense of being meek and serene.

Holding her gaze, he reached down and circled the wrist holding the knife with his hand. He felt shock run through him at the touch. The baby softness of her skin and delicacy of her bones took him aback, but he felt the determination in the firmness of her grip. Slowly, he moved her hand—and the blade—to the side so he could breathe again.

But he didn’t let her go. She was practically turned around on the saddle now, facing him, eyes flashing and chest heaving with the fury of the confrontation.
Damn it!
He
really
shouldn’t think about her chest, because despite the black wool that almost covered her from head to toe, he could remember every luscious inch of naked flesh, and a very sinful part of him wanted to reach down and scoop it up in his hands.

And then there was the placement of that other hand. Perhaps he should have moved it instead because now that the blade was at a safe distance, his focus wasn’t split anymore, and all he could think of was the soft pressure so near to the place he really wanted it.

Almost as if she could read his mind, her face flushed, and she removed her hand from his thigh, while tightening the one holding the
sgian-dubh
defensively. He knew plenty of warriors who carried a hidden blade—usually under their arm—but she was the first woman.

Men like him
. Was she correct in her characterization? He didn’t want to think so, but then again, she’d managed to surprise him. He’d underestimated her because she was a woman—not to mention a nun.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been able to get a blade close enough to him to do real harm. It was probably Viper. Lachlan MacRuairi had earned his war name for his silent, deadly strike. He’d snuck up on Ewen once in training and managed to get a blade to his neck.

Obviously, she’d had training, too. But unless the recently disbanded Templars had opened their ranks to include nuns, it hadn’t been at a convent.

“Where the hell did you learn to do that?”

She glared back at him. “My sister-in-law.”

His brows drew together; it wasn’t the answer he was expecting. Another woman? “Unusual family you have. Or do they teach knife skills to all little girls in Italy along with needlework?”

He was watching her closely and saw something flicker
in her gaze. She seemed to shake something off, and then her mouth curved in a smile. “Was that a joke,
monsieur
?”