The Hunter

by Monica McCarty

  MacLean shot a surreptitious look to the man in question, who was glaring at them so furiously she was surprised smoke wasn’t coming out of his nose.

  “I’m afraid so, my lady.”

  She smiled back at him, thinking that under the circumstances, she was rather enjoying herself.

  Twelve

  The mission had to come first, damn it. As angry as he was—and Ewen couldn’t recall the last time he’d been so angry—he knew the danger ahead of him. Hell, not just ahead of him but everywhere around him. The Borders were rife with it.

  They wouldn’t be safe until they boarded the birlinn waiting just off shore for them in Ayr—assuming Hawk and Viper hadn’t been called off on another mission. So he buried his anger beneath the call of duty, reminding himself of all he had to do. But it was there, simmering, getting closer to the breaking point with each mile that they rode over the gentle rolling hills of the Tweedsdale.

  Although he would prefer to travel on the north side of the Tweed, the bridges were heavily monitored. This part of the Scottish Marches was a maze of rivers and tributaries. At some point they would have to cross water, but it was safer to wait until they were west of Selkirk, where there were numerous places to cross that didn’t require a bridge. They could have tried to cross at the place he’d taken Janet to all those months ago, but that was how he and the other Guardsmen had arrived, and he always tried to use a different route to leave in case someone had tracked them the first time.

  With the English controlling the border towns, he supposed it didn’t make much difference: everywhere was dangerous. But even traveling at night with only a single torch to light their way, he felt exposed. The low hills and fertile valley of the Tweedsdale provided little natural cover. It wasn’t until they neared Selkirk that the hills would rise and the forests would thicken. Ironically, he would be returning to Selkirk in two weeks with Bruce for peace talks.

  He hoped to reach as far as Ettrick, deep in those hills and forests about twelve miles southwest of Selkirk, before daybreak. There was a cave in the area where they could rest until nightfall.

  But they had hours of dangerous and difficult riding ahead of them. Ewen spent the first few hours circling around behind them to hide their tracks as best he could and ensure no one was following them. The snow seemed to be holding off, which was good. Hiding tracks in freshly fallen snow was difficult, unless it fell quickly and heavily.

  Ewen had been chosen by Bruce for the Highland Guard for his extraordinary tracking skills. Man or beast, if there was a trail, he would find it. It was what had given him the war name of Hunter. But the other side of tracking was knowing how to hide your own tracks. And like the ghosts that some thought “Bruce’s phantoms,” it was Ewen’s responsibility to make the Guardsmen disappear.

  He still couldn’t believe how close Janet had come to the truth with her jest. But thankfully, that was all it had been: a jest.

  Not that he was much in the mood for jesting. It seemed as though every time he rejoined the group or they stopped for a short break—as much for Janet as for the horses—she was laughing with one of his brethren.

  But especially with MacLean. His partner was lapping it up like a starving pup. Who in the hell knew that Striker could smile? In all the years Ewen had known him, he’d never seen MacLean like this. Not only smiling and jesting, but also talking. Hell, he didn’t think Striker was capable of carrying on a conversation that wasn’t about war or battle strategy.

  But the strange ease that Ewen had found with Janet seemed to apply to his partner as well. And something about that set him on edge—on deep edge.

  The lad’s clothing didn’t help, either. MacRuairi should have warned him. Women sure as hell didn’t belong in breeches—especially snug leather ones. They molded the womanly curves of her hips and bottom to perfection and emphasized the slim lines of her surprisingly long legs. It was distracting. Damned distracting. And he hadn’t been the only one to take notice. MacKay and Sutherland seemed embarrassed, but MacLean … he seemed a little too appreciative.

  It was after midnight when they stopped for the second time. Ewen had gone back on foot to obscure some of the hoofprints, and intersperse a few signs that he hoped would confuse or delay anyone on their trail, when he heard a soft feminine laugh coming from the direction of the river.

  The muscles in his neck and shoulders bunched. Focus, damn it! He knew he should ignore it. But the sound grated against every nerve-ending in his body. He couldn’t take it anymore.

  As soon as he came over the rise he could see her. Janet was seated on a rock, and MacLean stood beside her. He was handing her something.

  “Thank you,” Janet said, taking what appeared to be a piece of beef. “I’m more hungry than I realized.”

  MacLean murmured something that Ewen didn’t hear, and then said, “You are warm enough?”

  Ewen was striding toward them, but the sound she made stopped him mid-step. Squeezing the plaid around her shoulders, she gave a delighted sigh that went straight to his groin.

  “Wonderfully warm,” she said. “Thank you for letting me borrow it. It was most thoughtful of you.”

  Thoughtful? MacLean? Ewen had never known him to be so attentive to a woman. Any woman. And she was the wrong woman.

  MacLean shrugged. If Ewen didn’t know him better, he’d think his partner was preening. “I thought I saw you shiver at our last stop.”

  Ewen had seen the same thing. He’d been about to offer her his own plaid—God knew it would help to cover her up more—when MacLean had walked over to her and handed her his own.

  Ewen had had to fight the urge to rip it off her. It should be mine, damn it.

  Janet glanced over as he approached, but rather than acknowledge him, she turned to MacLean with a roll of the eye in his direction. That grated.

  Though Ewen knew his partner had heard him earlier, it was only then that MacLean glanced in his direction.

  He cocked his brow. “Is something wrong?”

  Ewen held his temper by the barest of threads. “Other than the fact that they can probably hear you talking halfway to London? Unless you want the English down on top of us, keep your voices low. And stop all that bloody laughing.”

  If Ewen hadn’t already known how ridiculous he sounded, their expressions would have told him. But nothing was worse than their quick exchange of looks, and Janet whispering “grumpy” under her breath, while trying not to laugh.

  “What did you say?”

  Janet shook her head, mirth shimmering in her eyes. “Nothing.”

  MacLean attempted to change the subject. “Did you see anything?”

  Ewen glowered at Janet until she finally sobered. Only then did he answer. “Nay.”

  She studied him, her gaze assessing. “You are being very careful. Do you have cause to believe someone is following us or are you always this vigilant?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, my lady, the Marches are currently occupied by English troops. There is no such thing as too careful or too vigilant when it comes to war. The fact that you don’t understand that is exactly why you shouldn’t be out here.”

  She stiffened and gave him a long, scathing stare that made him want to turn away. Without a word, she turned sharply and said to MacLean, “Thank you again. I will see you up by the horses.”

  Both men watched her walk away, Ewen cursing his harshly spoken words.

  MacLean gave a low whistle, shaking his head. “You were a little hard on the lass, don’t you think?”

  Ewen tried not to sound as defensive as he felt. “It’s the truth, and anyone that’s been doing what she’s been doing needs to hear it. This isn’t some game.”

  “And you believe that she thinks it is?”

  “I think she has no idea of the danger she is in.” Ewen’s eyes narrowed. “Edward’s men will not go easy on her if they discover what she is doing. The fact that she is a woman will not make a difference.” He didn’t need to remind MacLean of
what had happened at Lochmaben; he’d been there. “I can’t believe you are defending her. Would you allow your wife to do what she’s doing?”

  A dark shadow crossed MacLean’s face. It wasn’t often that any of them brought up his wife. But perhaps it was time for him to remember that he had one.

  MacLean’s mouth fell in a hard, angry line. “Aye, I just might. If it would mean I’d be rid of her sooner.” He paused, giving Ewen an appraising look. “Interesting comparison to make though.”

  Ewen didn’t like the way his partner was looking at him, as if he knew something. “I only thought to remind you of your own, since you seem to have forgotten.”

  He shrugged. “I like Lady Janet. She’s easy to talk to.”

  Bloody hell, he knew that. Ewen clenched his fists. “She’s not for you.”

  MacLean gave him a taunting smile. “I didn’t realize that you’d staked a claim.”

  Ewen took a step toward him. They’d been partners for five years and been through hell together. He’d never thought that he would feel so close to striking him. “I haven’t. You know very well that the lass is meant for someone else.”

  Ewen’s voice must have revealed more than he intended. MacLean immediately backed off, the taunting smile replaced by his usual dark expression. “Aye, but the lass doesn’t know that. She is doing this for you, you know. She’s trying to make you jealous.”

  Ewen was stunned. Was it true? His eyes narrowed at the man he thought was his closest friend. “And you went along with it?”

  MacLean shrugged unapologetically. “As I said, I like her—and she is easy to talk to—but I wanted to see if it worked.” He gave him a long pitying looking. “By the look on your face the past few hours, I’d say it did.”

  Much to his disgust, Ewen realized MacLean was right. She’d gotten to him.

  “What are you going to do?” MacLean asked somberly.

  What could he do? “My duty.”

  “Perhaps you should tell her and give the lass a choice?”

  “Women of her station do not have a choice.” And neither did he.

  “I had one.”

  Ewen was stunned once again. From the way MacLean acted, Ewen would never have thought he’d wanted to marry his MacDowell wife. “You did?”

  Something dark and angry and so full of hatred crossed MacLean’s face it almost made Ewen take a step back. “I made the wrong one because I thought …” He clenched his jaw. “Perhaps you are right. Deliver the lass to Bruce and don’t look back. You’ll save yourself a whole hell of a lot of trouble.”

  His friend walked away, and Ewen wondered whether he was talking about Ewen or himself. Perhaps it didn’t matter, because either way MacLean was right: Janet of Mar was a whole hell of a lot of trouble. The kind of trouble that could cost him everything, if he wasn’t careful.

  Why was Janet going to so much effort for a man who spoke to her as if she were five years old?

  She had no idea.

  The narrow-minded Highlander had made it perfectly clear that he didn’t think she had any part in the war. Fine. But she knew differently, and his opinion wasn’t going to change anything. She had every intention of finishing what she’d started. As long as the king needed her, as long as she could be of use, she would put herself in as much danger as she wanted. He had no right to tell her otherwise. He could glower and chastise until he was blue in that obnoxiously good-looking face of his, but she didn’t have to heed him. He wasn’t her father or her husband.

  Thank God.

  Was it so difficult to understand that what she did was important to her? For the past few years she’d had a purpose. Something that she not only enjoyed and was good at, but that also made her feel as if she mattered. She didn’t have anyone looking over her shoulder telling her she couldn’t do something. She’d been able to turn what her father had thought of as a character flaw in a woman—the propensity to make a man see he was wrong—into a useful skill.

  And the more she helped, the less she thought about the past, and the thoughtless young woman who’d tried to be a hero but had only ended up causing so much trouble. She owed it to Mary, but most of all to Cailin. Though she’d never forgive herself for his death at least she could see to it that it meant something. But Ewen wanted to take that away from her.

  She would never think to ask him to stop being a soldier. It was what he did. Presumably, and from what she’d seen, he was good at it.

  Not that he would ever see the comparison. To him, women were pretty accessories. A wife was someone to birth his children, tend his castles, and never raise her voice in protest.

  Well, that wasn’t her. And Janet had seen what happened when a woman who had her own opinions married a bull-headed, overprotective man who assumed he knew best. Janet had no interest in following Duncan and Christina’s example. Or her mother’s, for that matter. Strife or serfdom, neither was appealing.

  None of which explained why her heart squeezed when Ewen left the cave not long after they finished eating their second meal of dried beef, ale, and oatcakes.

  MacKay, who’d exchanged a few words with Ewen before he left, came over to where she was huddled at the back of the small, rocky cave. There would barely be room for all five of them to lie down, but without a fire, she suspected she would be glad of the warmth provided by their nearness.

  “You should get some rest, lass. We have another long night of riding ahead of us, and the terrain won’t be as friendly as it was today.”

  “Where did Ewen go?”

  “To the loch. His leg was caked with blood, and I told him to wash it or Helen would have both our hides.”

  She bristled at the mention of the younger-than-you-are, beautiful healer. “Helen?”

  The strapping Highlander smiled. “Aye, my wife. She’s a healer. She told Lamont that if he opened that wound one more time, she wasn’t going to fix it again.” He laughed. “But she will. She can’t help it. It’s what she does.”

  His wife? Janet was struck twofold. Not only because she’d been jealous over this man’s wife, but also because he was clearly proud of her. “Your wife is a healer?”

  “Aye, a very good one.”

  There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. Good God, a husband who was proud of a wife who worked? Miracles did happen. Too bad his friend didn’t feel the same way. But could he? Not likely. Still, the possibility intrigued her more than she wanted to admit. “Perhaps I should see if Ewen needs help. I’ve done some nursing.”

  MacKay looked at her appraisingly, rubbing his hand over a week’s worth of stubble on his jaw. She thought he might refuse, but eventually he nodded. “Let me get you something first.”

  Janet made her way down the rocky shoreline with the cloth and ointment Magnus had provided. Dawn was still a half-hour away, but the sun was already making its presence known, casting a soft glow over the misty sky. The promise of snow hung in the frosty air. Without wind, the weather was bearable—just.

  Washing in the icy water of the river, however, was another matter. Her hands were still blue from her earlier efforts. So just about the last thing she expected was to see Ewen emerge half-naked from the river like some kind of ancient Norse sea god.

  She stopped dead in her tracks, her mouth going dry. She should turn away. Really, she should. But she couldn’t. All right, in all honesty, she didn’t want to.

  She’d seen men without shirts. She’d even seen muscular men without shirts. But never had she seen one who made her want to stand back and stare in admiration.

  She was sure there was plenty of good uses for broad shoulders, arms that bulged with strength, and a stomach roped with band after band of muscle, but right now all she could think about was that he was beautiful. That it was a shame to cover such magnificence even with leather and studs of steel. That she would give just about anything to put her hands on him.

  Other details shuffled through her frozen brain. The dark triangle of hair at his neck that narrowed t
o a thin trail beneath his linen braies—the damp linen braies that rode low on his waist and clung to thick, muscular thighs.

  She shifted her gaze quickly from another big bulge that they clung to. She was bold, but not that bold.

  She had only a minute before he noticed her, but she made every second count.

  He shot her a glare and reached for a drying cloth, furiously scrubbing away all the lucky drops of water that clung to his chest.

  For heaven’s sake, she was acting like a lovesick thirteen-year-old!

  Belatedly, she averted her eyes.

  “What do you want?” he growled a few moments later.

  To her disappointment when she glanced back, he’d donned a linen shirt and pulled on some breeches.

  Ironically, now that he was dressed, she blushed. “I didn’t realize …” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry to intrude, but Magnus gave me some ointment to tend to your leg.”

  “I don’t need—”

  “I know you don’t need it, but he said to remind you that Helen will blame him if you catch a fever and die, so you’d ‘bloody well better see that you don’t.’ Helen,” she stressed the woman’s name, “Magnus’s wife.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “I know who Helen is.”

  She should be grateful that he had no idea how jealous he’d made her, but for some reason his utter lack of understanding annoyed her.

  He held out his hand. “Give it to me. I’ll take care of it.” Janet pursed her lips. “I know you think I’m incapable of rational thought, but I do know what I’m doing.”

  He frowned. “I don’t think that.”

  She made a sharp sound. “That’s why every other word out of your mouth is about how stupid and foolish I am—”

  He reached out and took her by the arm. “I never said you were stupid or foolish. I said you didn’t understand the danger.”

  “But I do. Just in the same way you do, and yet still choose to do what you do.”