Janet couldn’t hide her surprise. Was that the lord he’d spoken of who’d fostered him? The Stewart Lords of Bute were one of the most important clans in the country. “You are connected to the Stewarts?”
A wry smile turned his mouth, as if he guessed the direction of her thoughts. “Not closely. My mother was Sir James’s cousin—his favorite, as it happened.” Seeing her confusion, he sighed as if resigning himself to having to say more. “My mother was betrothed to the Chief of Lamont when she met my father—one of his chieftains—and decided to marry him instead. Needless to say, the Lamont chief was not happy. He went to war with my father and would have destroyed him without Sir James’s help.” He shook his head. “Ironically, it was my father being cut off from the rest of the clan that gave me the ability to save it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Like the MacDougalls, the MacDowells, and the Comyns, my cousin—the current chief—and his clansmen stood against Bruce and have been exiled and had the clan lands dispossessed, except for my lands in Ardlamont. Were it not for my connection to the Stewarts, and thus to Bruce, I would be with them. As it stands, I am the last Lamont in Cowal. My clan lives or dies with the skill of my sword, so to speak.”
Janet was stunned. No wonder he seemed so stubborn and single-minded about every mission. The future of the once great clan rested on his broad shoulders. But something else he’d said gave her a whisper of possibility. “You are a chieftain?”
He held her gaze. “Do not be too impressed, my lady. It is a minor holding only—with half a castle.”
Her brows furrowed, not understanding the sarcasm. “Until the king rewards you with more for your service?”
He shrugged. “If that is his will.”
She eyed him speculatively. Though he’d said it with nonchalance, she sensed how much it mattered to him. This was what drove him. Reward and a position for his clan under a Bruce kingship.
It also provided another explanation for why he’d stopped. Despoiling the king’s sister-in-law was hardly likely to ingratiate him to Robert.
But there was no reason Robert should ever find out. Not that she thought that was likely to sway Ewen. He was proving to have an inconveniently steely streak of honor in him.
She bit her lip, wondering if there was another way. Despite his continued rejection and appalling behavior in walking away from her in the middle of lovemaking, she still wanted him and wasn’t going to give up.
Why it was so important to her, she didn’t know. Either she was a glutton for punishment or there was something truly special between them that was worth the continued blows to her pride. And then there was the passion. The undeniable attraction that sprang up between them like wildfire. She could not discount that.
In any event, “I can’t do this” wasn’t an answer she intended to accept. It sounded too much like no. If Mary’s voice whispered a warning, Janet pushed it aside. She knew what she was doing. Besides, there was no one else around to get hurt.
He scanned the area behind her. “We’ve rested long enough.”
She lifted a brow in question. “Resting” wasn’t how she would describe what they’d been doing.
If she wasn’t sure that it was impossible for him to blush, she would have sworn his cheeks darkened as he took in her meaning. “Aye, well, you can sleep once I’m sure that we’ve lost them.”
“I think I’d prefer to do some more resting.”
He shot her a reproachful glare. “Janet …”
He might have been scolding a naughty pup. She blinked up at him innocently. “What?”
“It isn’t going to happen. I told you it was a mistake. It’s over. Over.”
She smiled, knowing that neither of them believed him. It wasn’t over; it had just begun.
Ewen pushed them mercilessly, as much to put distance between them and the English as to keep her too busy to plot his downfall.
The lass was trouble.
And stubborn.
And too bold by half.
She was also smart.
And achingly sweet.
And far stronger than he’d ever expected.
He couldn’t believe she was still on her feet. So far today she’d been hunted by dogs, attacked by an English knight, killed said knight with a well-placed dagger to the leg, trudged for miles knee-deep in an icy river, suffered a bath in that icy water, and hiked for miles over frozen, mist-topped hills. As if that weren’t enough, she’d also come within a hair’s breadth of ruin.
One orgasm couldn’t make up for all that. Though it had been one hell of an orgasm. He didn’t think he’d ever forget the look of ecstasy and surprise on her face as her body had shattered under him. The rush of color to her cheeks, the half-lidded eyes hazy with passion, the softly parted lips swollen from his kiss.
Jesus. Heat swelled in his sorely abused groin. The release he’d taken in his hand after leaving her had barely taken the edge off. How was he going to keep his hands off her until they reached the coast, when all he could think about was finishing what they’d started?
The lass had invaded his senses, penetrated his defenses, and slipped under his skin. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. Even exhausted, his leg on fire, cold and hungry, he couldn’t look at her without thinking about throwing her down on the ground, wrapping those long, slim legs around his waist, and giving her exactly what she was asking for.
So he did what any fearless warrior would do: he didn’t look at her.
But he didn’t know how much more of this he could take. More resting … bloody hell! Was she trying to kill him? God knew why, but the lass had gotten it in her head to give him her innocence. Did she have any idea how hard it was for him to refuse that kind of an offer?
Of course, she didn’t, and after hearing her views on marriage, he sure as hell wasn’t going to enlighten her. He had no doubt he’d have to drag her kicking and screaming all the way to Dunstaffnage. Bruce was going to have a hell of a battle on his hands when she found out about his plans.
The worst part was that he wasn’t sure he blamed her. He’d never considered marriage from a woman’s perspective before, but he had to admit, her concerns were not without merit. He’d always taken for granted a man’s role of absolute authority. To a woman like Janet who was used to making her own decisions, it would be stifling. She would chafe against those bindings at every turn.
But what was the alternative? Ewen wasn’t like MacKay, he couldn’t let his wife follow them into battle. He frowned. Although he had been grateful more than once to have a skilled healer at hand.
Helen is different, he told himself.
But wasn’t Janet?
They climbed to a small plateau in the hillside, and he stopped. Though it was only a few hours after noon, daylight was already fading.
“Wait here,” he said, pointing to a rocky outcrop. As he’d done every few miles, he let her catch her breath while he circled back to attempt to hide their tracks. The snow on the ground had hardened as the temperature dropped the higher they climbed on the mountain, making it easier to do so. But where the ground was too soft, instead of hiding, he set about confusing their pursuers by walking backward, breaking off in other directions for a while, or making a number of footprints in one area.
When he returned a few minutes later, she was seated on one of the rocks, watching him. “Is anyone following?”
He shook his head.
But something made her curious. “Why did you stop to look at the bracken back there?”
He sat down beside her and pulled out his skin. After taking a long swig, he handed it to her. “Some of the stems were broken where we brushed by.”
She frowned. “I thought you were hiding our footprints.”
“I’m hiding our tracks.”
“Isn’t it the same thing?”
He shook his head. “I’m looking for any disturbances on the landscape, not just footsteps. Any sign that someone might have passed.”
He shrugged. “It’s a sign.”
She gave him a long look. “How did you become so good at this?”
“My father’s henchman was a tracker. He used to take me out with him when I was young, and later when I returned from fostering. He noticed I had an unusual memory for details and taught me how to use that skill to track. But it’s mostly experience.” Years and years of learning what to look for.
“What kind of details?”
“Look behind me.” He waited a few moments. “Now close your eyes and tell me what you saw.”
She looked back at him. “Is that a trick? There is only a flat area of moorland dusted with snow, with a few rocks scattered about.”
“Look again.” He didn’t turn, but called up the image from memory. “The rocks scattered about the moors are graywacke sandstone, but about twenty paces behind me are a few granite rocks stacked in what is probably the beginnings of a summit cairn. Just to the left, you can see the outlines of a narrow path from the north where the grass has been tramped down—probably by mountain hares, if the pile of scat nearby is any indication—and the snow is slightly lower. Near the patches of purple moor grass sticking up through the snow on the west side of the hill are the tracks of a small group of red deer hinds. Directly over my left shoulder about five paces behind me is a small bump in the snow. If you look closely, you can see a few brownish feathers sticking out. I suspect it’s the carcass of a grouse brought down by a hen harrier or peregrine falcon.”
She gaped at him. “You didn’t even look.”
“I did earlier. I told you, I have an unusual memory.”
“I’ll say. And a keen eye for detail.” She smiled delightedly. “What else do you look for?”
He wasn’t used to such an eager audience, but as the subject clearly interested her, and knowing it would help pass the time, he explained some basic principles, such as how to minimize your imprint on the landscape and make sure no signs were left behind; deception tactics to mislead your pursuers, such as walking backward, looping around, stone hopping, and toe walking; how to move with the wind to hide your scent, how to avoid changing directions at obvious places, and how to break a scent trail as they’d done with the dogs.
She listened to him with rapt attention, clearly fascinated.
“Every time you take a step,” he said, “look for stones, hard ground, patches of ice, existing roads or paths, resilient mosses, things like that. Your tracks will be less visible.”
“So think hard,” she said.
That was one way of putting it, but he tried not to think about “hard” given his problems in a certain area.
She looked up at him. “It seems so obvious now that you point it out, but I never realized.”
“Most of what I do is common sense. You just have to think about it.”
“You are being modest.” She tilted her head to look at him. “No wonder Robert wanted you for his secret army. I can imagine a skill like yours is useful for men who want to appear like ghosts.”
He could feel her eyes on him, so he was careful not to react. Damn it, the lass was relentless! He should be surprised that she’d figured it out, but he wasn’t. She could find trouble without even looking for it.
“Aren’t you going to say something?”
He turned to look at her, his eyes boring into hers. “Should I tell you how much danger you could put both of us in by just mentioning the subject, irrespective of whether it is true?”
Her gaze never wavered. “But it is true. I know it is.”
Clearly, he wasn’t going to dissuade her. He knew he should try. He’d taken an oath, and it wasn’t just his own life at stake, but he didn’t want to lie to her. So he did the next best thing and said, “Let’s go. Rest time is over.”
She groaned. “But we just sat down. You’re just trying to avoid my questions.” He didn’t deny it. “The English won’t be chasing us forever, Ewen. One of these days you won’t be able to avoid answering.”
He didn’t know; he was pretty damned good at avoiding things. Except with her—which was part of the problem. He didn’t answer, simply holding out his hand instead.
He helped her to her feet—with another dramatic groan on her part—and they were off.
Although he was fairly certain they’d lost their pursuers, he wanted to reach the next ridge by nightfall. There was an old stone shieling where they could take shelter. It was too dangerous to wander around these mountains in the dark, especially in the mist. In the morning, he would see about finding horses to take them to Ayr, where he sure as hell hoped MacKay, MacLean, and Sutherland would catch up to them.
Teaching her about tracking proved to be an effective way of passing the time, distracting them both—him from thinking about the pain in his leg and the fate of his friends, and her from asking more questions he couldn’t answer about the Highland Guard. She was an eager pupil, surprising him with her interest, as well as with how quickly she seemed to pick it up.
They were able to move at a much quicker pace since she’d become more conscious of the signs she was leaving behind as they climbed, and thus he didn’t need to spend as much time backtracking to cover them up.
He should have instructed her earlier. Why didn’t he? It was one of the first things he did with men under his command. Had he thought the principles too difficult to grasp, or solely the province of men?
She was right, he realized. He assumed that because she didn’t wear armor and carry weapons, she was ill equipped for war. But Janet of Mar seemed to be turning many of his preconceived notions about women on their head.
She wasn’t fragile or helpless. She was strong and capable. Too bloody capable, to his mind.
Although he might be willing to admit that he’d underestimated her abilities, he wasn’t wrong about the danger. She might have defended herself against the knight today, but without the element of surprise—or if there had been more than one man—she’d be just as dead as those women at Lochmaben. Even if she were the best damned courier in Scotland, it didn’t override his instinct to protect her.
But did she need protection?
He thought back to their conversation about the women at Lochmaben. He’d never believed a woman could understand the danger and still want to be involved. Just like him, she’d pointed out. That was ridiculous, wasn’t it?
By the time the shadow of the shieling appeared on the horizon, Ewen had achieved one of his objectives: the lass was exhausted. Too exhausted to do anything more than climb into the folds of the plaid he’d set out for her as a blanket, after cleaning out the debris from the former animal occupants, and sleep.
Her virtue—and his honor—was safe.
For now.
But when he climbed into the small stone hut beside her a few hours later, and she instinctively turned to him, burrowing into his arms, something hard and heavy lodged in his chest. The weight of inevitability? The stony certainty of fate? Because nothing had ever felt more perfect. Alone on a mountain, taking refuge in a stone hut meant for sheep while being hunted by Englishmen, he’d never felt more content.
He tucked his arm under her chest, snuggled her small bottom into his groin, buried his nose in the silky softness of her hair, and savored every minute of holding the woman who wasn’t his, but who sure as hell felt like it.
Seventeen
Janet woke with a start. It took her a few panicked heartbeats to remember where she was, but eventually she started to breathe evenly again. The stone shieling on the mountain. With Ewen.
She frowned. Ewen, who was nowhere to be found. She didn’t need to look around the small stone hut to see that he was gone; she could tell by the empty chill at her back.
He’d slept beside her. Instinctively, she knew that. Not that she could remember it, blast it. The last thing she recalled was being tucked under the warm folds of his plaid. She’d been so tired, she’d fall
en asleep the moment her eyes had closed.
He’d probably counted on that, the blighter. He’d marched her over these hills until she was too tired and cold to do anything but collapse.
All she could recall was a feeling of warmth and contentment. Of being perfectly relaxed and snug in her bed, unburdened by the events of the day.
He’d held her, she realized.
Janet shook her head with mild disgust. The one time he’d taken her in his arms and held her, and she hadn’t been awake to enjoy it! If she weren’t so sure that there was something special between them, his attempts to avoid her might have been demoralizing.
She’d just finished rolling up the plaid when the blighter in question ducked through the low door of the shieling. He had to crouch slightly to stand up inside, as the domed turf roof was only about six feet high in the center.
“You’re awake? I didn’t think you’d be up until midday.”
At first she thought he was criticizing her, but then she realized he was teasing. She gave him a knowing look. “I was cold without you beside me.”
His face went blank—too blank. “I was outside most of the night, keeping watch.” He handed her a skin before she could argue. “You can use this to wash until we reach the burn.”
She took the pouch of water gratefully. Her eyes and teeth had a distinctly gritty feel. All she needed was a comb—which should be in one of the bags—and she might even feel human again. She thought about prodding him about their sleeping arrangements, but decided to leave it—for now. Instead, she asked, “What burn?”
“Near the village of Cuingealach. We need a horse. The English seem to have given up the chase, but I want to put as much distance between us as possible.”
A wise plan. But something had been bothering her. “Why do you think they were chasing us in the first place?”
He hesitated, seemingly to take care with his words. “We had some trouble on the way to find you in Roxburgh.”
“So they were looking for you?”
The Hunter Page 23