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.
Margaret frowned. “I have some ointment—”
“Really,” Ewen said. “It’s fine.”
“Leave the lad alone, Margaret,” Robert said. “He’s old enough to decide for himself whether he needs help.”
Margaret and Janet looked at each other with a roll of the eyes. There was no age old enough for men to admit they needed help.
“I am rather tired, though,” Ewen said, pushing back from the table. “I think I shall retire.”
“Already?” Janet said, not hiding her disappointment. “But what about the tart?”
She wasn’t ready for the night to end—or for the journey to end, for that matter. She knew very well that Ewen could be called away for another mission as soon as they returned, and she would have to leave almost immediately as well, to make it back to Roxburgh in time for St. Drostan’s Day.
The complications with the English they’d faced on their journey were certainly going to make persuading Robert more difficult, but given the importance of her contact’s information, and the fact that Ewen and the other phantoms wouldn’t be with her to draw the attention of the English, she was confident he would see the necessity.
And then there was the other matter. The them matter.
Ewen looked at Margaret. “I will look forward to a slice in the morning.” His gaze finally fell on her. “You should get some rest as well. We will leave early and will have a long day ahead of us.”
Janet nodded and let him go. For now. She would rest, but only after she said what she wanted to say. He needed to know how she felt. As what she had to say needed to be said in private, however, she would bide her time. But before this night was done, Ewen would know what was in her heart.
Twenty
Ewen sat on a stool before the iron brazier that Margaret had thoughtfully provided for his warmth in the barn, drawing the edge of his blade over the oiled whetstone with long, slow, deliberate strokes. It was something he did before battle, to calm himself and keep his mind off what was ahead. A ritual, he supposed. They all had them. Most of the Guardsmen tended their weapons, but MacSorley liked to take a short swim, and Striker read from a small leather-bound folio he carried around with him like a talisman. There were always a few prayers—and a few long drinks of whisky.
But tonight, like the ale and the swim in the loch that had come before it, the ritual wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping to keep his mind off Janet and what lay ahead. And it sure as hell wasn’t helping to ease the restless energy teeming inside him. He felt as on edge as this damned sword.
He wished he could say it was just lust. God knew, he’d been pushed well past the limit that any hot-blooded man should be expected to endure. He wanted her so intensely his teeth hurt just to look at her. But although a hard cock was a part of it—a large, painful part of it—it wasn’t all of it.
Lust wasn’t what made his chest burn every time their eyes had met tonight. He hadn’t missed her reaction to Margaret’s condition and the longing on her face, just as he hadn’t missed the way she’d looked at him afterward.
It wasn’t possible, damn it. Why was she tormenting him with things that couldn’t be?
Because she didn’t know they couldn’t be.
One more day. One more day and this would all be over. He could be damned sure she wouldn’t be looking at him like that after tomorrow, and what he wanted would no longer make a difference. But he could find little joy in knowing that she would hate him, even if it was for the best.
Doing the right thing shouldn’t be this hard, damn it.
He swore as his hand slipped and his thumb met the edge of the blade. A line of blood gushed from his fingertip, a few drops landing on the whetstone before he could draw it away.
Bloody hell! Good thing he didn’t put much store in omens. If he did, that was a bad one.
The door burst open just as he got to his feet. Even in the shadows he recognized her. “What happened, are you all—” Janet stopped, her eyes widening as she took in his bloody finger. “Your hand!”
She took a step into the barn, but he stopped her. “It’s nothing.” He picked up a piece of the bandage left over from wrapping his leg, and wrapped it around his thumb. “I nicked myself on the blade. I happens all the time,” he lied, although it was true that the cut was merely a nuisance.
Unlike his leg. That hurt like the blazes, which was odd as it didn’t appear any worse. What little blood there was seemed thin—watery-looking, actually—but it was alarming. After going for his icy swim in the loch earlier, he’d wrapped the wound in a fresh linen, and it felt a little better. But he had to admit he was concerned. Not concerned enough, however, to have her touching him. If that was why she was here—although he didn’t see any ointment or linens in her hands. Whatever the reason for her appearance, it wasn’t a good idea.
“What are you doing here, Janet? It must be after midnight. You should be sleeping. Get back to the house.”
She ignored him. “We need to talk.” Closing the door softly, she walked toward him. As she drew closer, she came into the light.
God’s blood! He felt as though someone had just landed a fist in his gut. A fist of temptation. She was a walking fantasy. A siren sent to lead him straight to Hades. She looked like she’d just rolled from bed. Her golden hair tumbled around her shoulders in a mass of slightly mussed—sensually mussed—waves that caught the flickering candlelight in a silvery halo. His plaid was wrapped around her shoulders and clutched together at the front, but he could still make out the thin linen chemise that she wore underneath. All that she wore underneath. Below the edge he could see a hint of bare leg and feet that she’d hastily shoved in her shoes without hose.
She stopped a few feet from him and he tried to breathe, but the air in his lungs seemed to have turned solid.
For the first time in his life, the hunter experienced what it was like to be caught. Like a deer in the bowman’s gaze, he couldn’t move.
He watched her gaze flicker back toward the darkened stalls, where their horse and a few other animals were housed, and then to the small corner where a comfortable-looking pallet had been laid out for his use. In addition to the brazier and the stool, there was a small table with an oil lamp. The smell was earthy from the peat rather than pungent, and the air was sultry and warm.
Coupled with the way she looked, it made him think of …
Hell, everything about her made him think of that. He was balancing on a sword’s edge. He clenched his fists, one hand balling around the bandage. “You need to leave, Janet, now. Whatever you have to say can wait until morning. This isn’t right. You shouldn’t be here with me alone like this. What if the Wallaces wake and notice you are gone?”
The fierceness of his tone didn’t seem to make any impression on her. She lifted her chin to meet his gaze. “We’ve been alone for almost two days. The Wallaces are fast asleep, and even if they do wake, I suspect they will know exactly where I have gone—Margaret especially.” She took another step toward him, and he had to force himself not to take a retreating step back. But his skin drew tight over his bones. His blood pounded through his veins, and his heart was hammering like a drum. “What I have to say is important and cannot wait.”
He frowned, a prickle of concern piercing through his anger at her invasion and the urgency to just get her the hell out of here. “Is something wrong?”
She shook her head.
“Then what is it?”
She bit her lip, as if she didn’t know what to say. Given that she always knew what to say, his concern grew.
“I’ve changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“I do not think that I wish to be a nun.”
Some of his anger returned. “And this is so important that you sneak out of your bed in the middle of the night to come to find me?”
She shot him a glare, her mouth pursing. “It means that in the right circumstances, I might consider marriage.”
He stilled. The air seemed to have left his lungs. Actually the air, the blood, the bones, and pretty much everything else seemed to have left him as well.
Was she trying to say that she would consider marrying him?
From the way she lowered her gaze and the soft pink blush on her cheeks, he suspected that was exactly what she meant.
Jesus! Though he was wearing only a tunic and a thin pair of wool breeches, he felt a sheen of sweat gathering on his brow. What the hell was he supposed to say?
“Janet, you know that the right circumstances will be decided by the king. If it is your wish to marry, Bruce will be the one to find a husband for you—a suitable husband.”
Her mouth tightened distastefully. “Robert isn’t like that. He will consider my wishes.”
Ewen swore under his breath. How could he tell her that “Robert” had already found a husband without considering her wishes at all? Not to mention that the king had warned Ewen to stay away from her.
He shuffled uncomfortably, suddenly feeling as if he were walking through a garden of Sutherland’s black powder bags—with sparks on his boots. “He will find you a husband who has more than a finger of land and a half-built castle.”
Rather than discourage her, his words seemed to embolden her. “But what if he could be persuaded? Don’t you see, I could help you. If you were to marry me, it would improve your position with Robert. He would be sure to return some of your land to you, and—”
“Stop!” He took her by the shoulders and shook her, not realizing what he was doing. “What you are saying is impossible. Damn it, do you ever hear the word ‘no’? It isn’t going to happen.”
She drew in a hard breath, staring at him with a hundred questions in her eyes. “Why not? I thought you …” Her eyes turned to his, tearing at him. “I thought you cared about me. Don’t you want me?”
Bloody hell! He let her go as suddenly as he’d grabbed her, not trusting himself. He wanted her with every fiber of his being. He wanted her so desperately, it took everything he had not to pull her into his arms right now. “It isn’t that simple, Janet.”
“Why not?”
The hurt in her voice nearly broke him. He knew there would be tears in her eyes if he looked, so instead he dragged his fingers through his hair and paced a few steps before the iron brazier. “It just isn’t.”
“But I love you.”
His feet stopped. His heart stopped. Everything seemed to stop. It took a few moments for the words to sink in. For one instant he felt a burst of something akin to pure happiness—happiness like he’d never experienced before. But then it was tamped down under the bitter weight of duty and loyalty. People were counting on him, damn it. She belonged to another man.
He wasn’t going to be like his father, even if it bloody killed him. He would not do this. Discipline.
He turned and forced himself to look at her, every muscle in his body drawn as tight as a bow. His jaw was clenched, his fists were tight, and the pain in his chest doused whatever he’d been feeling in his leg.
She stared at him with round eyes, looking more vulnerable than he’d ever seen her. “Aren’t you going to say something?”
“What would you like me to say?” He hadn’t meant it to sound as harsh as it did, but he’d never been good with words. He’d never been good with any of this. As the mess he’d made of everything proved.
She flinched, her fingers turning white as she squeezed the plaid tighter. “I thought.…” She stopped, choking on a silent sob.
“I thought you might feel the same way. But I can see I was wrong.” The first tears slid from her eyes, each one a lance of pain through his heart. “I should not have bothered you. I’m s-sorry.”
He could barely hear the last word through the tiny sob. He could see her shoulders shaking as she turned to leave.
He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t let her leave like this. “Janet, wait.”
And that’s when he made his mistake. He reached for her.
Janet was too hurt to be humiliated, although she was sure that would come later. Heaven’s Gates, she’d practically asked him to marry her! She’d given him her heart, and he hadn’t wanted it. Her chest felt as if it had been crushed by an enormous boulder—or ground under a heavy boot.
She couldn’t breathe—didn’t dare breathe—for fear the hot rush of emotion constricting her throat and chest would pour out in a flood of torrential sobs.
Do you ever hear the word ‘no’?
Aye, she’d heard it. Loudly. Dear God, how could she have been so mistaken? Was this just another example of her barreling down the mountain like a rolling stone? Had she imagined something that wasn’t there?
Her lower lip trembled. Her shoulders shook. The tears began to flow. Oh God, she had to get out of there!
She heard him call after her and would have ignored him if he hadn’t caught her arm.
“Let go of me!” She tried to shrug him off, not wanting him to see her cry. Not wanting him to see how badly he’d hurt her. Could he not leave her one shred of pride?
Apparently not. He wouldn’t let her go; his big warrior’s hand closed around her upper arm like a steel manacle. He spun her around so she was facing him, but she wouldn’t look up. She kept her gaze pinned to the embroidered neck of his linen tunic. But even that hurt. It tied at the neck, and she found herself staring at the dark patch of skin underneath. Skin that she still wanted to touch.
The Hunter Page 27