by The Hunter
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?”
To his surprise, he realized it was. It was the kind of wry jest he would make to MacLean or MacKay. But he didn’t jest with women. Actually, he couldn’t recall the last time he’d had this long of a conversation with a woman. Hell, this was the longest conversation he’d had with anyone in a long time.
He was staring at her, trying to make sense of it, when she gave a flick of her head in the direction of her hand.
“If you let go of my wrist, I’ll put the knife back where it belongs.”
He released her with all the subtlety of a hot iron. But he watched her hand carefully this time as she slowly returned the dirk to her boot. He caught a quick glimpse of the scrollwork on the handle and stopped her. “May I see that?”
The hesitation was brief, but it was there. She handed it to him. He looked at the intricate scrollwork on the horn handle, knowing that he’d seen something similar before. Though the design on the grip was Norse, he suspected the blade was from Germany and very fine. It had probably been a large eating knife for an important man, but it made a perfectly sized weapon for a woman. “Where did you get this?”
“My sister by marriage.” She held her hand out, and he gave it back to her. He didn’t think he was imagining it when her shoulders relaxed after slipping it back in the scabbard above her boot, which must have been made for her. “Her family is Norse.”
That explained it, but something still bothered him. He knew he’d seen it before. “What is her name?”
She laughed. “I hardly think you would know her. Do you know many Italian ladies?” She paused expectantly, and when he didn’t respond added, “Her family came to my village many years ago. The knife was passed down from her grandfather to her father.”
“And she gave it to you?”
“She did.”
“You must have been very important to her. It’s an exceptional knife.”
A shadow of sadness crossed her face. “I was. And she to me.”
“You miss her?”
“I do.”
“But you will return home soon?”
Though he’d been trying to make her feel better, he sensed his words had the opposite effect. She shrugged as if indifferent, but he knew she was not. “Perhaps when the war is over.”
“But it is not your war. Why do you involve yourself in the problems of a country not your own?”
“My reasons are my own.” She turned back around to face forward. “We should proceed? If we hope to reach Roxburgh before the rain.”
He took her cue and snapped the reins, urging the horse forward. She was right: they were making abysmally slow progress. But she was wrong about their direction. “We aren’t going to Roxburgh. We’ll stay north of the Tweed on the way to Berwick—it will be safer.”
His pronouncement was met with a quick snapping around of her head. “No! We can’t. We must go to Roxburgh!”
Four
Ewen Lamont was having a bad influence on her. Apparently, Janet’s oratory skills were deserting her, and she was blurting out whatever came into her head just like he did. First she’d mentioned her sister-in-law without thinking, then had the near disaster with the blade, and now she was showing a lack of finesse in handling the news of his plan to cross the river.
She could tell by the way those steely blue eyes fixed on hers that he had questions. She shouldn’t have pulled the knife on him, but he’d stung her pride, and she’d wanted to prove to him that she could protect herself. Instead, she’d made him suspicious. Nuns didn’t wield weapons like that. Most women didn’t. But her sister by marriage wasn’t like most women.
Christina MacRuairi, the Lady of the Isles, was the heir to one of the greatest lordships in Western Scotland and a force to be reckoned with, much to her brother’s frustration. Christina had learned how to defend herself from her pirate scourge of a brother, the disreputable brigand Lachlan MacRuairi.
Christina had passed on those skills to Janet when one of Duncan’s men in a drunken stupor had tried to force himself on her. He might have succeeded if Christina hadn’t come to her rescue. The cut her sister-in-law had given him in the back of his leg had hobbled him for life, but it was nothing to the punishment her brother Duncan had exacted. She shivered, recalling the brutal flogging Janet had been forced to witness, as was her duty.
In many ways, Duncan would have made a better chief to the clan than her eldest brother, Gartnait. Duncan, like Ewen Lamont, possessed the firm authority and unyielding attitude that was necessary for a leader that her fun-loving elder brother had not. But now both her brothers were gone, and the earldom rested on the young shoulders of her eight-year-old nephew Donald, who was under King Edward’s authority.
War had stripped her of most of her family. She’d learned of Duncan’s death at Loch Ryan only upon her return to England last year. Of the powerful family of Mar, all that remained were her, Mary, and Donald.
The last thing she wanted to do was to make Lamont suspicious about her true identity. Not only would her ability to do her job be compromised if it became known that Janet of Mar was alive, but her safety would be at issue as well. Edward of England already had her twin sister in his control; he would be only too happy to have her as well.
Nay, it was better that Janet of Mar stay dead—exactly as she would have been had the fisherman and his son not fished her out of the river, after her disastrous attempt to secret her sister out of England three and a half years ago.
Had she really thought she could simply ride into England and sneak Mary out from right under Edward’s nose? That was the problem: she had thought she could do it. She hadn’t wanted to listen to Duncan’s warning that it would only make things worse. She hadn’t wanted to wait for a better opportunity. She hadn’t wanted to hear “no.”
So she’d gone to her sister-in-law Christina, persuaded her to let her borrow some of her men, and gone after her sister on her own. But something had gone wrong. Or rather, everything had gone wrong. Christina’s men had been discovered, and Mary, her son David, Janet, and their loyal servant Cailin had all been caught up in the ensuing battle. Janet would never forget seeing Cailin felled by that arrow on the bridge. She’d tried to help him, but suddenly the world had exploded in thunder and lightning—the most terrible she’d ever heard.
Janet remembered little of what happened after the bridge had seemingly burst into flames. She’d woken up a day later in a convent surrounded by a sea of nuns, thinking she’d died and gone to heaven. She’d been quite relieved on that point, actually, the alternative having been threatened by her father and brother often enough.
She been confused at first, stricken and unable to remember anything, so when the nuns assumed she was one of them (which wasn’t surprising given her attire at the time), she hadn’t protested. After a day or so her memories returned, but by then the abbess of the convent where the fishermen had taken her had
connected their found “sister” with the Scottish lady the English were looking for.
Later she learned that Cailin, the man who’d been more of a father to her than her own, had lost his life, along with many of Christina’s men; Mary had barely escaped imprisonment, and David had been taken away from her again.
All because of her.
The abbess had taken a great risk in protecting Janet and smuggling her out of England to Italy with a group of pilgrims where she could recover in safety. But perhaps it was understandable, as the abbess’s husband before she’d taken the cloth had been one of the thousands slaughtered by the first Edward of England in the sacking of Berwick ten years before.
By the time Janet had left for Italy, the plan for her to act as a courier for the Scots had already been hatched and “Sister Genna” was born. Only three people knew of her true identity: the abbess, the Bishop of St. Andrews, and later—when Lamberton had been able to tell him personally—Robert the Bruce. Not even her twin sister, Mary, knew she was alive.
It was safer for all of them that way. She’d hurt her sister enough by what she’d done. She would not put Mary in more danger were it to be discovered that Janet of Mar was alive and a “traitor” to England.
The scars from that horrible night held no shame for her, though she wished she could say the same for the actions that had led to them. But she wasn’t the same impetuous girl who thought she knew what was best for everyone around her. Who didn’t take no for an answer.
She bit her lip. Well, perhaps she hadn’t changed in that regard, but at least she didn’t embroil others in her trouble. Usually. Which was what made her lapse earlier with Sister Marguerite all that much worse. Janet knew she was better off alone. Fortune seemed to disfavor those near her. Which was one of the reasons she’d decided to become a nun.
Though Ewen Lamont seemed like a man who could be trusted, she could not take the chance in revealing her identity to him. What she was doing was too important.
Although admittedly, he did not seem to share her belief. His feelings about a woman’s place still rankled. If she ever met a man who thought of her as an equal, she might have to put aside her plans to take the veil and marry him! But she might as well pray for wings to fly. Not even her formidable sister-in-law had managed that task. She could still hear the terrible rows Christina and Duncan would have before disappearing together into their chamber for hours.
Nay, Janet was happy with the path she’d chosen. Marriage meant strife or serfdom, and she was glad to escape those particular chains.
Why was she even thinking about this? Her immediate concern was Roxburgh. The imperious Highlander had interfered with her plans enough.
He was studying her in his off-putting silent manner with those too-intent steely eyes of his. She knew her outburst had given away too much. She tried to explain—calmly this time. “The English are watching the bridges. It will not be safe to attempt to cross.”
She couldn’t repress the small shudder that ran through her. It wasn’t just an excuse. Since that night with her sister, she hated bridges.
“We aren’t taking one of the main bridges. I know of a place where we will be able to cross that the English won’t be watching.” His eyes held hers—another unnerving habit of his. “Why are you so eager to go to Roxburgh?”
Janet cursed her outburst again. She’d meant to persuade him gently—when the time came—to make a quick stop in Roxburgh. But she hadn’t anticipated him having to change course.
Having heard his opinion about her job, she knew better than to mention it. Instead, she feigned embarrassment. “There is a merchant in the village I wish to see.”
“For what purpose?”
She untied the buckles of the large leather bag she still wore over her shoulder and retrieved a small bundle. “For these.” She held it up to his nose so he could smell the fragrant spices.
“What are they?”
“Chestnuts roasted in honey and spices. They’re my favorite, and I promised to bring some back with me for the other nuns.”
She tried not to shirk under the intensity of his gaze, but he seemed to see right through her deception. “You’re sure this isn’t another errand for the bishop?”
She hoped the flush of heat to her cheeks didn’t show on her face. “Has anyone ever told you that you have an overly suspicious mind?’
“Has anyone ever told you nuns aren’t supposed to lie?”
She lifted her chin. “It isn’t a lie. The nuts are my favorite.”
“Well, you can ask the bishop to pick them up for you when he runs his own errand. We aren’t going to Roxburgh. The area will be crawling with English. In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the middle of a war.”
She bristled at his patronizing sarcasm, but the subject of her involvement was not one she wanted to reopen. He was suspicious enough already, and heaven only knew what she’d say if he got her angry again.
So she bit her tongue and bided her time. But she hadn’t given up. The bishop had received word from an important source at the castle and had asked Janet to make contact. He didn’t trust anyone else. She would just have to find a way to convince the stubborn Highlander (a redundancy, in her experience) to reconsider. But she knew she’d better do it before he found that crossing.
Something was wrong, Ewen thought. The lass was too quiet. She’d given up too easily. He’d wager half his earnings for the month that she was up to something. Hell, he’d wager it all—if he wagered. But he wasn’t his father, and he needed whatever coin he earned to finish that damned castle.
He just hoped she didn’t have any more hidden daggers. Now that the rain had begun he needed to keep all his attention on the path ahead of them through the forest. The slippery mud and uneven ground was bad enough, but the thick mist that had descended around them was disorienting. Nor did it help his concentration any that the harder the rain came down, the deeper she seemed to burrow into his chest. His bollocks were probably a deep shade of blue by now after having her bottom wedged against him for God-knows-how-many hours.
She shivered dramatically. He didn’t blame her. For an April day, it felt as cold as the dark of winter. “Please, may we not find a place to stop to wait out the storm?”
He felt a prickle of guilt. They’d been riding for hours now. In addition to wet and cold, she was probably tired as well. “As soon as we cross the river.”
“And when will that be?”
“Soon.”
She glanced back at him from over her shoulder. She’d wrapped the plaid around her head, but water still streamed down her pale face. Her lashes were damp and clumped as if she’d been crying. Guilt pricked him again. She was only a lass. Women were delicate creatures—a fact he had to remind himself of in her case. What would make her want to put herself in such danger?
“I thought you knew—”
He cut her off. “I know exactly where we are.” Mostly. They should be reaching the ford in the river soon. He hadn’t gone too far. It was just the rain that was making it look so unfamiliar. He wasn’t lost.
“I just thought that with the mist, it might be difficult—”
“We aren’t lost, damn it.”
She gasped, drawing back a little in the face of his temper. “I did not mean to slight your navigation skills. Of course, we are not lost.” He felt a moment of satisfaction until she ruined it with, “If you say it is so.”
Guilt forgotten, he fumed as he looked around for any sign that the path he’d taken was the right one. Women of the cloth weren’t supposed to be so damned irritating. What happened to meek and serene?
He fought through the trees and brush for another twenty minutes or so. The rain was coming down harder and the wind … the wind seemed to be blowing straight off the North Sea. Bone-chilling was putting it mildly.
Finally he saw it—the gap he’d been looking for. “There it is,” he said, as if there had never been any doubt.
He steered the hor
se toward the bank, but the sight that met him there was not what he expected.
* * *
Whatever blood Janet had left that wasn’t frozen from the cold drained from her face. “You can’t mean for us to cross here!”
She didn’t need to feign horror; it was real enough. She looked at the twenty-foot-wide spans of the River Tweed and felt her stomach heave and ho like a ship upon storm-tossed seas. The normally slow-moving waters of the river were rushing by in a torrential fury, swollen from the winter runoff and the recent spate of storms.
The waves—waves!—were almost cresting the three big trees that had been set across the banks to form a makeshift bridge. How long would those trees stay in place against the powerful force of the river?
She shook her head, fear slamming around in her chest. “I can’t.”
He spoke to her gently—more gently than he ever had before. “It will hold.”
He dismounted and held up his hand to help her down. She slipped her hand in his, and when she leaned forward, he caught her around the waist and lowered her gently to the ground. It was nothing that should have made her breath catch. She’d been helped down from a horse countless time before. But never had she been aware of a man’s hands around her waist, of the soft press of his thumbs against her rib cage, or of the strength of the arms that she gripped to keep her steady.
And never had she wanted to inhale so deeply. He smelled of leather, rain, and the forest, but also of something warm and undeniably masculine.
Their eyes held for a long heartbeat, and she knew he felt it too. He shifted his gaze and released her so quickly her legs wobbled.
Confused by her reaction and more than a little embarrassed, Janet avoided his gaze as he tied the horse to a nearby tree while he inspected the “bridge.” She watched as he pushed a few of the trees to make sure they were solid and tested the muddy bank with his boot. As usual, it was impossible to read anything from his expression. There was a grim set to his mouth, but she couldn’t say it was any more grim than usual.