The Hunter Read online

  He clenched his fists. God’s blood, it was his bloody fantasies coming true!

  Which was exactly why he couldn’t do it. “I’m not a damned handmaiden.”

  She lifted one delicate brow. “If you don’t think you can manage, I will ask one of the others.” She bit her lip, apparently considering. “It’s hard to figure out which one would have more experience with ladies’ gowns.” She gave him a cheeky grin. “They are all rather handsome, don’t you think?”

  He didn’t think anything of the sort. The muscle in his jaw jumped. His veins bulged as fire surged through his blood. If anyone was going to touch her, it would be him. All three of his brethren were married—two of them contentedly—but damned if he would throw that kind of temptation in their path. The lass had a body that could make a man weak. Hell, he was doing them a favor. He was bloody paragon of selflessness.

  He stormed over to her, trying to get a rein on the sudden blast of anger. “I’ll do it.”

  She looked up at him with that innocent expression on her face. “If you think you can manage?”

  His eyes narrowed. Even through the veil of anger, he realized the lass was trying to provoke him. He met her challenging gaze with his own. “If you’ll remember, it’s nothing I haven’t done hundreds of times before.”

  The purse of her mouth told him his strike had been well placed. He wasn’t the only one angry now. “I remember.”

  She didn’t bother waiting for him to open the door and walked inside. He followed her in.

  A cold, musty smell filled the air. It was really only the shell of a building, with little in the way of personal belongings left inside. But he found a table with one of its legs broken off, brushed most of the dirt and dust from the top, and propped it up for her to have something to put the pile of clothing on.

  Despite the dank bleakness of their surroundings, Ewen was painfully aware of the intimacy of the situation. They were alone in a small, dark building, no more than ten feet square, alone in the dark. He could hear the softness of her breath and smell the faint scent of bluebells.

  He needed to get out of here. “What do you need me to do?” he snapped.

  She payed no mind to his obvious impatience. “I would think that after so many times you would know.”

  The lass was provoking him all right, but why? He didn’t say anything, but the look he gave her was warning enough.

  Ignoring him, she began to pull the pins from her veil and wimple. His heart began to pound as he half-anticipated, half-dreaded the moment that was coming. He didn’t think he was breathing when she finally finished. Pulling the last piece of cloth from her hair, she shook her head and made a sound of such pleasure, it sent a surge of heat rushing to his cock that no amount of loyalty and duty could hold back.

  “Heavens, that feels good!” She sighed.

  It felt more like hell. His entire body was shaking as he fought the urge to sink his hands through the wild, mane of golden curls that bounded down her back in a silken veil. The scent of bluebells intensified, and he wanted to bend his head and sink his nose into the silky warmth.

  He didn’t realize he’d made a sound until she turned to him. “Is something wrong?”

  Other than that he wanted her so badly, he didn’t trust himself move? “You can’t wear your hair like that.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s the wrong color.”

  Her eyes widened, and he realized his sharply spoken words had wounded her. “Is there something wrong with blond?”

  It wasn’t blond, it was honey brown with flecks of silver, copper, and gold. It was a crown fit for a queen. It was beautiful.

  But he could hardly tell her that. “It will reflect the moonlight just as much as your veil.”

  She brightened. “I think I noticed a cap in there. I can tuck it up inside.”

  She removed her mantle next. He stood stone still, staring at the wall, telling himself not to be affected. It didn’t work. She let the black wool drop to the floor in a puddle at her feet and he flinched.

  This was too close to his fantasies. Was she trying to torture him? Did she have any idea what she was doing to him?

  Despite the guileless expression, he suspected that she did. What the hell game was she playing?

  The scapular came next. Belted at the waist, all she had to do was untie the rope cord and lift the rectangular piece of white natural wool over her head.

  Finally, when every muscle in his body was tensed with restraint, with the effort it took not to reach out and touch her, she turned around with her back facing him.

  Glancing up at him from over her shoulder—far more seductively than any innocent maiden should—she said, “If you could just loosen the top laces, I will be able to do the rest on my own.”

  He didn’t know if he could do it. He wanted to touch her so desperately, he didn’t know if he could stop at just the ties.

  His mouth tightened. He clenched his jaw. Duty. Loyalty. Discipline. It’s up to you. His clan was depending on him.

  Ewen tried to picture Walter Stewart’s face, but all he could see was hers. The big greenish-blue eyes, the tiny nose and chin, the gracefully carved features, the warm, sensual mouth …

  His hands shook as he lifted them to her back. He was an elite warrior, damn it. He could do this. He’d survived against the worst odds and the most perilous circumstances. Just focus. Concentrate on the laces.

  He had done this before. Maybe not hundreds of times as he’d claimed, but enough that his fingers shouldn’t feel so big and clumsy. But they wouldn’t seem to move right. Even in the snowy mountaintops of the Cuillins during training, they’d never felt so frozen.

  He stared at the laces, his hands coming to a sudden stop. Her hair was covering the place where they started. He could just move it to the side …

  Not a chance.

  “Your hair is in the way,” he managed tightly.

  “Oh, sorry.” She tipped her head, scooping the wild mass to tumble to the side, revealing the top of the gown and the milky-white nape of her neck. The invitation was unmistakable. It would be so easy to lower his mouth and press his lips to the soft, warm skin …

  Focus, damn it!

  He pulled one of the ends of the bow at the top and slid his finger behind the laces to loosen them. Methodically, he worked his way down her back, trying not to think about what he was doing. But never had he been more conscious of what he was doing in his life.

  It was ridiculous. There was nothing particularly erotic about unlacing a gown. The linen shift she wore underneath the form-fitting natural wool kirtle prevented him from seeing bare skin, but he was more aroused by these loosened laces than he’d ever been by a naked woman. Except for her, but he sure as hell wasn’t going to think about her naked right now.

  Wrong.

  He stepped back, trying to clear the image from his mind. Did he have to remember every detail of her breasts? Of her slim back and stomach? Of the heart-shaped curve of her bottom? “That should suffice,” he said, his voice gruff with longing.

  “Thank you.” She smiled. “One of the nuns at the priory couldn’t have done a better job.”

  For some reason, he didn’t like being compared to one of the nuns. His gaze bit into hers. “All that practice, remember?”

  Janet remembered, all right. Which was what made his determined resistance all the more frustrating. She knew he was feeling the same way that she was: hot, restless, and breathless with anticipation, as if every one of her senses had been heightened to its peak. Awareness reverberated between them like the crackle of lightning.

  She wasn’t alone in her desire. She could feel it—had felt it hard against her.

  Janet had never gone out of her way to entice a man, but something about him provoked her to naughtiness. As had the three years of hiding her femininity. Part of her wondered whether she was still desirable. She thought her little request to help her with the gown would be enough to shatter his resistance
and prove he wasn’t indifferent to her. This might be her only chance to experience passion. Fate had thrown him back into her life; was it for a reason? But he seemed determined to walk away, to ignore whatever it was that was between them.

  Why? Was it anger at what she’d done? She decided to hone some of his bluntness. “Why are you acting like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like nothing ever happened between us.”

  “Maybe because what happened between us made me think I’d be burning in eternal hellfire?”

  Janet bit her lip, feeling as guilty as she should. “I’m sorry for lying to you. Perhaps I should have told you I was not a nun, but I was scared.”

  He seemed honestly perplexed. “Scared of what?”

  She lifted her chin, boldly meeting his gaze. “That without a veil between us there was nothing to prevent me from … you from …”

  She struggled with how to tell him she was scared that she might have given him her innocence.

  But he understood. “I would never have let it go that far.”

  She tilted her head, looking up at him. She might not have much experience in such matters, but it hadn’t seemed that way to her. “Are you so sure about that?”

  He stared at her, his jaw locked.

  Her heart clenched. In the semidarkness, the angles of his face seemed even sharper. He looked harder. Rougher. Even more remote. But so handsome he made her knees weak.

  He didn’t argue with her, which she supposed was agreement enough.

  She stepped toward him. He stiffened, but she didn’t let it stop her from putting a hand on the front of his plaid. Their eyes locked. “Won’t you forgive me?”

  She could feel the fierce pounding of his heart under her palm. It was not unlike the sensation of having her hand on the lid of a pot that was about to boil over.

  She could see in the intensity of his gaze that he wanted her. She could feel it straining in his muscles. He wanted her, but something was holding him back. A fierce battle was warring inside him.

  She lost.

  He captured her wrist in his hand and removed it from his chest. “There is nothing to forgive. You were right. It prevented us from making a mistake that could not be corrected. Because that’s what it would be, Janet, a mistake. I’m sorry if the kiss confused you, but it didn’t mean anything. It would be best if you forgot it ever happened.” He looked her straight in the eye. “I have.”

  She sucked in her breath at the harsh blow, surprised by how much his frank words stung. Before she could clear the scorching blast of hurt from her chest and throat to respond, he was gone.

  By the time Janet had finished putting on the squire’s clothing, she’d worked herself into such a temper that she didn’t even notice the cold. Still, she’d changed about as quickly as she could recall.

  A mistake? She slammed the door of the bothy behind her. How like him to make that determination for them both!

  She marched the short distance to where the men waited. It was dark now, but the moonlight was strong enough through the wisps of descending mist to guide her through the trees.

  Forgotten about it, had he? Well, she would see about that. He’d dragged her away from Roxburgh; she had two, possibly three, days to prove differently, and she intended to use very minute of them.

  How she would do so, she didn’t know, but she was certain something would come to her.

  Janet didn’t think she’d taken much time, but all four men were waiting for her when she broke through the circle of trees and emerged into the small clearing where they’d gathered. They’d retrieved their horses from wherever they’d been hidden, including exchanging the two nags she and Ewen had been riding earlier for a pair of fine and sturdy-looking stallions.

  Although the four men were outfitted in strikingly similar (and terrifying) fashion—Ewen had exchanged his farmer’s garb for the black leather cotun, chausses, plaid, and blackened nasal helm that she’d first seen him in—and they were all uncommonly tall and thick with muscle, she identified him right away.

  No one said anything as she approached. Indeed, they all seemed to be standing rather still. Her hand went to her woolen cap. Though she’d braided her hair before she’d tucked it inside, she pushed a few errant tendrils at her temples back underneath for good measure.

  But it didn’t seem to be her hair that had caught their attention.

  Was it her clothing? She frowned, doing a quick once-over of the black leather breeches and doublet. She double-checked to make sure the linen shirt was completely tucked in, but everything looked fine. Actually, she rather thought the ensemble fit quite well. The breeches were perhaps a shade snug, but the short coat might have been made for her.

  She glanced back at the men, but all but Ewen had turned away and seemed to be very busy fiddling with their horses.

  Ignoring Ewen and his black glare that at one time might have intimidated her—God only knew what she’d done this time—she found her bag, which had been propped against a tree, and bent over to place her habit and the beautiful gown Mary had sent for her inside.

  She thought Ewen made some kind of strangled sound low in his throat, but when she turned he, too, was busy with his horse.

  She was surprised at how comfortable it was wearing breeches, and how oddly freeing to be rid of all those heavy skirts. She was, however, cold. The only mantle she’d brought with her was the hooded one that she’d worn earlier. As it didn’t seem too feminine, she slipped that on over her squire’s ensemble. It wasn’t lined, however, and she wished she’d thought to bring along an extra plaid.

  The men all wore the same dark plaid Ewen had worn the first time they’d met. It looked black at night, but in the daylight, she’d noticed the subtle shades of dark grays and blues mixed in with the black. She wrinkled her nose, thinking it odd. Was it some kind of uniform, then?

  Finished, she picked up the bag, which felt considerably heavier with the extra clothing, and walked over to what she assumed was her horse. She knew Ewen was watching her struggle, but he made no effort to help her, even though he stood the closest to her.

  If that was how it was going to be, so be it. He wasn’t the only one who could pretend “it” had never happened.

  A streak of devilishness that had been buried a long time picked that moment to reemerge. He seemed to have an ability to make her feel very un-nunlike. In many different ways.

  Janet turned to MacLean, who stood a few feet away with his horse. “Ewen, would you be so kind as to help me up?”

  She could see Ewen stiffen out of the corner of her eye and didn’t need daylight to see his steely blue eyes harden to flinty gray.

  MacLean laughed—at least she thought the sound was a laugh, but coming from such a grim facade she couldn’t be sure. He and Ewen were much alike in that regard, but Ewen’s grimness seemed born of seriousness, whereas Eoin’s had a darker, more angry bent.

  “I’d be happy to, Lady Janet. But I’m not Lamont.”

  She feigned surprise, hoping Ewen could see the blush she forced up her cheeks. “I apologize, but you all look so much alike that I can’t tell you apart. With those dark plaids and helms, you could well be Bruce’s phantoms.”

  She laughed, but no one else joined her. Indeed, there seemed to be an odd silence. It reminded her of the times she’d walked into her father’s solar when he was talking with his men and he’d just said something he hadn’t wanted her to hear.

  Out of the corner of her eye she could see Ewen step toward her, but before he could move to help her, she turned sharply to give him her back and held her hand out to MacLean.

  The big warrior seemed to be amused, but he came forward to take it. Like Ewen, MacLean wrapped his hands around her waist and lifted her effortlessly into the saddle. He was every bit as strong and far more gentle. But unlike Ewen, when he touched her and she put her hands on his muscular arms to brace herself, her pulse didn’t race, her skin didn’t flush, and her stomach didn’
t flip.

  Unfortunate, that.

  Feeling the weight of Ewen’s gaze upon them, Janet forced a gasp of maidenly shock to her lips. It had been a long time since she flirted with a man, but it came back to her so naturally, it might have never been gone. She’d always been the more flirtatious of the sisters, but it was more her natural friendliness than real flirtation, and she’d never taken it seriously. Until now.

  She gazed into MacLean’s eyes, the startling dark blue just visible beneath the edge of his helm. Beneath that hard, grizzled exterior, he was quite handsome, she realized. And sharp; she could see it in his eyes.

  Flirting with him wouldn’t be difficult at all.

  “My word!” She left the men to contemplate what that exclamation might be about. “Thank you, Eoin. You must have all the women at court fighting for your assistance. Not all men are so gentle.” Her gaze flickered over to Ewen for just an instant—but long enough. “You’d be surprised at the lack of gallantry in some.”

  Her barb found its mark. She could see Ewen’s fists clench at his sides. He was furious.

  Far too furious for “a mistake.”

  Far too furious for someone who’d forgotten.

  Perhaps she’d found her way to break through to him? She would see how indifferent he was when she “forgot,” and turned her interest in another direction.

  “Not all ladies are as easy to lift as you, my lady.” MacLean paused, as if the gentle, flirtatious banter between a man and a woman had been dormant a long time for him as well. “Or as pleasurable,” he said with a wicked smile that she suspected at one time had felled the heart of many a maid before anger had taken over.

  “If the lady is quite comfortable,” Ewen interrupted, “we’ve wasted enough time. I want to be east of Selkirk before daybreak.”

  If MacLean noticed Ewen’s irritation, he didn’t show it. He turned to her. “My lady?”

  She gave him a conspiratorial wink. “Comfortable enough for now, but if I decide I need a litter, I will let you know.” She let her gaze drop over the wide spans of chest and thick arms. “You seem more than equal to the task.” He grinned, and she lowered her voice to a whisper that was loud enough to ensure Ewen would hear. “Is he always so grumpy?”