The Hunter Page 3

  The soldiers didn’t bother taking them very far, almost as if they knew no one would dare interfere. Bruce might control the north of Scotland, but the English reign of terror was still in full force in the Scottish Marches. The English operated with impunity—except for the occasional raid or ambush from Bruce’s men. The English were no more than brigands with authority, Genna thought. But soon Bruce would send them running back to England. She had put herself in this position to help ensure that happened.

  They entered a small clearing in the trees, and the men released them with a hard push. Both women stumbled forward, Genna barely catching herself before falling to her knees. Marguerite wasn’t so fortunate, and Genna watched in horror as her gasping intensified. She couldn’t seem to get off her hands and knees, as if the effort was too much for her.

  “I see she’s ready for us,” one of the soldiers snickered.

  Genna bowed her head, muttering a prayer in Latin so the men wouldn’t see the heat rise to her cheeks in anger. She might be innocent, but she’d been in enough barns with rutting beasts to understand their meaning. Apparently, men were no different.

  The captain was eyeing Marguerite’s raised bottom. When his hand reached under his habergeon mail shirt to loosen the ties at his waist, Genna knew she had to act fast.

  She stepped between them, trying to turn him from his foul intent—or at least turn it to her. “My sister is ill, sir. Perhaps if you tell me what you are looking for I can clear up this misunderstanding, and we can all get on with our duties. Ours to God,” she reminded him, “and yours to your king.”

  It was clear he’d forgotten the original purpose for which he’d stopped them. “Messages,” he said, his gaze drifting impatiently to Marguerite behind her. “Being carried north to the rebels by churchmen—and women,” he added. “But treason will not hide under holy vestments any longer. We’ve had reports that many of these messages have passed through Melrose Abbey. King Edward intends to put a stop to it.”

  “Ah,” she said, as if in sudden understanding. “Now, I see the reason for your suspicion, sir. You were certainly justified in stopping us, but as I told you, neither Sister Marguerite nor I carry any of these messages.” She held out the leather bag she carried with her belongings for him to inspect. Bending down, she reached for Marguerite’s small purse, trying to ignore the frantic gasping of her friend’s breathing. Comfort would have to wait. Untying it, she held it up to him. He barely glanced inside before tossing it away.

  “See?” she said. “Nothing to hide. Now that we have proved to you our innocence, you have no cause to detain us.”

  He was angry; she could see that. But the longer she delayed him, the more time he had to think about his actions—his unjustified actions. He seemed to be hesitating when one of the men suggested, “What if it’s hidden someplace else, Captain?”

  She pretended not to understand him, but a cold chill ran down her spine as a slow smile spread up the captain’s mouth. He reached down and tore off her veil. She cried out as the pins were ripped free, and her hair tumbled down her back in a heavy silken mass. Her hands immediately went to her head, but there was no way to hide it.

  She swore under her breath at the reaction it provoked, hearing the exclamations and oaths. The long golden tresses were her one vanity—her one connection to her past identity. Janet of Mar was dead; it was silly to hold on to what she’d been. But she couldn’t bear to cut her hair as most of the nuns did. And now that vanity might cost her.

  The captain let out a slow whistle. “Would you look at that, lads,” he said in English. “We found ourselves a real beauty. Wonder what else the lass is hiding under those robes?”

  No amount of training could have prevented her from flinching at the words she was not supposed to understand, knowing what he meant to do. Fortunately, he was too caught up to notice her reaction. He pulled her to her feet, put his gauntleted hands at her neck, and ripped the coarse wool fabric of her scapula and habit to the waist.

  Marguerite screamed.

  Genna might have too. She struggled, but he was too strong. He tore the cloak from her neck and tugged the damaged gown past her shoulders. All that prevented her from nakedness was a thin chemise that was far too fine for a nun—another indulgence—but he didn’t notice. And after a few more tears, that was gone too. Wool and linen had been reduced to strips of fabric hanging off her shoulders. She tried to cover herself, but he pulled her arms away.

  The captain’s eyes grew dark with lust as his gaze locked on her naked breasts.

  Her heart froze in terror. For one moment her confidence faltered.

  “What does she have on her back, Captain?” one of the men said from behind her. Genna wanted to thank him. His words—his reminder—struck the fear from heart, replacing it with fiery determination. She would get them out of this.

  She spun on him, not bothering to cover herself. “They are the marks of my devotion. Have you never seen the mark of whips and a hair shirt?”

  The men startled. Genna knew what they saw: the horrible lines of pink puckered flesh that marked her pale back. But she didn’t see them that way. The scars were a reminder, a badge she wore to remind her of a day she could never be allowed to forget. Of a man who’d been like a father to her whose death was on her soul. These scars had made her stronger. They’d given her a purpose.

  “I’ve never seen scars like that on a woman before.”

  “I’m not a woman,” she snapped at the man who’d spoken. He was younger and not as certain as the others of the course his captain had set upon. “I’m a nun. A bride of Christ.” She hoped this was another one of those times that a lie wouldn’t be considered a sin. She pulled down the shreds of cloth that remained, turning slowly so each man could see. “Touch either of us and you will suffer eternal hellfire. God will punish you for your transgressions.”

  The younger man went white.

  She looked back to the captain, her eyes blazing with the fury of her conviction, daring him to come near her. “Our innocence is meant for God. Take it and you will suffer.” The captain started to back away and Genna knew she had won. She stepped toward him, unrelenting and uncowering. “Your body will burn with the fire of your sin. Your manhood will shrivel to black, your bollocks to the size of raisins, and you will never know another woman. You will be damned for eternity.”

  Ewen and MacLean were approaching the abbey from Eildon Hill through the Old Wood when they heard the woman scream. Not knowing what they’d find, they approached cautiously, on foot, using the trees for cover.

  Ewen heard her voice first and shot a look at his partner. MacLean had heard it too. His mouth fell in a hard line, and he nodded. The words might be in French but the accent was Italian—Roman, unless he’d missed his mark.

  It seemed they’d just found their nun. He peered through the trees to confirm it and stilled at what he saw, momentarily stunned.

  Holy hell! His mouth went dry and heat settled low in his groin as he beheld the half-naked woman with the tumbling, wild mane of golden hair. It caught the light in a shimmering cascade of gold and silver. But it was the bare skin it curled against that jolted him with a hard bolt of lust. Admittedly, he’d yet to see a pair of breasts that he didn’t like, but these …

  He didn’t think he’d ever seen any so fine. They weren’t overlarge, but a pleasant handful in keeping with her slim waist and flat stomach. Soft and round, high with a youthful pertness, the milk-white skin was so creamy and flawless, he didn’t need to touch it to know how velvety soft it would be.

  But he wanted to touch it. He wanted to run his hands over those soft mounds and bury his face in the deep cleft between them. He wanted to caress his thumbs over the delicate pink tips until they were hard, and then circle the hard points with his tongue right before he put them in his mouth and sucked.

  Jesus!

  A frown gathered between his brows when he noticed the odd smattering of scars on her back. Vaguely, he wondered a
bout them, but his attention was too focused on the mouthwatering perfection of her chest.

  Apparently wondering what had caught his attention, MacLean leaned forward to take a look.

  His low curse snapped Ewen from his momentary stupor.

  This was a nun, for Christ’s sake!

  Something the English soldiers seemed to have forgotten. It wasn’t just her shredded gown and chemise—a rather fine one for a nun, Ewen noticed from the intricate embroidery—but the soldiers’ lecherous expressions that made it clear what they intended, and Ewen felt the surge of anger race through him. Raping a nun took a special kind of evil.

  He nudged MacLean, who seemed as stunned as he, and the two men readied to attack. Typically, Ewen favored a pike—the weapon of the infantryman—but as they’d been riding, it was a sword he drew from the scabbard at his back.

  He was just about to give the signal when she went on the attack. He paused. It was magnificent. One of the bravest things he’d ever seen. He wanted to put down his sword and cheer. She might be a nun, but she had the heart of a Valkyrie. Every impassioned word rang with the voice of authority and conviction as she defended her chastity. Her holy chastity.

  He winced, the reminder striking a little too close. But any remaining lust he might be feeling was tamped harshly down by her words extolling the litany of horrors that would befall them for touching her. Shrivel? Raisins? He shuddered and adjusted himself. For a woman of the cloth, she sure as hell didn’t lack for imagination.

  But surely it was some kind of sin to give breasts like that to a nun?

  He gave the signal.

  With the fierce battle cry of the Highland Guard, “Airson an Leòmhann,” he and MacLean shot into the clearing.

  Two

  Janet—or rather, Genna—knew she’d won when the English captain’s gaze shifted. He was no longer staring at her breasts with anything resembling lust. Actually, he seemed to be doing anything to avoid looking at her at all.

  But barely had she tasted her victory when two men emerged from the trees and assured it.

  At first, the sound of their battle cry sent a chill racing down her spine. Though it had been a long time since she’d used her native tongue, she translated the Gaelic words easily enough: For the Lion. The cry was unfamiliar to her, and she could not immediately reconcile it with a clan. But they were Highlanders—that much she understood—and thus, friends.

  She bit her lip. At least she hoped they were friends.

  The cold efficiency with which they dispensed with the soldiers gave her pause. She didn’t relish having to talk her way out of yet another dangerous situation. And everything about these men bespoke danger.

  She’d had little contact over the past few years with the men of her birthplace, and she’d forgotten how big and intimidating they were. Tall, broad-shouldered, and heavily muscled, Highlanders were every bit as tough, rugged, and untamed as the wild and forbidding countryside that spawned them. They were also exceptional warriors, their no-holds-barred fighting style a legacy of the Norse raiders who’d invaded their shores generations ago.

  She shivered. These two were no different—except perhaps even more skilled at killing than most. She cringed and turned away as one of the men stuck his blade in the throat of the young English soldier. She hated the sight of bloodshed, even when warranted.

  She barely had time to pick up her cloak, throw it around her shoulders to cover her nakedness, and help Marguerite to her feet before the fighting ended. The four mail-clad Englishmen lay in bloody heaps on the grassy moor.

  The threat was over. Although when she noticed the man walking toward them, as she did her best to calm a sobbing Marguerite, she reconsidered. A strange prickle spread over her skin when the warrior’s gaze met hers. She gasped and her heart took an odd little stumble, as if it started and stopped in quick succession.

  She could see little of his face beneath the steel nasal helm. Goodness gracious, did Highlanders still wear those? His jaw was covered in a good quarter inch of scruff, but it looked strong and imposing just like the rest of him.

  Indeed everything about his outward appearance was threatening, from the menacing helm, to the dust- and blood-spattered black leather cotun studded with bits of steel, to the plethora of weapons strapped across his muscular physique (it seemed to be the second time she’d noticed that). Yet looking into the steel blue of his eyes, she knew he was not a threat. To her at least. The dead soldiers behind him might disagree.

  She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding.

  He was just a regular Highland warrior. Perhaps a bit more physically dominant than most, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d crossed paths with hundreds of fighting men over the years, and they’d never given her problems.

  Still, something about him made her uneasy. Perhaps it was the way he held her gaze the entire time he walked toward her with an inscrutable expression on his face. She was good at reading people, sizing them up, but he gave nothing away.

  How much had he seen? From the way he glanced at her cloak when he came to stop in front of her, she suspected enough. An ill-timed blush stained her cheeks. Feeling as if he suddenly had the advantage over her, she decided that the quicker this was over with the better.

  She released Marguerite and sank to her knees, grabbing his leather-gauntleted hand and rattling off a quick succession of thank-yous in French interspersed with prayers in Italian. With any luck, like most common Highlanders (and nothing about his appearance suggested otherwise), he would not speak Italian or French, and this would be a quick conversation indeed.

  If she could have managed it, she would have shed a tear or two, but some things were beyond her acting abilities. The look of reverent gratitude she’d adopted might have worked, but when he looked at her hair and frowned, she remembered that she wasn’t wearing her veil. Without it, she felt … exposed. It had been a long time since she’d felt like a woman in a man’s eyes, and it made her feel strangely vulnerable. She’d been pretending to be a nun for so long, she’d almost forgotten that she wasn’t one. Not yet at least.

  Without stopping to let him get a word in, she stood and thanked him again before letting his hand go. She snatched her fallen veil off the ground to drape it over her head, linked Sister Marguerite’s arm in hers, and started to move away. She would return her to the abbey, make sure the young nun was all right, and then leave as soon as possible—this time, alone.

  But it seemed her penchant for finding trouble wasn’t over.

  “Sister Genna,” the Highlander said in perfectly accented Norman French. “We aren’t done yet.”

  She muffled an oath, realizing this wasn’t going to be over as fast as she’d hoped.

  And how did he know her name?

  What in Hades was going on? Was this simpering creature who’d just babbled all over his gauntlet the same bold Valkyrie who’d bravely defended herself and her companion against four English soldiers?

  Ewen was having a hard time reconciling the two, when he realized she was walking away. When he stopped her, he could have sworn he heard her mutter an oath before she turned around. “You speak French?”

  Though she said it with a smile on her face, he suspected she was anything but pleased.

  He nodded, not bothering to answer the obvious question.

  “You know my name?”

  Again, he saw no cause to answer. He glanced at the young woman beside her, whose sobbing had abated and who now seemed almost too quiet. “The lass,” he bit off sharply. “Is she ill?”

  “Sister Marguerite suffers from a lung ailment,” Sister Genna said in the pious and subservient manner she’d adopted. But he didn’t miss the subtle way she tucked the younger woman behind her, as if putting herself between her charge and any threat he might present. He admired the impulse, no matter how ridiculous.

  The younger nun rallied enough to explain. “Asthma,” she said in a wavering voice. “I feel much better now, but i
f Sister Genna hadn’t stopped them when she did …” Her voice fell off and her eyes filled once again with tears.

  Her fierce protector shot him a reproachful glare, showing a flash of the spirit she’d masked behind the reverent exterior. He was glad she’d covered herself and put on her veil, but even the memory of what lay underneath was distracting.

  “You are upsetting her. As you can see, she is unwell, and I need to get her back to the abbey right away. So while I thank you for your assistance, I’m sure you don’t wish to delay us any longer. Nor do I imagine you will want to be here when these men are found. There are bound to be others in the area.”

  It was clear the lass was trying to be rid of him, and he didn’t think it was concern for their welfare that motivated her. Did she think to frighten him away with Englishmen? He almost laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said dryly. “But you aren’t going anywhere.”

  MacLean had finished disposing of the bodies as best he could and came up beside him. “Christ, Hunter,” he said under his breath in Gaelic. “You might try explaining rather than issuing edicts.”

  Given that MacLean was only marginally less blunt and possessed at best incrementally more finesse when it came to communication, the criticism was somewhat ironic.

  “My name is Eoin MacLean, and this is Ewen Lamont,” MacLean said in broken French. Unlike Ewen, MacLean wasn’t quick with languages. Normally they used their war names for Highland Guard missions, but as this mission wasn’t in the dark and the nuns would be able to see their faces to identify them, they’d decided it was safer to use their clan names. “We were sent to find you,” he added.

  Ewen didn’t miss the instant look of wariness she shot in his direction at the mention of his clan. A look that unfortunately he was used to among Bruce supporters. Like the MacDougalls, Comyns, and MacDowells, the name Lamont was not a trusted one.

  The long feud between the two branches of Lamonts had not ended with Fynlay’s death at Dundonald. Ewen’s cousin John, the current Chief of Lamont, had chosen to fight with his mother’s clan, the MacDougalls, against Bruce. When the MacDougalls had been chased from Scotland after the Battle of Brander, his cousin had gone into exile with the MacDougalls, and the vast lordship of Mac Laomian mor Chomhail uilethe, The Great Lamont of all of Cowal, had been forfeited to the crown, including the important clan strongholds of Dunoon and Carrick.